Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

No, so many lives had been lost, so much water had passed down the Exe, there was no reason to suspect that some silly arse might refresh people’s memories about those far-off times. Yet someone had. And now, Joel felt doubly threatened. There was the story about his part in the killings, and the fact of Henry’s death; if the matter of the broken saddle were to come to court now, it might well be against him that the German directed his ire. After all, it was the frame that broke. Joel’s frame.

‘Master?’

Joel didn’t hear the first calls. He was still standing before his window, unaware of the breeze that blew in and ruffled the tapestries and hangings. Such rustling and whispering of material was a constant feature of life in a pleasant little hall like this, just as the whistling and chattering of birds and other wild creatures was in a forest. Thus it was that when Vince spoke his name again, he was startled, and span on his heel, eyes wide with alarm. He was off-balance, and had to grab at a curtain to save his fall, and as soon as he had regained his posture, he bellowed at his apprentice.

‘ Don’t you ever dare to creep up on me like that again, you little shite ! Sweet Christ, it’s enough to give a man a heart-attack! You prickle! What did you think you were doing?’

‘I wanted to ask if I should make a start on that new saddle for Master Ralph, sir?’

‘When I want you to do something, I’ll tell you. Get out of my sight! Just go and clear up the workshop. I’ll bet you’ve left it in a sodding mess again, haven’t you? Go and clean it all, and I’ll come and inspect it. You leave the bloody saddle to me!’

‘I was only trying-’

‘Shut up! By God’s Honour, one more word out of you, and I swear I’ll take a strap to your arse! I’ve never done it before, but so help me, I could beat you to death just now and not give a damn! I’ll bet it was you who used green wood to make the frame for Henry, wasn’t it? I ought to kick your backside all the way around the outer walls of the city for that, you cretin! Go on, get out!’

Vince scampered off as quickly as he could until he reached the relative seclusion of the workroom, and only then did he turn and stare back the way he had come in bafflement.

Joel had never beaten him, nor even threatened to. And as for the green wood used in the frame — well, Vince wouldn’t have used that if Joel himself hadn’t told him to.

Henry was lucky: he could buy in a saddle frame from Joel quite cheaply, add some leather to it, fit it out with the choicest decorations, carve and print and paint the leatherwork, and make a vast profit when he sold it. For Joel, though, there wasn’t enough money per frame. He couldn’t live on that. So instead, he had taken to making cheap frames to sell to some of the other saddlers, the men who were closer to the thin line between legality and illegality. He had Vince manufacture many cheap frames for them.

‘Oh, no!’

He couldn’t have made a mistake and sold a green wood frame to Henry, could he? The lad winced at the thought. Christ in heaven, if he’d done that, and his saddle frame had broken, he wouldn’t be surprised if his apprenticeship was about to come to a sudden end.

For the Dean, it was a welcome relief to see the tall, dark-haired knight in his Close. He hurried over to Baldwin’s side. ‘Sir Baldwin, I am so glad to — ah — see you again. It has been — um — far too long. Yes, far too long. Now, may I offer you some hospitality? A little of my — ah — store of wine, some bread and cheese?’

‘Dean, that would be most welcome,’ Baldwin said, and the two fell into step as they crossed the Close towards the Dean’s residence. ‘Where is the body? May I see it?’

‘It’s in the chapel where it was found. Poor soul. I think it is too late to go and see him now, surely,’ the Dean said, glancing up at the sky. ‘Come and eat and we can discuss what we should do.’

‘He was murdered in a chapel?’ Baldwin exclaimed.

‘Yes. Whoever killed him committed a dreadful act, polluting a holy chapel like that. It shall have to be reconsecrated.’

‘Can you tell me what has happened?’

‘Hmm. Let us wait until we reach my house. All I need tell you is that the body was found in the Charnel Chapel. I have left it there until the Coroner may come to view it. There are guards about the body, of course.’

‘So you will not contest the right of the Coroner to view?’ Baldwin asked innocently.

The Dean gave him a mild smile which didn’t fool Baldwin for a moment. The knight was quite certain that the Dean had one of the brightest minds in the whole Chapter. Whereas other canons tended to be entirely devoted to their studies, their praying, or their bellies, Dean Alfred was a different man. Used to power, he knew that the most effective means of getting things done as he wished was by ensuring that there were as few interruptions as possible; that meant removing all potential causes of dispute with the city. He was above all a devious, intelligent politician.

‘I didn’t think that the last Coroner would choose to make an enemy of me, and yet he was strangely — ah — determined to impose his will upon me.’

‘He was a good man,’ Baldwin sighed. ‘He’ll be missed.’

‘Aye. I feel you are right. His widow has left the city — did you hear? No? She didn’t come from here originally, and she has gone to Sidmouth, where her brother lives.’

‘Simon too lives on the coast now,’ Baldwin said.

‘Really? And what does he do there?’

They had reached the Dean’s house, and now the Dean stood aside to permit Baldwin to enter.

‘He is the representative of the Abbot at Dartmouth. It is a terrible job, from what he has told me. He dreaded being sent there in the first place, because he was so comfortable with the moors and the ways of the mad devils who live up there, the tinners. I had always thought him so sensible a fellow, too. Yet when he was told that the Abbot would prefer him to go to Dartmouth, I don’t think Simon realised just how confused and difficult the new task would be.’

‘Is it so — ah — terrible?’

Baldwin threw him a sideways look. ‘The traitor.’

‘Oh!’

There was no need to say more. As both knew, no one could afford to pass comment on the recent events in London. The King’s spies might be listening. Yet the whole country knew that the King’s household was living in fear. The Lord Marcher, Roger Mortimer, who had been captured as a traitor for raising arms against Edward after a glittering career in his service, had been thrown into a cell in the Tower of London. Astonishingly, as soon as the sentence of death which was to have been passed on him became known, he was rescued.

Baldwin had no idea how he could have made his escape, but escape he had, and the King’s men were panicked. Messengers were sent to all corners of the realm from Kirkham, where the King was staying when he heard the news. A small host rode to the ports with Ireland, where Mortimer had allies, while all other ports were instructed to check all men trying to leave the shores. That was the first set of instructions. More recently, Baldwin had heard that there were clear signs that the man had escaped and fled the kingdom, passing into France or some similar land.

This could have been cause for celebration in the King’s household, were it not for the fact that Mortimer was reckoned the King’s own best General. If Mortimer could summon a force about his banner, thousands of Englishmen would probably rally to his cry. And there were many disaffected men in Europe waiting for just such a call. Men who had been deprived of their livelihood by the King — or, rather, as Baldwin knew, by his friends, the Despensers.