Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

‘Yes,’ said Baldwin. Then he sighed. ‘Ach! Let us return to our inn and take our rest. We have little more to do tonight, and we don’t have to do anything in the morning. There’s no need to worry about haring off after Thomas now. Come, let me buy you some wine.’

‘That sounds good,’ Simon smiled.

They were outside the Charnel Chapel when Baldwin stopped and stared at it. ‘Evil is not a word I use often, Simon, but I have been aware of a feeling about that building ever since I first saw it. It was built as a reparation for the murder of the Chaunter, but it brought nothing for the Dean who constructed it. Now it stores the bones of the dead, and yet bears an atmosphere of pain and fear. Do you know, old friend, I fear it myself.’

‘And you used to accuse me of being superstitious!’ Simon laughed aloud.

They walked past the chapel, up towards the flickering light of the torch in the arch of the Fissand Gate. And it was there that he heard it.

It was a soft, whirring sound, a little like a bird’s wingbeat. For an instant, Simon wondered what it might be, and then he opened his mouth to shout while he threw himself to the ground. ‘Christ Jesus!’

Luckily Baldwin had heard it too, Simon saw. He lay full length beside Simon, and the Bailiff frowned as he gazed about the place. There was no sign of the arrow. Now, lying on the ground, he wasn’t even sure which direction it had come from. ‘Did you see the man?’ he asked softly. He might still be there, preparing to fire again. ‘Baldwin? We ought to get away from here, find some cover.’

‘Simon … Simon, help!’ Baldwin’s voice sounded strong enough, but there was a strange quality to it, as though he was a long way away and calling to Simon on a foggy day.

When he looked at his friend, Simon frowned. His mind didn’t register at first. All he could see was the knight’s suddenly pale face, the eyes grown huge, and then Simon saw the apparently frail stick, the fletchings quivering gently with the wounded man’s every rasping breath, and he had to bite back his scream. ‘Baldwin, hold on! It’ll be all right, Baldwin — just hold on!’

Simon leaped to his feet and ran to him. Baldwin gave him a twisted grin as Simon knelt by his side, staring about them for a sign of the assassin, but there was nothing, no movement, no scurrying shadow-figure. All was still as he leaned down to Baldwin; he felt the skin crawling on his back, as though his very flesh was anticipating the next arrow to strike, but then he was studying his friend, and had no time to worry about his own safety.

The arrow had entered his back high, not far from his spine, and now protruded from his breast about three inches below his collar-bone. Baldwin’s sword arm was all but immobilised, and Simon reckoned that his shoulder-blade was pinned by it. Still, as he helped his friend haltingly to his feet and pulled Baldwin’s left arm over his shoulder, he was glad to see that there was no bright blood dribbling from his mouth. The lungs must be safe, and so high as it was, Simon was sure that Baldwin’s heart was safe. He whispered encouragingly as he helped his old friend towards the nearest shelter, which was Janekyn’s lodge at the gate.

‘Janekyn? Jan ! Come here now! Help me!’ he bellowed as he approached the door. Baldwin was whispering urgently in his ear, but he ignored his friend’s words. ‘You’ll soon be all right, Baldwin. You’ll be fine.’

It opened as he reached the light of the torch still flickering under the arch, and then Janekyn, his face filled with alarm, helped Simon carry Baldwin through the door to a stool near the brazier. There they sat the wounded knight, panting, and Simon could see at last the wicked arrow-head. It was a modern ‘pricker’, a square-sectioned bodkin of some four inches long, designed to penetrate chainmail armour. The sight of it made Simon’s heart stand still, but then he was ordering Janekyn to wrap his friend in a blanket and keep him warm, while he bolted for the Dean’s house.

All the way, all he could hear was his friend’s rasping breath, and those words spoken in his quiet, self-possessed manner.

‘ My wife. Tell her … Tell her I loved her. I still … love her .’

That night was the longest Simon had ever spent. The Dean gaped, and then ordered that his steward should rouse the Mayor’s household to ask who the best physician was in the city, and then bring him at once. Soon Ralph of Malmesbury was with them in Janekyn’s little room, and he at once set about his work.

While the physician studied Baldwin’s breast, Simon stood at his friend’s side. There was no great effusion of blood, which gave Simon some hope, but he knew that the danger which threatened Baldwin would only become clear when the arrow was removed and the wound could be studied more closely. Ralph opened a small vein to release some of Baldwin’s bad humours, and then started to work on the arrow itself. Baldwin maintained a steadfast patience, only showing his temper when the physician stood on his foot. ‘Do you not think I have enough damage done to me?’ he said weakly.

‘I am at least experienced in this kind of wound,’ the physician said. ‘Stop your bellyaching. Most surgeon barbers would pull the arrow through one way or the other. At least there are no barbs on this bastard, eh? If there were, a barber would bend them back and try to yank it through you again. Me, I think that’s daft. What’s the point?’ He took a pair of strong-bladed shears and rested them upon the arrow’s shaft. ‘Better to cut the arrowhead off like this. Are you strong?’

Baldwin gave a pale smile. ‘As strong as I can be.’

‘This may hurt,’ Ralph said, and he threw a look to Simon. Understanding, Simon put his arms on Baldwin’s shoulders and held him still as Ralph began to cut through the shaft, turning the arrow as he did so. ‘This will be uncomfortable, but by moving the arrow itself, I free it up ready to be withdrawn,’ he said. The process was slow, the shaft solid and difficult to cut. The grain was strong. Still, after some minutes, the shears were biting through the outer surface, and then sinking deeper and deeper. Although Baldwin grimaced, closing his eyes and grunting, he didn’t cry out. Simon could feel his muscles tense, but then he slowly relaxed, as if he was growing accustomed to this peculiar pain.

‘All done!’ Ralph declared suddenly.

He was about to throw the arrowhead onto the floor, when Simon said, ‘Put it on the table there. I shall want to look at it.’

Ralph glanced at him in surprise, looked at the bodkin in his hands, and shrugged. As though humouring the vill’s idiot, he placed it carefully on the table before turning back to the arrow shaft. He cleaned its length with a mixture that he produced from a small bottle, smearing it over the shaft with a finger that grew crimson from Baldwin’s blood, stoppered the bottle and rose. ‘I need to stand behind him.’

Simon stood before Baldwin, and the physician rotated the shaft in his hand gently. ‘This will hurt, I fear, but try to keep him still.’

Feeling the nausea in his throat, Simon took Baldwin’s shoulders and stared deep into his eyes. Baldwin was in great pain, that much was obvious from his wan features. Simon had never seen him look so colourless, and if that weren’t enough, the sight of Baldwin’s white knuckles on the stool’s seat was proof. Baldwin reached up as Simon took his shoulders, and put both his hands on Simon’s forearms, gripping them tightly.

Ralph was watching almost absently as he turned the shaft slowly, and then he began to pull it out as though it was screwed, constantly turning it, while his gaze remained unfocused on a point over Simon’s shoulder. Simon saw the cut-off end slip backwards until there was only an inch or so protruding from about three inches beneath Baldwin’s collarbone, and then it was gone. The dreamy-eyed Ralph remained there for a few more moments, slowly rotating the shaft, his fingers slick with blood, until the remaining section came free, and he glanced down at his hands with apparent surprise. ‘Ah! All done.’