The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18)

by Michael Jecks

  She withdrew her head and Sara and Thomas exchanged a baffled look. Gradually she began to smile, her lips twitching. ‘You realise that means everyone around here will know you’re here?’

  ‘I am sorry. It will give you a reputation.’

  She nodded, her smile gone. ‘I would not have my husband’s memory besmirched by gossip over my behaviour.’

  ‘I … it would be impertinent to ask,’ he stammered. ‘But I think …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It would mean upsetting those who believe you should honour your dead husband for a period.’

  ‘Do you mean—’

  ‘Sara, I’d ask you to be my wife.’

  She stared at him. In her mind were all the little events since Saul’s death. The day that this stranger appeared in front of her house to tell her Saul was dead; the day that she and Elias were pulled from the mound of corpses before the Priory; the day he brought her meat; the day he left money for her … waking from her faint to find him kneeling at her side weeping. He cared for her. There were few men whom she could trust as deeply, nor for whom she felt such an attachment. Saul was only recently dead, but there was nothing in the Priests’ laws which said a widow couldn’t remarry as soon as she liked.

  ‘You could at least ask properly,’ she said tartly, and then she gave him a sweet, shy smile.

  Dan would take time to understand. He would find this man’s presence hard to accommodate. But she was lonely, and perhaps, given time, even Dan could grow to appreciate his kindness and honour. She hoped so. Because she needed Thomas and she wouldn’t risk losing him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A week later, in the gaol, William sat and fulminated.

  It had cost him good money, but he’d been removed from the stinking pit that was the general gaol and been brought up here to this more civilised cell with a view over the eastern landscape from the slit window. From the north he could see the castle on its mound, but he preferred to avert his eyes from that dread building. There was every chance that he might one day be tried in there, and that would not be a pleasant occasion. With luck, he might only lose his Corrody; and that was better than a lingering death hanging from a rope while the crowds laughed and jeered.

  His money had brought him a table, two benches, and a room with a few rushes scattered. It was less noisome than other places he had lived when he was free, so he didn’t complain, although the gaoler charged dearly for his food. William couldn’t survive much longer at this rate.

  Better to live well while he could, though. That was a principle he had learned early on, and one he intended to maintain.

  There was a rattling of keys outside, and then the door swung slowly open to show Simon and Sir Baldwin in the company of the gaoler. Simon slipped a coin in the gaoler’s hand, and the man ushered the two inside, locking the door behind them.

  ‘Well?’ William snapped. ‘What do you two want? Haven’t you done me enough harm already?’

  ‘We have done you no harm,’ Baldwin said. ‘All we have done is uncovered the harm you have done to yourself and to others. Do not seek to blame us for these present conditions.’

  ‘I am innocent.’

  ‘You were the man who told the King about the gate being left open after the Chaunter’s death?’ Simon asked.

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘It seems peculiar that the keeper should himself have left the gate open,’ Baldwin said. ‘After all, it must lead to the King realising that he was involved in some way. A more open declaration of complicity would be hard to imagine.’

  ‘He was an old fool. Maybe he didn’t think.’

  ‘Or maybe he was a fool enough to trust a young lad. Maybe he thought that his son’s friend couldn’t do any harm in his home.’

  William shot a look at Baldwin. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Only this. You sought to profit from the gate being opened. I simply wonder whether you could also have been guilty of opening it yourself. I don’t believe that a man as respected as a gatekeeper could resort to leaving the gate wide in that way.’

  William shrugged. ‘It was nothing to do with me. The man must have thought it was a good idea.’

  ‘Did he often leave the gates open, then?’ Simon pressed.

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Baldwin said. ‘And yet he left them open that night, or so you would have us believe.’

  ‘I don’t care a fig for what you believe, masters!’ William hissed, snapping his fingers at Baldwin. His anger was fired now, and he half-stood. Simon moved a hand towards his sword hilt, but William didn’t care. ‘You want to rake over that shit from years ago? Well, you do so. It’s no concern of mine. All I know is, Joel had an idea and I took it from him. Since then he’s hated me. So what – I don’t give a toss. Me, though, I’ve been treated abysmally. I have been shot at, almost killed, and you treat me like a common draw-latch. Well, I’m not going to suffer this longer than I have to.’

  ‘Who attacked you?’ Baldwin enquired.

  ‘As if you care!’

  ‘But I do. Who was it – do you know?’

  William studied him for a moment, assessing his honesty. Then he sank back onto his bench and shrugged. ‘I can’t be certain. I thought it was Joel, so I went and thumped him, but he denied it and I believe him now, in retrospect. He was always a good bowman. These two arrows were close to me, but not quite near enough to hurt me, and they were fired from not far away. The bowman was lousy, unless he just intended scaring me.’

  ‘You should be glad that it was not the tanner who shot at you,’ Baldwin said, remembering the dead rat on Exe Island.

  ‘If you say so. I assume it was the same man who shot you. Stephen must have had the same fear about me as he did about the others. He thought we would expose him as being part of the Chaunter’s murder, and since his position depended upon his integrity, he thought our evidence would destroy him. So he tried to kill them, and me, and then you.’

  Baldwin nodded. ‘I expect you are right,’ he said smoothly, and a few moments later he had paid another small coin to the gaoler and was walking with Simon towards the East Gate and the High Street.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’ Simon asked.

  ‘What – that it wasn’t Stephen who tried to kill me? It didn’t seem important. The fact that Matthew did so might possibly lead to William deciding to take his revenge at some point, and there’s little point leaving a potential cause for further feuding.’

  ‘William will be released, you believe, then?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘What will you do about Matthew?’

  Baldwin smiled. ‘I shall speak to the good Dean.’

  ‘And what of the Southern Gate?’

  Baldwin glanced at the sky speculatively. ‘A good question. I think that William might have slipped into the porter’s lodgings and taken the chance of opening the gate when he could. Then announcing it to the King detracted from his guilt. But there is no proof if he refuses to confess.’

  ‘Do you think he will?’

  With a sigh, Baldwin shook his head. ‘Stranger things have happened, I suppose.’

  Dean Alfred was in his hall when they arrived. He had been celebrating Mass, and then had to attend the Chapter meeting at which many issues were discussed.

  ‘But without any – ah – advantageous conclusion,’ he sighed as he motioned to the visitors to sit.

  Baldwin groaned as he sat. Each time he moved his shoulders, arms or torso, it felt as though a fresh stab wound was opened in his breast. Much as he disliked the physician, he acknowledged that Ralph’s ministrations were helping; however he couldn’t sit still for as long as Ralph recommended. At least the wound appeared to be healing well. Even Ralph himself expressed approval with Baldwin’s progress. If only it were not so painful.

  ‘Sir Baldwin? Some wine?’ the Dean enquired solicitously.

  As soon as Baldwin and Simon were seated comfortably with la
rge mazers in their hands, Alfred sipped at his own, shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what to do. There is no one in the Cathedral’s Chapter who is remotely capable of taking over Stephen or Matthew’s work. No one can make sense of the figures in their rolls.’

  ‘Were they really so indispensable?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘Without a doubt. There was no – um – false modesty about their assertions that they were irreplaceable. I fear for the rebuilding.’

  ‘Then why should Stephen have put all that at risk by setting out on this murderous spree?’ Simon asked.

  ‘I think that – er – is easily answered,’ the Dean said. ‘It was simply his attempt to prevent what has in fact happened. He tried to – ah – stifle any suggestion that he was involved in the murder of the Chaunter so that he could continue with the rebuilding work and bring Matthew up to his own standard. He hoped that the works would not be – um – compromised. You must try to understand, Bailiff, that this fellow lived for the Cathedral as he hoped it would one day be. It was never a part of his design to kill a man and damn his soul, but he was so desperate to see the great plan go ahead unhindered, that he was prepared to try anything to protect it. Even kill.’

  ‘Yes, I confess that his attack on me was a surprise,’ Baldwin murmured.

  ‘But logical. He realised you had learned that there were others involved in the murder of the Chaunter, and he thought that removing you would remove the threat of that becoming common knowledge. Ironically, it was the realisation that you were approaching Matthew that led him to take such a course of action.’

  Baldwin smiled and shook his head. ‘That is intriguing, but I don’t think it likely. The arrow that hit me was a clothyard shaft. What use would Stephen have had for that? No, that was not him. Stephen only attacked me in Janekyn’s room. Stephen was acting for the best, as he saw it. He reckoned that Matthew was in danger, but he thought that I was the one who would, as you say, put the case against him. To protect Matthew, Stephen decided to destroy me.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You – ah – say that he didn’t fire at you, but he did.’

  ‘Matthew tried to shoot me because I realised that he was the killer of Saul. It occurred to me that aiming a rock from a Cathedral wall and hoping to kill a man so many yards below was a foolish method to use. But Thomas was up there on the scaffold … surely a rock falling could sweep him away with it, especially if he foolishly tried to stop it from plummeting to earth. Yes, Matthew reasoned that I was too close to the truth, and he tried to remove me in order to protect himself.’

  ‘What use would Matthew have had for a clothyard arrow?’ the Dean asked. ‘You say that Stephen had no use for one – why then should Matthew have one?’

  ‘Matthew was a keen archer when he was younger. William told us how competitive he and his companions all were at football and other games, and Peter and Thomas recalled shooting at the butts. Thomas said how Matthew always used to win at archery. And at the butts men will use a standard clothyard shaft, will they not?’

  ‘Why then did Stephen choose to kill you when Matthew failed?’

  ‘Because Stephen had protected Matthew all through their lives. It was an ingrained habit from the last forty years,’ Baldwin explained. ‘For all that time I think Stephen protected Matthew because he thought Matthew was honourable and deserved to be defended. It would be hard for him to change his attitude overnight. Although perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘his own terror that I was about to bring up his past led to his deciding to remove me. That would also make some sense. Whatever, I am as sure as I can be of the relative guilt of the two.’

  ‘It is a terrible thing when a man of God decides to turn his skills to evil,’ the Dean said. ‘Especially when it leads to the Cathedral being without a decent Warden of the Fabric.’

  Simon smiled broadly. ‘Dean, I feel sure that I can help you there.’

  Peter reread the letter with astonishment, but at each reading the words jumbled up and he had to try again. In the end, he called in one of his assistants, who humbly took the sheet of vellum and read out the message, his brow furrowed with the effort. Then he put the roll back in Peter’s hand and congratulated him.

  ‘Me!’ Peter gasped as the fellow left his room. ‘Me!’ At last. After so many years, he was actually going to be permitted to take it on! He felt his heart swell. This was his first opportunity to show what he was made of – a chance to demonstrate his skills and his honour. He would make this Priory the most efficient in the country. His monks would be seen to be the most chaste and obedient, the length and breadth of the land. Before long, he would be able to hope to rise to a small abbacy, perhaps, and then …

  No. Nonsense. The fact that his dear Abbot had decided that he was a safe master of the Brothers here in Exeter was a proof of his faith in Peter, but Peter needn’t grow above himself. He was probably here to stay, and to die here in the city where he had been born was no shame. It was a good city, and he could do some little to make life better for the population here. He had a duty too, to guard all the people here, the living and the dead, with his prayers and the prayers of his Brothers. They should all seek to save the souls of the men and women of Exeter.

  Yes, that was enough for him. He had reached his zenith. As Prior he was now at last recognised as having paid for his crime forty years ago.

  He puffed out his cheeks with relief to think that his other crime, so recently attempted, had failed so abysmally. Otherwise he would now be forced to obtain forgiveness for William’s death, when he had tried to shoot him down before he could make clear Peter’s involvement in the Chaunter’s murder. In a curious way, it was actually rather amusing to reflect that William’s excellent suitability as a felon was making the crimes of others invisible in contrast.

  His job done, Simon took a leisurely journey homewards, refusing to accept the generous offer of a ship to carry him to Dartmouth. In preference, he hired a horse and took a long sweep through Dartmoor and thence down south towards the coast. It was a delightful journey, relaxing and soothing to his nerves, although he still missed his wife. He must soon arrange for her to join him. He couldn’t continue like this, with Meg living so far from him.

  The first day back at his work was probably the most enjoyable he had spent there in the company of his clerk.

  ‘Andrew, I am afraid I shall have to lose your company. There is a new task for you in Exeter, a much more important one.’

  Back in Exeter, Sara and Thomas exchanged their oaths at the door of St Olave’s, while Daniel watched sulkily and planned his escape into an apprenticeship.

  At the same time Vincent was packing a small bag with some food and a cloak, and swinging it over his back. He walked down to the Western Gate, and there he met his father. The two of them set off, following the river southwards, walking as the sun set in the west, down to the little cave-like corner of the river, where they built a fire just as Wymond had done forty years before with another Vincent.

  But this time, he was sure that he was not going to lose his son, and later, when Wymond sat back with his belly filled with meat and wine, he felt more content than he had for many a long year.

  Baldwin rested at the inn while he waited for his wound to heal. Edgar remained with him, as though distrusting any others to look after his master, and Baldwin was as glad for his companionship as he was to have his wife with him still. Matters could only have been improved by the presence of his daughter Richalda. He missed her dreadfully. If he was forced to remain recuperating here much longer, perhaps he could arrange for her to be brought to Exeter to be with him and Jeanne?

  Jeanne had flourished. While Baldwin was still sometimes tweaked by guilt at his betrayal of her while he was returning from pilgrimage, his guilt was oozing away under the influence of her careful attention. He was coming to appreciate her again, rather than seeing her as a reminder of his shame, and with that realisation came the renewal of his love for her. Perhaps not so complete and untainted a
s before, but no less warming to his soul for all that.

  The Dean found him sitting on his bench there one morning while Jeanne was out at the market. ‘Sir Baldwin.’

  ‘Dean. Please, take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you. Yes – hmm – I shall, thank you.’ The Dean sighed as he sat, and rested his head against the inn’s wall. ‘That is better.’

  ‘You came all this way to rest against my wall?’ Baldwin asked with a grin.

  ‘I came to – ah – tell you of William. He has confessed to his deceit in telling the King of the gate being open, and now he admits that he himself opened the gate and left it wide.’

  ‘Did he explain why he wished to admit?’ Baldwin asked.

  ‘I think that he – ah – felt he might as well admit to all his crimes since he’s little to lose. Apparently he already has a letter of pardon from the – um – King in honour of his service over the years. Not that it’ll help him much, for the punishment is more cruel than we might think. The man has no money, the Prior of St Nicholas refuses to have him live there, and he will be forced to resort to begging.’

  Baldwin shook his head slowly. ‘A hard way of life for a man of his age.’

  ‘Perhaps he has a friend who can help him. I do not know,’ the Dean said. ‘So long as he leaves Exeter soon and our lives can return to their even tenor. Oh – ah – yes, and there was the other thing: Matthew. He has confessed to trying to kill you. It was only the darkness, he said, that saved you, for otherwise he would have aimed true.’

  ‘Did he shoot from the Charnel Chapel?’

  The Dean glanced at him, hearing his tone. ‘Yes. Why?’

  Baldwin shook his head. There was no possibility that he would leave himself open to accusations of superstition by admitting to his strange feeling of fear at the sight of the chapel. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It’s curious, though,’ the Dean said. ‘He did mention that he regretted standing on the chapel to fire. He felt quite sickly and weak up there, as though the building itself was moving under him when he released his bowstring. I think he must have been drunk.’