Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

William shrugged. Then he leaned forward, and the other grin was on his face again, the cold, dead grin of the murderer. ‘That’s fine; you do that. But don’t recall any other names, will you, Master Saddler? Because if I heard you were trying to fix me at the same time, I’d see if I could keep you screaming even longer than my record. Eh? You understand me? For you, a confession will hurt a bit, but for me, it could mean me being thrown out of the Priory. I don’t want to lose my corrody, Saddler. So keep my name out of anything like that. You understand me?’

John Coppe watched his friend the porter. They were at the gate again, and Janekyn was busying himself about the place, watching all those who were passing through, ever alert to the sight of known cutpurses or men or women of ill-fame who might enter either to rob or solicit for business.

Janekyn was a remarkably calm man. Sparing of words, he was nonetheless kindly, and to men like Coppe who had suffered in battles, he was generosity itself, always sharing his meagre supplies of food. Yet there was something about the friar which had unbalanced him. At the time Coppe had seen this, and decided that he wouldn’t probe and upset his friend, but that was some days ago now. Jan had had enough time to get over whatever it was that the fellow had said. Even so, Coppe was reluctant to broach the subject … but his fascination was being fed by the air of mystery.

‘You remember that friar? I saw him again earlier.’

‘Ah?’

‘Yes. Down there near the Charnel Chapel. He met up with one of the Treasurer’s clerks — the one in charge of the works.’ There was no response. ‘Come on, Jan, what’s the problem? He said something about there being a murder, and then you and him went all quiet. He asked whether you were a local man, said that was that then, and buggered off.’

Janekyn shrugged slightly, his eyes still on the passing folk, and then he pursed his lips, shot a glance at Coppe, and jerked his head to beckon his assistant. When the lad was standing in his place with a heavy ash staff in his hands, Janekyn went inside and came out with a couple of thick fustian blankets and a jug that steamed in the cool air. ‘Who needs cups when the weather’s like this?’ he grunted rhetorically, and took a swig before passing it to Coppe. It was heavily spiced and sweetened wine, and Coppe could feel the warmth soaking down from his belly to his toes — even to the toes of the leg that had gone so many years ago.

‘There was a murder, right enough. It was November, a week and two days after All Souls’ Day.’

Coppe nodded. That would be the ninth, then.

‘The trouble had been brewing for ages. I was only a lad, but I can remember it still. It cut up the city. The Bishop was a foreigner, a man called Quivil, who was arrogant. Wanted everything done his own way. Under him the Archbishop put in a Dean who was a local man, John Pycot — everyone called him John of Exeter. The Archbishop was determined to see Pycot grow in importance and fame. There were rumours spread about him — that he was greedy, took benefices wherever he could, and never did a stroke of work apart from what would benefit him — but they came from the Bishop. That was the sort of man Quivil was. Always putting down those he couldn’t get on with. All the city respected the Dean. We liked John Pycot. The Bishop refused to accept him, and never even acknowledged his position, but couldn’t get rid of him. So he put one of his own men in as Chaunter, to sort of keep Dean John at bay the whole time. The Dean was cross, and it led to a fight. The Chaunter got killed. And that’s about it.’

‘Why the coldness towards the friar, then?’

‘He was there; he helped protect that damned Chaunter against the good Dean’s men. That friar saw what the Bishop wanted him to. Useless. No, any man who knows this city would agree that the Dean was the better man.’

‘Is he dead now?’

‘Don’t know. He was gaoled for a long while in the Bishop’s cells, then forced to take up the vows and go into exile in some monastery or other. No one will hear from him again.’

‘Don’t you think that the friar has paid for his actions?’ Coppe said, thinking of the dreadful wound on his face that all but matched his own.

Janekyn gave him a steady look. ‘Sorry, John, I know you feel sympathy for a man like that, but I can’t. He fought on the side of the man who helped create a rift in the Chapter. For that I hope the Chaunter rots, and I don’t care to drink with those who tried to save him, neither.’

After William’s departure, Mabilla entered the counting room. ‘I saw him leaving,’ she said quietly, nervously fingering a thread on a tapestry.

‘He told me I mustn’t confess,’ Henry said heavily. His wife, he could see, was very scared. She seemed unable to meet his eyes, as though she feared his emotions might force her to break down in sympathy.

Sympathy was a commodity he could not summon up for others. He sat drained, his face twisted and his eyes moist; he could have wept. Both forearms lay on the table before him, and Mabilla felt that William had sucked the energy from him. Even the will to live was gone.

‘Oh, my love,’ she said. She went to his side and took his hand in her own, kneeling and gazing up at him. ‘My love, don’t look so upset. The man was only demanding that you protect him.’

‘He said he’d kill me. I think he threatened not just me, my darling, but you and Julia too. I need some wine!’

‘My love, no! Keep your head clear just for a little longer. Don’t think of me or of Julia. We are strong enough. Think of yourself. If you allow him to threaten you, it’s your soul he’ll harm. Don’t let him do that. We can always seek protection. There are men you can hire.’

‘Darling, he threatened …’

‘All he can do is perhaps try to hurt you, but we can stop that. We’ll get men to guard you, if you want. But his threats are nothing compared to the risk to your immortal soul, Henry. Think of that: your soul ! If you feel you must confess your sin, then do so.’

Henry turned his head and looked at her. ‘I wish I knew what to do for the best.’

‘Look into your heart, my love.’

‘It’s not just my heart, darling. Peter, the acting Prior at St Nicholas’s said I should confess, too.’

‘Then you must do it, my love. It’s your eternal soul. Don’t let him risk that.’

‘But if I speak to any of the canons or vicars, they’ll be bound to tell someone else. The Cathedral is no repository for secrets. They gabble away all the time like old women. If only I …’

A face returned to him. A face he had seen in the streets, the ravaged features of the man he had last seen sprawled in the mud at the side of his master. Friars could hear confessions, he reminded himself.

‘Perhaps there is one man I could speak to,’ he said.

Sara was early at the gate to St Nicholas’s. She and Elias were waiting for the bread to be distributed, and she lifted and pushed her little son before her, trying to maintain their place among the people who crowded the narrow street.

It was a blessing that the good monks at St Nicholas’s Priory issued their alms. Without their generosity many of the poor of the city would die, Sara among them.

No ! The boys were reason enough to continue the battle. She might have lost her man, but she wouldn’t lose her boys too. And if that meant queuing at the gate to St Nicholas’s, she’d be here all night if necessary.

Just then, the bell tolled out, and now she could hear the chain and latch being pulled. That meant the Almoner had brought food for the poor. She’d be able to get something into her belly, with luck. But there were so many people about, she realised, glancing from side to side. What if there wasn’t enough food for her, for Dan and Elias?