Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

Then came the ignominious disaster of the invasion of Scotland, and Robert Bruce’s repulsion of the English at Bannockburn.

Ach, William could remember that well enough. He’d been one of the hungry foot-soldiers there, standing with his pikemen at his sides, waiting, and seeing the knights all go down in the pock-marked swamp. They did not stand a chance. The Scots bastards stood back and fired at them with their bows, then formed into groups of pikemen, the points outthrust like a hedgehog’s back, and none of the knights could penetrate their defence. Not that many of them got that far: most fell in the mud and drowned or were slaughtered where they lay, incapable of rising in their armour, their mounts thrashing at their sides with their legs broken in the pits dug by the Scots. It wasn’t a good battle. Will and his men had been lucky to escape without a serious mauling.

After that, his star waxed full marvellously. King Edward had granted him the custody of Odiham Castle with the men-at-arms who resided there, twenty-one squires and their pages, even though William wasn’t of knightly rank. And there he’d remained, occasionally answering the King’s calls to go to war, once falling out with the King when he tested his skills by using a writ of the Privy Seal to thieve a manor from the widow of a knight. He’d won, though, in the end. The King had need of trained fighters, especially men who could be trusted with a company behind them.

War had been good to Will. He’d made his fortune several times, and if he lost it afterwards, well, that was what money was for. He wasn’t going to complain.

Still, when he realised that his sore joints and scars were making him unfit to fight, the idea of coming back here to his old home was attractive. Even if there might be one or two who still bore him a grudge because of the way he had fingered Alured de Porta, the city’s Mayor, and the Southern Gatekeeper, pointing out that only their incompetence or their active support could have led to the gate being left wide open for the killers to escape. So Alured was taken out and hanged on the feast of Saint Stephen, the day after Christmas. A shame — he was a pleasant enough fellow. But when the murderers had all escaped, apart from the vicars and novices in the Cathedral of course, the King had to pick someone who could be punished symbolically on behalf of the whole city. The Mayor was the best and most fitting victim. Nothing personal.

Will filled and drained his horn three times while he waited, considering again his long life and the many battles in which he had participated, the men he had killed. Some had died in the angry heat of warfare, while others had expired more quietly in little green lanes when they had least expected it — and when their deaths could benefit him most directly. All those bodies were in his memory, available instantly to be called to his mind, and he smiled as he recalled some of them: the weaker ones who pleaded with him; those who tried to flee; those who brazened it out, lying to him in order to secure their freedom. Some of those were the most memorable. All had helped him. While he removed their lives, he also took their purses.

Only when the third horn was empty did he hear the door open and, glancing up, see the figure he expected. ‘At last.’

‘I can’t drink that stuff. I need some wine.’

‘You look as though you need more than wine,’ he said fondly.

Mabilla stared at him, and her expression froze his blood. It was a look of pure, intense hatred.

‘Why do you look at me that way?’ he almost stuttered. ‘It’s me, your William …’

‘How did you think I should look?’ she hissed malevolently. ‘I’m a widow now, because of you! It was you, wasn’t it? You murdered my Henry!’

Baldwin had made his journey with a joy-filled heart, glad to be out and working again. It felt so good to ride the muddy roadways, smell the fresh, damp soil, feel the warmth of the sun on his flank, the sensation of swaying with his rounsey as the massive beast moved with him — and yes, to be away from the petulance and confusion of married life.

He rode down the road south to Thorverton, and here was tempted to cross the river at a convenient ford and approach Exeter from the north, but he changed his mind when he saw the Exe. He hadn’t realised how full the river had become recently, and the sight of the broad floodplain told how foolish he would be to try to cross so far north. In preference he headed south to Brampford Speke. Here the river was a little lower, and he could test it, but he wasn’t happy with the angry, grey look of it, nor with the fast-flowing waters, and continued south and west.

The River Creedy was less engorged when he reached that, and he decided to follow the road that led west of the Exe and approach Exeter by the great multi-arched bridge that led to Exe Island and the city beyond. With this in mind, he clattered through the Creedy and on. With his delays at the rivers, it was well past noon by the time he breasted the last hill and could see the bridge ahead.

Exeter’s bridge was a wonderful feat. Before this great stone thoroughfare with its eighteen arches had been constructed, there was only a wooden footbridge, so Baldwin had heard, which had been appallingly dangerous in winter, and which only permitted people on foot. Carts and horses must take their luck with the ford. In summer this ford was safe enough, but the river had a very powerful current which would often wash travellers away. So Nicholas Gervase and his son built the bridge with funds which they raised from the county, and when Nicholas died, sadly before the bridge was completed, they buried his body in the Church of St Edmund on the eastern end of the bridge.

The structure was massive, and Baldwin always rather enjoyed riding so far up above the river on the sixteen-feet-wide roadway. Today the waters swirled angrily about the pillars below, however, and he was uncomfortably reminded that only solid rock, placed there with human intelligence, was keeping him up. He had never understood why an arch should support a great weight over its gaping emptiness, and now, peering over the side of the bridge, he felt a faint queasiness at the sight of the roiling water. He swallowed hastily and continued on his way.

Having almost reached the city, he wondered again about the Dean’s message. A man had died; his body found lying somewhere in the Cathedral’s Close. He was not a member of the clergy, so Baldwin assumed that the death could be a cause of some embarrassment — still, he wondered why the Dean should have asked him to come and look into the matter. Surely there must be a new Coroner by now?

As he reached the eastern end of the bridge the stench was foul, due to the tanners’ yards on Exe Island; Baldwin spurred his mount onwards to be past it. The skins were left in the sun, soaked in urine in order to remove the hairs, and in the next stage, the leather was left soaking in vats filled with a mixture of bird droppings or dogshit. How any man could wish to become a tanner was quite beyond Baldwin, other than the fact that there was always a demand for leather.

When he looked over towards the nearest works, he saw in among the great vats and pots, a large man with a bow. The fellow stopped, crouching slightly, and then nocked an arrow and drew it smoothly. He paused, his muscles straining, and then released the arrow. As Baldwin watched, it shot off swiftly up towards the river, and the man relaxed. He trotted off after his arrow, and Baldwin saw him pick it up. It had passed almost completely through a large rat. The fellow jerked his hand, and the rat was flung from the arrow, over the fletchings, and into the river. It sank, leaving only a small swirl of crimson. He slowly made his way back towards the bridge.