Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

The sun passed behind a cloud, and as the Close plunged into greyness, Matthew’s attention was transfixed by the grim mausoleum and he felt a flood of revulsion at the sight. That place was terrible — a remembrance of an abomination. Thank God there had been no more serious rifts among the members of the Chapter since then. Pray to God there never would be.

In the High Street, Nicholas found himself standing near one of the larger gates to the Cathedral Close. He eased his roll and bag from his shoulder and glanced about him hopefully. When he had lived here before, it was the main entrance into the Cathedral’s precinct, because it was so wide and gave straight on to the western doors. A man could wander along this street unsuspecting, and then suddenly find himself in the main Cathedral yard, with that broad expanse of turf leading to the magnificent edifice.

Today, though, he wasn’t here to marvel, but to see whether he could win some alms. In the Cathedral there was a Clerk of Bread who supervised the production and distribution of the loaves for the canons, vicars, annuellars, choristers and workmen, but all his food would be long gone by now and the clerk probably dozing after his hectic morning. Up at midnight for Matins, then the other services, and as soon as they were done, he must rush to his ovens and begin breadmaking for the new day. As soon as the loaves were baked and had cooled a little, they’d be sent to all those who had a right to them; by lunchtime, most of them would already be consumed. He’d be dead on his feet by noon. If only Nicholas had arrived here earlier, he might have been able to plead a loaf, but not now.

At least here, though, in the Fissand Gate he would be able to beg a little from the passers-by. Perhaps someone would give him a coin.

There was a sour-looking old clerk at the gate chatting to a one-legged beggar with a twisted face. The beggar set his head to one side. ‘Friend friar, please join us here.’

Nicholas hobbled to their side, slumping on the stool offered by the clerk. ‘Thank you.’

‘Pleasure,’ the porter grunted unemotionally. He snorted, hawked and spat, then muttered about the weather being cold before disappearing into his little room.

‘Don’t mind him,’ said the old beggar.

‘A man who gives me a stool can be as grim-faced as he wishes. Anyway, his presence detracts from our prettiness, friend,’ Nicholas muttered with a chuckle.

‘Ha ha! You speak the truth there! He’s always a miserable-looking sod. Still, he’s spent time as a soldier in the King’s host before he came here, so he appreciates bold fighters like me. I daresay he’s readying a brazier to warm us both even now. Friend, I am called John Coppe. The porter there, he’s Janekyn Beyvyn.’

‘I am Friar Nicholas. How did you win your injuries? You say you were a fighter?’

‘Pirates. Used to be a sailor, and the bastards caught me and my ship. A big, brawny bugger with an axe took off my leg and then swung at my face.’ Coppe shrugged. ‘But I’m alive, and apart from the looks some women give me, life’s not so bad. What of you?’

Nicholas’s gaze passed down towards the Cathedral Close. ‘Many years ago, I was attacked in there and left for dead.’

The porter had returned, and he set a brazier before them. Returning to his shed, he brought out a pot filled with spiced wine, and set it on top. Passing them cups, he ladled wine into each. ‘You were hurt in here?’

‘Yes. I was with some companions when our master was attacked, and I won these wounds.’

‘You were with the Chaunter?’ the porter exclaimed.

‘Aye. My name is Nicholas. I think I was the only man to survive that attack.’

John Coppe looked up at him, then over at the porter. ‘I’ve never heard of this before, Jan. How long ago was this?’

‘Before my time,’ Janekyn said with a sniff. He held out his hands to the brazier.

‘You are a local man, then?’ Nicholas asked.

‘Yes. So’s Coppe here.’

‘I understand, good Porter. I’ll go and find another place to sit,’ Nicholas said, and rose.

‘No, Friar Nicholas, wait,’ Coppe said. He looked from one to the other with dismay. ‘What’s the matter with you two?’

Nicholas glanced at the porter. ‘You tell him, Master Janekyn.’

He shouldered his pack again and set off away from the Fissand Gate and off up the road towards the High Street. There at the top he stopped. He reached into his pack and brought out his wooden bowl, holding it out to passers-by. When he had some coins, he bought a little loaf from a baker’s in Cook Row, then slowly continued on his way towards the old Friary.

Henry reached home in a muck sweat. He thrust the door wide, and then slammed it shut, resting against it while he stood panting, close to puking, his eyes squeezed tight shut.

That can’t have been Nicholas! Sweet Jesus, but he had left Exeter so long ago … and yet could there be two men in the kingdom with that fearful wound slashing down the side of his face and destroying the eye? It was unlikely. Good Christ! To think that the man was here. It was terrible!

He was shaky on his legs. Forcing himself upright, he stumbled along the passage and into his hall. He wasn’t proud that his first feeling was one of relief that his wife was not in the room already, and when his bottler appeared, making sure that this wasn’t some stranger from the street essaying a little investigation of a wealthy man’s house, he barked out for some wine, and forget watering it today. He had need of some sustenance.

However, it was not the bottler who brought the wine, but his wife. She walked in with a set face, and when she spoke, she was decidedly shrewish.

‘So you want more, do you? From your breath and the look of you, I should have thought you’d had plenty, Husband! You look as though you might empty your stomach all over the reeds at any moment.’

‘Woman, be still for five seconds!’ Henry snapped. He was in no mood for a confrontation and yet, when he felt her gently pressing a cup into his hand again, he looked up and realised what he must do.

‘Mabilla, my love, there is something I have to tell you,’ he said, and as he started his tale, his voice broke at last, and for the first time in many years he wept; not for himself, but for all those men he had killed or helped to kill.

If there was one man who was more responsible than most for Henry’s grief and pain, it was Peter, and yet the temporary Prior of St Nicholas knew no happiness himself. If he had been certain of Henry’s feelings of remorse and guilt, it would have helped him overcome his own sense of simmering rage at the injustice done to him.

After the murder, Peter had returned to his room and sat on his bed. Even forty years later, he could remember that. He’d sat there for a long while, his body exhausted, two little scratches on an arm and his belly, but they really were just minor wounds. The Vicar of Heavitree had a worse wound — a knife-cut in his shoulder that could have been quite dangerous. He was advised to get it seen to at the earliest opportunity, when the others crowded around to take a look in the flickering light of a torch.

It was astonishing how easy the attack had been. They had massed there in the gloom before midnight, men arriving in ones and twos. Peter had been at the bottom of what was now called the Fissand Gate, while the rest stood at the other entrances. Men were waiting at the Bear Gate, and more at the Erceneske Gate and St Petrock’s, just in case the man managed to escape the initial assault. To prevent their weakening, the Dean had seen to it that there were men among them to stiffen the feeblest resolve — the Vicar of Heavitree was at the Bear Gate, the Vicar of Ottery St Mary at the Erceneske, and William was with Peter at Fissand. They were all in their places soon after the bells tolled for the start of Matins, the blood thundering in their veins as they waited to execute this interloper, Chaunter Walter de Lecchelade.