Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

‘I will not force her,’ Henry said, allowing a little testiness into his voice. This foreigner was persistent to the point of annoyance. There was a figure near the chapel, he saw, talking to the Annuellar. A tall, thoughtful man clad in a friar’s greyish-brown robes, his head concealed by a hood.

‘My God,’ he breathed. The figure was stooped, one hand ruined, a mere claw, yet he reminded Henry of …

‘I do not demand that you force her …’ Udo continued.

Henry listened with only half an ear. The man’s clothing was worn and stained from many years of use, but there was something about him. Was he the man who had been attacked, who had been so dreadfully hurt during that night of blood? The friar with the terrible scars whom Henry had seen after leaving Joel’s house? It made the blood still in his veins. This was the man he must talk to! If no one else, that friar could give him absolution. If he could hear the confession of the man who had inflicted those dreadful wounds, Henry could be saved. Damn William, he thought. I will tell the truth at last!

‘Come! All I ask, then, is that you speak to her kindly about me. She must know I am wealthy. After all, you have been worried, I expect, that I would bring a suit against you.’

Henry had not been listening. Now, suddenly coming to the present once more, he was surprised to realise that Udo was still talking. Then his surprise turned to anger as he absorbed Udo’s words. ‘So that is it! You mean, I would be better off if I sold her to you, rather than suffer the risk of you ruining me!’ Henry spat. ‘I would rather see her die a spinster or a nun, than force her into a marriage just because I was being blackmailed!’

‘I did not mean that,’ Udo stated firmly. His own temper was darkening.

‘Leave me! Sue me if you wish, but I won’t help you to steal my daughter just to save myself from your threats!’

‘I do not threaten. Listen to me, Master Saddler.’

‘Leave me alone, Germeyne! I have business with others.’

‘Damn you! If you don’t listen to me, man, I’ll destroy you!’ Udo bellowed as Henry stalked away. He watched as the saddler turned. Slowly and deliberately, Henry bit his thumb at him, and Udo felt the blood rush to his face with his anger as he registered that insult. ‘I’ll destroy you!’ he repeated, more loudly.

Henry closed his eyes, shook his head in a brief, dismissive gesture, and stalked off.

It was tempting to grab his sword’s hilt and hare after him, but Udo swallowed his anger. His face was mottled with his fury, but gradually as he calmed, he saw the other people standing and staring at him. There was a friar up ahead, a couple of labourers behind him, and a pair of the Cathedral’s canons. One he recognised as the Charnel Chapel’s Annuellar, who stood quivering with anger for a moment before launching himself at Udo with the speed and ferocity of a rock hurled from a trebuchet.

‘What is the meaning of this? You dare to threaten a man’s life here in the Cathedral Close, man? You will apologise to the Dean and Chapter of this holy place!’

‘I am leaving. It was not to upset you,’ Udo said with what hauteur he could muster.

‘Remember, fellow — I heard you threaten that man. All of us here did,’ the Annuellar said, waving a hand at the group nearby. ‘If any harm comes to Henry Potell, I shall see you brought to justice. I hope that is clear. You had best pray that he remains safe!’

Janekyn, the porter at Fissand Gate, heard the curfew bell with enormous relief. ‘At last,’ he grunted to himself, shoving the heavy doors closed and dropping the huge timber plank into place in its slots.

‘That’s it! You want some wine, Paul?’ he asked.

The young Annuellar from St Edward’s Chapel had arrived to help with the gates. As usual, he looked rather drawn, Janekyn thought. Maybe the fellow needed a break from his routines. He had the appearance of one who fasted too often and too rigorously. Janekyn often used to offer food and wine to the choristers who seemed to need it most, and tonight he was tempted to do the same for Paul.

Paul shook his head. ‘I’m off to the calefactory. It’s bitter tonight.’

‘’Tis cold enough to freeze the marrow in your bones while you live,’ Janekyn agreed.

Aye, it was ferociously cold, and the stars shining so merrily in the sky hinted that it wouldn’t get any warmer. The porter had often noticed that when the clouds were up there, they seemed to behave like a blanket over the world, keeping the area a little warmer, but that was a forlorn hope now.

‘Are you well?’ Janekyn asked gently as the Annuellar stood as though lost in thought.

‘Yes. I think so.’

‘What is it, then? Your face would curdle milk.’

‘Is it that obvious? Well, I’ll tell you. Earlier I saw the German arguing with Henry the Saddler. They were rowing about young Julia, I think.’

‘Udo wants her?’ Janekyn pulled the corners of his mouth down. ‘I can’t blame him. Who wouldn’t?’

‘When Henry parted from him, Udo said he’d ruin Henry — no, not that — he said he’d destroy him. I was quite angry to hear such words in the Close.’

‘Did Henry strike him or anything?’

‘No. He left soon afterwards, walking off with a friar — you know, that man with the terrible scars?’

Janekyn nodded slowly. That description fitted only one person.

As the youth left him, Janekyn finished the last of his chores. He set his brazier back in the middle of the floor, snuffed the three candles at his table, leaving only the one in his bone-windowed lantern, and tidied his room, unrolling his palliasse and spreading his blankets over it. He had a pottery vessel, which he now filled with hot water from the pot over his fire, stoppered it and put it amongst the bedding to keep it warm. Then he settled down with his last cup of wine, and sipped the hot drink.

He had consumed only half when there was a splattering of gravel at his door, and a hasty banging. ‘Jan, come quickly!’ shouted a voice.

Suspiciously he opened his door and peered outside. Recognising Paul, he demanded, ‘What are you doing back here?’

‘Help, Jan! Please come and help me!’

‘In God’s name, what is the matter, boy? I’m ready for my bed!’ Then his eyes widened as he saw the blood that clotted the boy’s hands and breast.

‘It’s Henry! He’s been murdered! Oh God, a murder in our Close! Jan, what can we do?’

Dean Alfred eyed the body unhappily. ‘Ahm — what was the man doing here, Stephen?’

‘If we knew that, Dean, we’d perhaps be able to guess why he was dead,’ the Treasurer commented with a degree of asperity.

‘But someone must have seen him come in. Who is he? He seems familiar.’

‘He’s the saddler from Smythen Street,’ Stephen said. He stared down at the body again, shaking his head. In God’s name, the last person who should be in a position of power was the Dean. If only the Bishop were here. The Dean had done well enough over the unpleasant matter of the murder of the glovemaker *some while ago, but this was a different affair, surely.

The Dean stepped delicately around the body. ‘My heavens, but it is cold in here, isn’t it? This — ah — Charnel Chapel makes a man think of death just by feeling the chill.’

Stephen glanced at him with distaste, then turned back to Janekyn. ‘Porter, the Annuellar found him here, did he?’

‘Yes, Treasurer. It was Paul here, wasn’t it, lad?’

The fellow was not an impressive sight, shivering in the doorway, but Stephen couldn’t fault him for that. He had been given the shock of his life when he found Henry’s body. ‘Tell me again what happened.’