Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

‘Did you hear about the German who fell from his horse?’ Vince began.

‘Yeah. Showing off, I heard. So what?’

‘Well, I think it was one of my saddles that broke. It was one of the cheaper frames that was supposed to go to-’

‘You sold off a duff one?’ Wymond said sharply. ‘Christ, what were you doing? Flogging off crap to your mate Jack so you could make a few pennies at your master’s expense?’

Vince glowered. ‘No! I was told to make them by Joel himself. He was selling them to all and sundry to get hold of some extra money. I had to knock them up, and then take them round to Jack’s master for him to make up. But they were supposed to be sold off for market. They shouldn’t have affected anyone in Exeter!’

‘What does your master say?’

‘He threatened to thrash me, said that the saddle frames were my responsibility and that I must have sold the wrong one to Henry.’

‘Then you deserve a thrashing, you arsehole,’ Wymond said, and he slapped Vince about the cheeks with a brawny hand. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing, playing at being a master, when you’re still an apprentice? You need your head bashed to get some God-damned sense into you, do you?’

‘Stop it!’ Vince said, putting his forearms up to protect his face. He couldn’t force his father to stop — Wymond was stronger than him — but he didn’t have to take so much punishment. ‘It wasn’t me, it was him. He’s been an arse just recently, since Henry visited.’

‘Henry? Someone told me he was dead,’ Wymond said.

‘That’s right. Some bastard shoved a knife under his ribs in the Charnel Chapel — the one dedicated to St Edward.’

Wymond’s eyes narrowed, and he looked away. He rested his arm on his son’s shoulder again as though nothing had happened. ‘That sodding place,’ he said. ‘Nothing good can ever come out of there.’

‘Why?’

‘Because my brother and others died there, Vin. My brother, your uncle, was murdered there, and they built the chapel to try to atone for their crimes, but they couldn’t. It’s builded on shame and lies and the blood of decent men.’

Baldwin had been relieved to find himself back at the Talbot Inn before curfew the night before. Curfew might not mean that all men must be at their homes any longer, but it did mean that the hour was late, and it was the time when certain people with sharp knives and hard cudgels would take to the shadows, preparing to knock some sound financial sense into those foolhardy enough to walk without protection and with over-filled purses. A city like Exeter attracted people of all sorts, and along with the legitimate businessmen were always some who’d be looking for an easier means of earning their income.

Among these, he always felt, were the beggars, and when he walked back to the Cathedral the following morning, he noticed with interest the one-legged figure squatting at the side of the Fissand Gate entrance. He recalled the fellow from the last journey he had made to Exeter, investigating the murder of the boy-Bishop’s glovemaker. At the time, he recalled that his wife had been impressed with this man.

His wife . The thought of Jeanne drove everything else from his mind, and he walked past the begging bowl without noticing.

The sun was feebly trying to penetrate thick clouds overhead, and the gloomy light lent a dreary aspect to the Close. At other times, it must have appeared bright and cheery, Baldwin considered as he glanced about him. The houses along the Canon’s way were all limed oak and whitewashed cob. Flags fluttered near the Fissand Gate entrance, there was a pleasing colour to much of the reddish-brown stonework and those, together with the green turf, would have been delightful on a bright summer’s day; especially when the Cathedral’s western front was complete, with all the saints and patrons of the Cathedral carved in stone and set in niches about the wall. Their painted figures would brighten the whole area, with marvellous crimsons and greens, yellows and golds. Baldwin had no idea what the image screen would look like when it was done — and it would not be completed for many years after his death — but he had seen enough at other cathedrals to know how it would likely appear.

Today the place was grey and dismal, however. It wasn’t only the lack of bright sunshine; there was a pall that hung over the area, as though the dead man’s soul had permeated every stone with his misery and pain, and was calling out for revenge.

It was not just an impression of supernatural despair; the building looked depressed with its cloak of scaffolding, the spars and timbers projecting upwards like the exposed ribs of a putrefied corpse. Where there should have been good pasture, now all was trodden mud, and the whole of the precinct was a building site, with rocks strewn liberally about the place, and masons gradually forming sense from chaotic hunks of stone. Working benches, saw-pits, smiths hammering at red-hot iron formed a fiendish din, and Baldwin felt as though he would like to turn around and leave the place.

But he couldn’t. He squared his shoulders and strode to the Dean’s house. Dean Alfred was already waiting for Baldwin at his door, and he welcomed the knight politely, if solemnly, before leading the way to the chapel.

A porter was at the door, and he stood aside on the Dean’s signal.

‘We have to keep it guarded for the Coroner,’ Dean Alfred said, and pulled a heavy key from beneath his robe. He slipped it into the lock and turned it. His eyes lifted to meet Baldwin’s. ‘I wish you luck,’ he said quietly. ‘We must find this murderer, Sir Knight, before he can kill again. Godspeed.’

Baldwin nodded, thrust the door wide and stepped inside.

As Simon reached the hall, he could already hear the scritching of the clerk’s reed as he stood at the door.

It would be so easy not to enter. He could walk back to the house, pack, hire a horse, and simply go home. See his wife and children. My God, but it was tempting. Anything rather than enter this place and spend more time with that moron Andrew. Christ’s Teeth, was there no way out of this miserable existence without upsetting and insulting his master, the Abbot?

Simon felt like a trapped rabbit. He could see safety beyond the circle of destruction that closed in upon him. A rabbit would see the teeth of the hounds approach; Simon could see the years stretching out ahead of him: lonely years of boredom and counting. It was a future to strike horror into his bones, and he felt almost sick at the thought of all that time sitting on his arse, when he could have been out dealing with the stannary’s miners on the moors.

‘Oh God, please save me from this!’ he prayed, and as he finished, he took a deep breath and opened the door.

Andrew looked up from his writing. ‘Godspeed, Bailiff. Um … there is a message for you from the Abbot.’

‘What is it?’ Simon asked as he slumped into his seat and eyed the pile of papers unenthusiastically.

‘You are summoned to Exeter to help the Dean and Chapter,’ Andrew said with a tone of respect. ‘You should ready yourself to leave immediately.’

Simon felt a broad grin spread over his face. ‘You mean it?’ he demanded as he sprang to his feet and crossed the floor. He snatched up the paper and read it with glee.

‘Yes, Bailiff. The letter explains it clearly enough. There has been a murder at the Cathedral and the Dean has asked that you go to help him.’

‘Wonderful!’ Simon enthused, and then wiped the smile from his face as he saw Andrew’s scandalised expression.

‘Yes. Well, the Abbot has sent a note to say that you shall board a ship here and take it to Exeter. It’ll be faster than a horse.’