Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

Looking to the left, he saw the church, Holy Trinity, where he had been baptised and took Mass until he left. Beyond it was the wall where he had played as a child. It was huge, a rising rampart supporting the masonry, and as a mason himself he could only wonder at the labour that over the years had created this enormous ring of stone about the city. The wall was crenellated, and must have been eleven feet thick at the base, narrowing to perhaps six or seven at the top. It was a wall that could hardly have been bettered by any other in the land.

But it wasn’t the wall which attracted his attention. He could not stop his eyes from moving back to the gate to take in the three wizened, blackened shapes hanging up by the gate itself. They were good and high, so that they should be out of reach of people attempting to move them, but positioned where all could see them, for these were men who had been accused of treachery to the King after the most recent wars, the fights between the Lords Marcher and the King’s friends, the Despensers. There were only the three, all of them knights, and each of them a loyal servant of his own master, whoever he might have been. Up and down the kingdom there were similar hideous shapes hanging or stuck on spikes. They would remain there until they had disintegrated, so that the King’s justice could be seen by all.

The King’s justice , Thomas sneered to himself. It was an amusing concept, here where a King could choose a man’s fate, whether he should live or die, on a whim.

Still, at least his own father wasn’t there any longer. His body would have rotted and fallen away many years ago now.

Sara woke to a miserable morning, feeling as though the cold had penetrated her very marrow. She wriggled further under the scratchy fustian blankets. They smelled of the damp, of cats’ pee, but it was better than rising. Outside, the rain was sheeting down. There was a growing puddle by the door, spreading slowly across the floor and curving back towards the wall, and she watched it dully for a few minutes. The idea of going outside to fetch water and empty her bladder was unappealing.

A widow must shift for herself, though. She embraced her boys, pulling them to her. Eight-year-old Dan was reluctant, as though such behaviour was too immature for him now he was the master of the house, but three-year-old Elias was enthusiastic, as always, and his arms gave Sara a strange feeling of comfort; she had found herself desperate for the little boy’s hugs since Saul’s death. He wanted as much of her warmth as he could take, and he happily snuggled closer. Then, when Dan had already risen and was trying to strike a spark from his flint and dagger, Sara finally eased herself up and pulled her old cloak about her, tucking the bedclothes in around Elias. She kissed him, then went to the door and peered out.

Rain was falling like spears, pelting into the mud about the huts. All was so wet, it was like staring at the sea. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter, and hurried outside. Behind her hut was a little lean-to shack with her wood neatly stored on either side. Here she squatted over the hole Saul had dug for them when he built this little home for his family, and cleaned herself as best she could with a damp rag. Grabbing a bucket, she ran out to the walls near the West Gate, filled it with water and carried it back home up the hill, careful not to slip on the wet cobbles. Manure lying on the streets could make walking hazardous in this weather.

She was soaked. Still, at least Dan had managed to light the fire. The room was already filled with smoke as the dry tinder caught and started to singe the bits and pieces of wood shaving he’d put over them. He was still crouched on all fours, arse in the air, head down, like a puppy begging to play, when she entered.

Tipping a little water into her ewer, she rinsed her face, then grabbed a reluctant Elias and washed his face too. Dan would do his own later. Her children were always hungry. It was not something that would improve, she knew. So many children died too young to have ever known a full belly. Of all her friends about this city, not one hadn’t lost a child. All knew the pain of loss, just as she did herself. Her only daughter, little Claricia, had died just before her second birthday. It had been a close thing for Elias, too.

‘Oh God, let us find some food today!’ she murmured under her breath.

It was two weeks since Saul’s death, and still she found herself willing him back, as though he had gone travelling and must soon return. Somehow, she couldn’t quite believe that she’d never see him again.

Dan was coping with the loss. He was a little rock, he was. Strong, he had nodded when he was told, and then sniffed a little, before declaring that he would have to start breaking up the firewood as his father always had before. He felt the responsibility of being master of the family very strongly. Bless him, he’d even borrowed old Jen’s hatchet, since he couldn’t lift Saul’s axe.

Elias was too small to understand. He had seen dead men before, of course, but he somehow thought of them as something else. His own father couldn’t have gone. Sara had seen the disbelief in his eyes as she told him. He’d listened as she explained he was dead and couldn’t come home again, and then he’d asked for some food, and while he chewed his bread, he said, ‘It’s all right, he’s bound to come back soon.’

The funeral was a blur. She’d seen little, her eyes were so fogged with tears, and when they carried her husband’s pathetic half-body outside, the heavens had opened again. There were inches of water in the grave, and a man nearly fell in as they were settling his body in his hole. Sara had stood there staring down at him, trying to remember his smile, his kind brown eyes, his mouth fixed in that half-smile he always wore. She tried to remember his hands about her waist, on her breasts, how his arms felt as they pulled her towards him in one of his great hugs — and found that all these memories and more were already fading. He was gone: the staunch defender of her and their children was dead, and there was nothing she could do to change the fact.

Elias looked terrible today. The rain was abating somewhat, and in the feeble light, she could see that his face had a sickly tinge to it, and she sighed as she mixed the greens into her bowl for pottage. He needed more sustenance — meat and eggs, not a weak broth of Good King Henry, Alexanders, some peas and a handful of beans. It wasn’t enough to keep a lad together.

She would go to the Priory again and see if she could beg some food. A rich fishmonger had died, so she had heard, and part of his bequest was a great donation of food from the gate of the Priory of St Nicholas, bread and fish from the Almoner. If she could get a little fish and bread, it would make all the difference to her boys. They needed their food so desperately. She would go and plead with the Almoner.

Nicholas was already out. He had visited a church to preach, but the priest had refused him entry, and Nicholas was left to kick his heels outside. Rather than do that, he decided to go and have another look at the Cathedral. A keen urge prompted him to take a look at the Charnel Chapel, even though the rain was still falling steadily. It didn’t bother Nicholas much. He was used to all weathers.

It was a strange little building. Dedicated to St Edward the Confessor, because it was built in honour of King Edward I who had come to hear the trials after the murder, Nicholas thought it a peculiar place. Of course, all cemeteries had the same problem: if the religious establishment had been there for a while, when new bodies were ready to be interred, the pit-digger would keep coming up with old bones, and where should one store them? Bones took so long to rot down compared with flesh and blood. The favoured route was to put up a little chapel like this with a large storeroom beneath in which the bones could be installed, while above prayers were said for all the poor dead.