Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

At the time Wymond had clouted him on the back and mumbled in that gruff voice of his, ‘It’s what happens as you grow up, son. Get used to it.’ And then his eyes had clouded, and Vince knew he was thinking of his dead brother again.

‘Oy — old man?’

He pushed the door open to the shack which his father happily called his home. The place was a mess. The table was on its side, his knives and tools all over the floor, as though someone had been in there and fought a bitter fight with Wymond. There was a bow and a quiver of arrows near the door, and Vince picked them up, a little worried to see such mayhem, but when he gazed about, he could see the barrel on its side in the corner of the room. The old twerp had been pissing it up again.

His father lay almost under the table, and although his mouth was wide, there was no snoring. Vince squatted at his side. ‘Hello, Dad,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘How many quarts of ale did you drink last night, eh? Or was it gallons you measured them in?’

He grinned, and then grabbed his father’s hand, only to drop it very quickly.

‘If you’re going to puke, do you have to roll in it?’ he groaned, and then went out to fill a bucket from the river. With it full, he returned and stood contemplatively for a moment before upending it over his father’s face and torso.

Blowing and cursing, Wynard rolled over, blessedly away from the pool of vomit and gradually came to grumbling under his breath as Vincent set about gathering some food. The bread was green; he took one look at it before throwing it out through the door. Even the rats would probably reject that. There were some tough old pieces of bacon, and an egg, so Vincent put fresh water into Wymond’s old cooking pot, tossed in the meat and set it over the fire. There were some leaves; he shredded them with his hands and put them in too, adding the egg and mixing it quickly so it dispersed. Soon there was a broth with white strands of egg and lumps of greyish meat.

‘Come on, Dad. Get some food down you.’

‘I’m not hungry. I want more ale.’

‘Forget it, fat man. You’re getting no more ale until you’ve eaten something warm. What in Christ’s name has got into you?’

‘My brother, that’s what.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Vincent said more quietly. He meant it. If he’d realised how badly his father would take the information, he might have kept it all to himself. Ignorance was bliss, after all. ‘I thought you’d be glad to know that Uncle Vince wasn’t dishonourable, that was why I told you about it.’

‘Of course he wasn’t dishonourable! All he wanted to do was protect his master, and they slaughtered him like a dog with rabies!’ Wymond said hoarsely. He felt terrible.

‘It’s too late to do anything about it now,’ the boy said gently. ‘Eat up, Dad and then we’ll have some ale.’

Wymond went outside, rinsed his face with water from his rainwater barrel, and wiped it dry with an old tunic. Feeling slightly better, he walked back inside again and sat at his table.

Looking at him, Vince suddenly felt a rush of affection. He would be lost without his father. Wymond was the solid rock on which his life was based.

‘You never knew your uncle,’ Wymond said sadly, lifting a spoon of the broth to his lips. ‘He was a good man, a friend to any who needed his help, loyal to death. And that’s how he died, of course.’

‘I’d have liked to have met him.’

‘You would have, if that murdering shit Nicholas hadn’t killed him,’ Wymond said. He snorted and shifted in his seat. ‘My Vince should never have been cut down like that. A man who can do that deserves everything he gets …’

It was quite unlike his father, and it made Vin’s blood turn to ice to see such ruthless ferocity on the tanner’s careworn face.

Simon and Baldwin left William on his bench, and soon they were making their way back along Nicholas’s Street to Fore Street, and then up towards the Cathedral.

‘So you thought the same as me?’ Simon said as they walked, his face wreathed in frowns.

To his secret pleasure, Baldwin’s expression had lost its haunted look. ‘If you mean,’ he demanded acerbically, ‘did I think that much of what that man said was true, then yes, I did.’

‘You know perfectly well that wasn’t what I meant,’ Simon said musingly. ‘I was thinking about the dead friar, Nicholas — the man who struck down poor Vince. If it’s true that someone there was disloyal, it must have been Nicholas — and someone killed him for it.’

‘You think that the whole affair could be due to a man who seeks revenge, all these years later?’ Baldwin queried.

‘It would make sense. The friar had struck down the only man there who was trying to warn the Chaunter. Surely he must have been the traitor.’

‘That would seem true enough,’ Baldwin agreed, ‘but that hardly helps us. The two victims, Henry and Nicholas, seem to have nothing in common other than the fact that they were there in the Close that night. Henry was on the attacking side, and Nicholas on the side of the Chaunter …’

‘Baldwin, you are slow tonight,’ Simon said with a smile. ‘They were on the same side. That’s what I mean. I reckon Friar Nicholas was trying to shut Vincent up before the trap had been sprung; that was why he pulled out his dagger and silenced the poor fellow. And then the others, including Henry, attacked them.’

‘But the friar was nearly killed,’ Baldwin objected. ‘Surely no man would agree to those wounds on his face and body just to add verisimilitude to the story of his loyalty?’

Simon shrugged. ‘It was dark, they were in a mêlée, there was a racket of men shouting, weapons clashing … what else would you expect? Someone accidentally slashed at him, trying to hit someone else, and that was that. End of his good looks. If he was the cause of the Chaunter’s death, he deserved it.’

‘Perhaps so,’ Baldwin agreed. Yet he still wore a puzzled frown. ‘But who, in that case, could have wanted Henry dead?’

‘Could Henry have been the man who planned it?’ Simon wondered. ‘His wife might know. We could return and question her.’

‘I do not think that will be necessary. First let us go and speak to Joel once more. He might become more helpful when he hears that William has already spoken to us,’ Baldwin said.

‘In any case, Henry seems a likely man to have thought through the plan and left the hint that the Bishop was planning on using the Chaunter as a lure to draw the attack’s sting.’

‘Possibly, but it’s more likely to have been a man of action like our friend William.’

‘The man who took his opportunities,’ Simon said drily.

‘I did not warm to him either,’ Baldwin said. ‘My impression was that he was quite an astute fellow — he could be a good tactical commander of men in a battle.’

‘Perhaps, but what was he like when he was a lad? Cunning and quick-witted no doubt, but to invent a ruse like the one used against the Chaunter would have taken more intelligence than he possessed,’ Simon said. ‘You know how people are: some will learn from experience, but others can imagine an outcome and put in place a plan to achieve it.’

‘Why are you so convinced he’s not like that?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Look at him! His sole ambition was to get to be a warrior, working for the King. That doesn’t take brains, does it? No, I’d expect that sort of devious plot to come from the kind of man who’d get to be a master of the Freedom of the city.’

‘Oh! You think it must have been Henry, then? Why not Joel or someone else?’

‘I do not say it wasn’t,’ Simon frowned. ‘But I think the murderer could reckon it was Henry, and might have killed him for that reason.’