Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

‘William was from Exeter originally. He left here many years ago after a crime. And he left to join the King because he knew full well that he’d be made to pay for that crime otherwise.’

‘Why didn’t you accuse him?’

‘ Because , woman, I was there too! It was the murder of the Cathedral’s Chaunter — oh, nearly forty years ago. I was there, Henry was there, Will was there … we all were! We set upon the Chaunter as a mob.’

‘You helped murder him?’ she whispered.

He nodded glumly. ‘It seemed the best thing to do.’

‘What happened?’

‘We all stood in the Close and waited. After Matins, the Chaunter and his familia left the Cathedral and walked to his house. That was when we jumped him. He nearly escaped, because one man was brave enough to try to save him … he came haring up before and shouted that there was an ambush, but one of the Chaunter’s men thought he was a traitor, and struck him down instantly. And then we got to the Chaunter, and he fell.’

‘Was he so badly protected?’ she asked.

‘He thought he was safe. I heard later that someone had told the Chaunter that there’d be an attack; the story was, the Bishop himself had heard of it and had placed men about the Close to protect him, so there was nothing to fear and the Chaunter believed the story. But it was a ruse. There was no one there to save him. The tale was a lie. So when we attacked, he was alone and defenceless, apart from a few weakly novices.’

‘And one man died trying to call out to him to save himself?’

‘Yes — poor Vincent. He was killed by Nicholas, who was one of the Chaunter’s most loyal defenders. Nicholas himself was struck down and dreadfully scarred, and he left the city soon afterwards. I always thought he was dead, but recently he’s been seen in the town again. He survived, and now he wears the Greyfriars’ garb. Nicholas must have thought Vincent was running up to attack his master; he never realised he had killed one of his own comrades.’

Vincent stood back from the door and moved away slowly, his heart pounding. If what he had heard was true, then the man who had killed his uncle was in the city again. A man called Nicholas.

A friar with a dreadful scar, he repeated to himself.

As he silently tiptoed away, back in the room, Maud was thoughtfully washing her man’s bruises again. ‘I don’t understand. Why should Joel think that you’d attack him because of that?’

‘Because afterwards, I had a great idea,’ Joel said. ‘I was sick of apprenticing just then. I had three more years to run on my contract, and I wanted to see the world, not live here. So when the King came to hear the case, I decided I’d go and tell him about the escape. All the men ran from the South Gate, which had been left open.’

‘I do remember, Husband,’ she said tartly.

‘Yes, well — I decided I’d tell the King and the court about it. I mentioned it to William because I was scared of him even then and didn’t want him angry about my words, and he said it was a good plan. He thought he ought to do something like it himself, because he was irritated about his woman. She was clinging too hard to him and he wanted his freedom. But he had no money to leave Exeter. Well, I told him I could go on the morrow because I had a bag of coin I’d collected over the years. Then, the day the King came, I went to the court only to see William standing up and telling of the gate being open. And after the King had left, I looked for my purse, and it had gone. The bastard robbed me of my idea, my money, and my future!’

Maud stared at him long and steadily.

He hurriedly appended, ‘Except I should be glad, for if he hadn’t stolen them, I might not have met you, dearest …’

As soon as he had left Paul, Baldwin went to speak to Janekyn Beyvyn.

He found the porter to be a tall, rather morose-looking man. His face spoke of mistrust and scepticism — all no doubt useful qualities in a man set to guard a gate to such an important place as the Cathedral Close, but not ones to inspire confidence in his kindness or generosity.

‘Master Porter, I should like to ask you about the body of Henry Potell, discovered in the chapel. It is my job to find out who was responsible.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you were the man called by the First Finder, weren’t you?’

‘Paul asked me.’

‘And you went to view the corpse with him?’

‘He asked me. I went.’

Baldwin pursed his lips. This was like drawing water through a stone. ‘Master Porter, may I tell you something? When I spoke just now to Paul, he spoke of a light that was in the chapel when he first found the body. When he returned with you, that light was gone. Did you see a light of any kind in there?’

Janekyn considered. ‘No.’

‘So there are two things to note. Paul had left you at the gate, clearing up. You are a most dutiful porter. You were here again when he hurried to fetch you. That means you are not only dutiful, it means you weren’t in the chapel when Paul arrived there, and you didn’t snuff a candle when he hurried off. In short, I do not suspect you. However, I do wish to know what you saw, because you, Master,’ he paused and studied the man, ‘you are older, wiser, and less likely to harbour superstitious nonsense about a darkened chapel late in the evening when all is quiet.’

Janekyn gave a shrug, then hawked and spat onto the ground near the wall. ‘Would you like some wine?’

Baldwin’s spirit quailed at the thought of drinking rot-gut with this man, but he forced a bright smile to his face and said, ‘I should very much enjoy some wine.’

He followed the porter into the small lodge. Here Janekyn twisted the cork from a gallon pot and sniffed it with evident pleasure while Baldwin glanced around him.

It seemed that Janekyn had occupied this room for some years. There were little signs of his life. A palliasse which had seen much better days was rolled and tied with a thong in one corner. Above it hung a couple of thick blankets from a wooden peg. Where the bed would be unrolled, there was a stool and low brazier, which threw out a wonderful heat. There were two pots — one enormous one with three legs set in its base, which had plainly been well used over the years, to judge from the uniform blackness of its exterior. A second beside it was large enough for only perhaps a pint of food, and Baldwin assumed that the frugal porter would often cook his own pottage here. There was a table, two small benches, and a cupboard with one door which housed the porter’s few belongings. Inside Baldwin could see many little pots and some reeds.

The walls were limewashed, but over time the wash had been almost entirely covered with pictures, mostly religious, but also others: portraits of jugglers in multi-coloured hosen and jacks; gaily dressed people walking among the tents and stalls of a great market at fairtime; bulls being baited by dogs; a man on horseback hawking … all these and many more were executed in a spare but precise style that rendered them utterly lifelike to Baldwin’s eye. ‘These are magnificent. Who painted them?’

‘Me,’ the porter said with a sharp look at him as though doubting the honesty of his words.

‘They are truly excellent,’ Baldwin said, entirely serious.

The porter gazed about him as though seeing the pictures for the first time. Then, ‘ I like them.’

He set the jug down, took two mazers from a niche in the wall and poured the wine, passing the first cup to Baldwin, who took it with trepidation. For some years he had avoided strong wines. It was the effect of the training which he had endured in the Templars. He had learned that for him to fight with the strength and dedication owed to God, he should not partake of wines which tasted as though their primary constituent was vinegar. While learning his duties on Cyprus and after, he had come to appreciate that the worse the quality of the wine, the more severe the quality of the headache the following day. And he knew that porters were among the least well-regarded members of a religious institution. How else could they be viewed, when their whole life involved sitting on a stool and watching people walk past?