Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

‘A ship?’ Simon repeated, his face falling. ‘Oh God. Not a ship.’

Joel was pleased with the morning’s business as he showed his last client out before calling a halt for some lunch. He bowed and smiled as Ralph of Malmesbury nodded to him — then walked off without acknowledging the joiner’s outstretched hand.

‘Arrogant prickle!’ Joel muttered, but very quietly. He couldn’t afford to upset customers with purses so well-filled as that physician’s.

As he finished speaking and turned to re-enter his hall, a forearm snaked across his throat and a leg slammed at the back of both knees. Suddenly he was suspended like a hanged man, all his weight held by his neck, and he reached up to claw at the forearm with desperation, trying to speak or cry out.

He was thrust forwards into his hall and a foot kicked the door shut behind them, before he was hurled to the ground.

‘Right, Joel, old friend,’ Will said without a glimmer of amusement in his glittering grey eyes. He wielded his staff and brought it crashing into Joel’s flank before using it to stab two-handedly at the other man’s belly. ‘I want to talk to you about assassins who try to kill poor defenceless old corrodians in the evening. And I hope you have some sensible answers for me, because I’d hate to have to kill you.’

Udo had prepared himself as best he possibly could. He wore his finest linen shirt, with a crimson gipon over the top. This was the best he could find in Exeter, a tight-fitting, rather uncomfortable garment, but padded throughout. Over this he had his best cote-hardie, low-necked, with sleeves that ended at his elbows so that his gipon’s buttons (which extended all the way to his wrists on both arms, a hideously expensive and rather ridiculous fashion, so he felt) were displayed. At his throat and hems all was lined with beautifully soft squirrel fur, which complemented the pale russet colour of the cote-hardie itself. And then he had his new headgear, a blue felt hood with a long liripipe that curled about his head as though there was a snake resting there.

As he gazed at himself doubtfully in his mirror, he was forced to consider how much foolishness a man must endure to prove himself worthy of a young bride. Take this new idea of a hat with a liripipe. What on earth was the point of a length of material bound about the head like a moor’s turban? It served no useful purpose, other than persuading an idiot of a buyer that he should purchase at least double the length of material which was actually required to keep his head warm … and that was the whole point of a hat, wasn’t it? It was something to keep the chill off a man’s forehead and ears, when all was said and done. Perhaps the old King, Edward I, had been right when he had restricted the sort of clothing people could buy. There was little in the way of laws against what a man or woman could wear, but in his day there wasn’t much need. People knew what he liked and what he didn’t. He liked his men to be dressed soberly, with simple haircuts and no beards. Women he liked to see dressed modestly — until he got them into his chamber, no doubt — although Udo had heard that Edward I was not like most Monarchs in that he was devoted to his wife, and after her death he appeared to have little interest in other women.

Perhaps Udo would feel the same about his own dear wife. If he won her, that was.

The note from Julia had arrived the evening before, and he had read it three times before realising that there was a message hidden beneath the bald prose.

On the face of it, the note was a simple request to meet with Udo in order to discuss the sad matter of the saddle. Udo read that with some anger, for it seemed a bold comment after the way that Henry had treated him, with that bitter refusal even to consider the match of Udo with his daughter. It was an insult that the women should now decide to plead for his mercy, when he knew that Julia’s hand was to have been refused him. What did they take him for?

But then he had another thought and read it a fourth time. As he did so, his brow grew furrowed. And then he realised: Henry had died before he could go home and explain his angry words with Udo that afternoon! Suddenly the letter made sense. The women were desperate for a protector, and they now saw Udo as their only hope.

‘She knows of my affection for her,’ he told his reflection once more in the mirror. ‘She holds a regard for me, for otherwise she would not consider speaking to me after the death of her father. Surely his death has had an impact on her — she must possess a deep trust in me to have decided to ask me to attend to her.’

Perhaps, but then again the hard-headed man of business would keep reminding him that at the time of her father’s death, it was Udo who was threatening to destroy Henry’s business. He had said he might sue him, which could leave Henry’s widow and daughter with no means of personal support.

The two ideas: her love for him and his cynical suspicion that she only wanted to guarantee that she had a roof over her head, vied for his attention all the time that he completed his toilet, checked his reflection one last time, and walked along the roadway to her house.

Before knocking at the door, he took a diversion.

As he left his house he could smell the fresh bread from the bakers further up the road towards the Carfoix, where the four main roads met. The odour made him consider: he could scent beef from the pie-maker’s at Cook Row, and the odour of sweet almonds from the cakeshop where the still-warm cakes were being snatched up by all those who could reach them. Warm cakes were such a pleasure. Infinitely better than cold. They were a treat to be treasured, Udo thought, and suddenly he beamed. He’d buy some for the ladies. No woman could resist a warm tart filled with flavoured custard.

No sooner had he made his decision than he set off up the hill. Cook Row was at the top of Bolehille, and continued in a straight line towards the Carfoix. Here the shops were set up to display all their wares. Each morning the shutters were dropped from the great shop windows, some hinged down to rest on a trestle, or removed entirely and set out like a table just in front of the shop, in order that all their goods could be spread out to their best effect.

Udo bought a small pie and ate it as he eyed the merchandise in the road, but his mind was already made up. The shop he wanted was the small one halfway along the road with the door gaping; no window, just a wooden board with a rough painting of a cake on it hanging above, and a plain table made from two planks laid over a couple of barrels. A green sheet was spread somewhat lopsidedly over this, and on it were set out the finest cakes in Exeter. That was not Udo’s opinion alone. Already a small queue of people trailed from the doorway out into the street.

‘Small’ was hardly the word for this shop. In another street it would be called a stall, and that would be a compliment. Only five feet wide, it was always hard to get inside, because the customers filled it when Ham opened up. Luckily Ham knew Udo well, and winked when he caught sight of the German. He was a large, satisfied-looking, brown-haired fellow with arms like a labourer’s: massive, with short, square fingers. He had the sort of face that Udo associated with brewers — relaxed and comfortable. He knew his job inside out, and loved the work and the end result. Contentment radiated from him like warmth from the sun. Although he was busy, he bellowed to the back of the crowded shop for his apprentice, and soon Udo was collecting a selection of flavoured custard tarts and sweet dowcettes , flans filled with jellied fruits. With his purchases made, he nodded to Ham, who winked again and commanded a small boy to take the basket and carry it for Udo.