Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

As she looked and felt the others pushing her forwards from behind, she noticed that the ring of people before the gate was contracting: men and women were forcing their way towards the gate from either side. The crush on all sides was so tight that it was impossible to move her arms, and then her breasts were bruised as she was shoved painfully into the backs of those in front. They retaliated with elbows and backward kicks, and her shins were barked by the boot-heels of the man in front of her as he shouted for people to stop their ‘infernal fucking shoving!’

It was alarming, most of all because she knew that Elias was at her side. He had her hand in his, and he was wailing already. She couldn’t pick him up, though. He was terrified, and so was she as the mass of people pulled her inexorably on. And then the fellow in front wasn’t there. He simply disappeared from sight, and as her mind tried to absorb this, her feet were trapped. She couldn’t lift or press them onwards, and the weight of hundreds was at her back. With a scream of dread, she felt herself topple; her son’s hand was ripped from her grasp, and she tumbled down with her ears seared by the sound of his screams.

Henry Potell was sunk deep into thought as he walked from his house. He knew that he ought to confess his offences before God before he died — but he was concerned that he would be hastening his death, were he to try to speak to Nicholas Friar and William got to hear of it.

Mabilla was convinced that he must confess, and she seemed confident that William would pose no genuine threat. Henry had wondered at that for a moment. She had once known William very well, when she was younger … but there was no point doubting her. She was his wife; she’d been loyal to him for years.

‘Christ!’ he muttered. The prospect before him was not one to inspire cheerfulness.

Still, he must persevere. Fear of William’s retribution was one thing: his fear of God’s wrath was infinitely more pressing. He would find poor, scarred Nicholas and beg forgiveness — but first he would go to the Cathedral and offer a prayer to show how sorry he was to have participated in the murder. It couldn’t hurt.

He stopped at the entrance to the Fissand Gate and peered down at the Cathedral. It looked so forbidding, he was tempted to turn around and go straight home again. The scaffolding which rose about the truncated walls looked eerily like giant polearms, as though God had sent a force of great angels to capture him and harry him down to hell. The thought was enough to make the saddler feel sick.

Right in front of him was the Charnel Chapel, a plain block, pointing towards the Cathedral’s western front, with a pair of doorways. One gave into the chapel itself, while the second opened onto a flight of steps which led down to the undercroft where the bones were neatly stored.

Henry shivered with revulsion, not because of the remnants of the dead, but because this undistinguished charnel block was the site of his greatest sin.

At the time it had seemed so simple, so straightforward. John Pycot the Dean was a local man, from Exeter, and Henry had believed him to be the better judge of what was best for the Cathedral, rather than some outsider like Quivil. Just because he’d been made a Bishop didn’t make the man infallible. And anyway, everyone knew perfectly well that he didn’t even have the support of his own Archbishop. It was only natural that when Quivil went and installed Walter de Lecchelade as his henchman and spy to counteract the beneficial influence of Dean John, that Lecchelade himself should become the target.

For Henry it was a matter of his personal belief in and allegiance to the Dean. John was an endearing man, the sort of fellow who could easily instill trust in a youth. He was interested in Henry, treated him with politeness and respect, which wasn’t normal for an apprentice saddler. Usually they were granted a level of disdain which fell only slightly short of contempt.

It was that easiness in the presence of other Exeter folks that endeared Dean John to so many, although others were keen to help him from less worthy motives. Henry knew that some, like Peter, were determined to slaughter Walter Lecchelade to further their own ambitions, aware that they’d be more secure if they helped their Dean to put this foreign Bishop firmly in his place.

Even those who sought political advantage were preferable to the others, who were only in it for the money; they repelled Henry just as they must any man with a conscience. He had no dislike of money, naturally enough; money was essential for any man, but some would betray their own master for financial gain.

As he had this thought, he swallowed his anxiety and forced himself onwards. At the gate itself he saw the beggar, John Coppe, sitting at his accustomed post; he threw him half a penny, as though that small donation could in some way redeem him for the harm done to Nicholas by his companions while the Friar was trying to defend his master. It was a strange coincidence, that Coppe too had lost his right eye in a sweeping blow which had raked down his face from temple to jaw.

The darkness of the narrow gateway always gave Henry the curious sense of some gloomy region that wasn’t quite of this world; entering the tall houses on either side prevented the sun from reaching the cobbles. And then suddenly he was out in the wide expanse of grass which was the Close, confronted with the mass of the Cathedral itself. It was an exciting moment, and just as he always had been, Henry was impressed. Even with the scaffolding about the sections of wall that were still being erected, even with the mess of builders and masons and all the labourers lying at its foot, the Cathedral was a marvellous, living entity, a symbol of God but also a growing proof of Exeter’s own importance.

As he strode along the grass among the workmen, he heard a voice address him.

‘Master Saddler! I am pleased to see you again.’

‘Udo … I am glad to see you, too,’ Henry said with a sinking heart.

Thomas was at an inn when the commotion began.

There was a clear, tinkling noise like a bell, and then he heard voices shouting. A bellow roared out, followed by a scream and then a rumbling noise … He quickly downed his quart of ale and went out after the other patrons into the street.

The row seemed to be coming from the entrance to the Priory. As Thomas hurried up Fore Street he joined a gang of children who were capering along too, and some women. Even a few hawkers who apparently had little better to do were giving in to their curiosity. All those with more urgent things to do were already over beyond Carfoix, Thomas said to himself moodily.

Further up the street, the crowd increased, and soon Thomas could not see the Priory gate itself for the press of men and women thronging the path.

The screams were much louder now, and made the blood run cold. Necks craned, there were confused shouts and then the press of people parted as the first of the wounded appeared — a girl, eyes wide in terror, arms outstretched, pushing and wailing, desperate to get away. Thomas grabbed her arms and tried to calm her, to get her to explain what had happened, but she only mewed like a cat, and as soon as she could, pulled away and bolted past him.

People were suddenly melting away, and Thomas barged onwards, not certain why, but convinced that he must get forwards, to the front.

Later it became clear what must have happened, but at that moment, when he reached the Priory’s wall, he gasped in shock as he, and those around him, found themselves confronted by the pile of bodies.

So many, he found it hard to believe. Some at the top were still twitching, but those beneath were still, their eyes open, blood dripping from scratches and scrapes, hands and feet mingled in a hideous mound of death. All about there was a strange, tragic silence.