Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

William reached that conclusion at the bottom of his first pint of wine, and he set out to empty a second jug with a sense of increasing gloom.

It was not because he had a moral objection to the idea of life as a felon. That was no concern to him. After all, he had behaved that way before often enough. No, it was that with his recurring dizziness and headaches, the idea of life out in the woods was less than appealing. It could well spell his death. And he was not the warrior he once had been. In the past he had been as quick as a striking viper … now he was still fast, but …

All men had to admit to themselves when they grew too old to defend themselves against younger men, and William knew full well that his time was come. If he were to offer himself in the ring for combat, he’d not be certain to win. He had done so in the past, when he was a noted fighter, and he’d seen off several good swordsmen and sword-and-dagger fighters for good purses. Only a few had died in the ring with him. There was no need to slaughter them all; the audience got the pleasure of the battle without the need for an actual death.

Yes, in his youth and middle years, organising a prize-fight had been a profitable business. If he gained a scar or two, so be it if the purse was good enough. But nowadays — well, it was a younger man’s game, that.

So with no prize, no corrody, the only life open to him was the harsh one of a felon, and that did not appeal to him. Living rough, always sleeping lightly in case the King’s posse arrived to poke a sword or pike at a man’s ribs, that was no way to live.

And then he had the idea flash in the back of his mind.

There was one other way to make a new life: find a wealthy woman who would marry him. Slowly his frowning concern left his face, ironed away by the brilliance of this new thought.

Mabilla would surely have him. She had wanted him. Oh, she’d said she hated him when they last met, because she blamed him for her old man’s death, but that was hardly his problem. And just now she could help him. She must see that. She had enough money, too. All he had to do was marry her and then he’d become master of her money. The corrody would be unimportant, and he could thumb his nose at the King if he chose to steal it back.

No sooner had he considered the benefits of this course, than he had finished off his jug of wine, and stood. His head was a little dizzy, but no matter. He shook himself and sauntered from the tavern, making his way across the city towards Smythen Street, and then walked down the hill towards Mabilla’s house. Reaching it, he banged on the door with his staff and stood back to wait. As soon as it opened he pushed his way inside and ignored the flapping maid who tried to keep him out. In the end he put an arm about her breast and shoved her ungently from his path.

‘Mabilla, my love! I need to talk to you!’ he called at the top of his voice as he left the screens and entered the hall, and then he stopped at the sight of the other man there. ‘Who are you?’

Mabilla rose to her feet, her face cold and angry. ‘You are not welcome here, William. What do you want here? I ask you to leave.’

‘I’m not going anywhere, woman. I came to talk to you. Where’s that little maid? Tell her to fetch me wine.’

‘You are going to leave, Will. You aren’t wanted here.’

‘Woman, that’s no way to speak to a future husband! I want to marry you.’

Mabilla’s face froze. She looked like a statue formed of steel. Her voice, when she spoke, was harsh and grating. ‘William, I would not marry you, were you the King of the lands. Now leave my hall.’

‘Mab, don’t be like that. You loved me before you married that foolish saddler. Come on. Give me a hug and say you’ll be mine.’

‘The lady asked you to leave,’ Udo said.

Will turned with frank surprise that the fellow should dare to thwart him. He had looked a vain, foolish sort of man, not one to test a warrior of Will’s mettle. ‘I piss on you. If you’re determined to have only one man here, you’d better go. Otherwise I’ll make you. Either that, or shut up.’

‘You have into this house of mourning broken, and now a riot you threaten?’ Udo said, his anger making his urbane English falter. ‘I would resist.’

William raised his staff threateningly. ‘Try to resist this, you piece of German shit! I’ll break your head if you get in my way!’

To his astonishment, the German didn’t flee, but instead drew a solid-looking broadsword.

It was all he could do not to laugh. Will changed his grip and held the pole as a quarterstaff, with a quarter of the wood between his hands, the metal-shod end outthrust towards Udo like a lance. He might be old, but he had a staff, and a man with a staff would always beat a fool with a short lump of steel in his hands.

Moving slowly, he prodded with his staff, catching Udo in the breast. It made the German wince, and Will chuckled. Then he poked more aggressively, catching the German in the belly, in the shoulder, then the nose. He’d been aiming for the eye, but the effusion of blood was satisfying enough. Udo swung with his sword, but he couldn’t get past the pole, and only when Will had backed him up against the wall did he lunge suddenly, cracking Udo across the head, and as the man slumped back, darting in to grab his sword. He stabbed once at the man’s belly, then kicked his face, feeling that thrill again, to see a man beaten and at his mercy. It was tempting to hack at his head, but before he could do so, he heard the noise of men at the screens.

Turning, he saw the figure of a tall man. The latter bowed courteously enough, while keeping his eyes on William. ‘My name is Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple. I am Coroner. You are arrested. Drop the sword.’

Simon and Thomas returned to the Close as the sun was just reaching its zenith, and were just in time to see a beautiful white Arab horse being led away from the porter’s home at the Fissand Gate.

‘Jeanne,’ Simon breathed, and broke into a run.

He reached the door and wrenched it open, suddenly panicked that his old friend might have died during his absence, and it was with a feeling of relief that he saw Jeanne at Baldwin’s side, one hand gripping his while the other stroked his brow. And then he became aware of the sword-point at his throat. ‘Christ’s Ballocks!’

‘Sorry, Bailiff.’

Simon swallowed. ‘Ah. Hello, Edgar.’

The tall, suave man at his side smiled and lowered his blade until its point rested on his boot-tip. ‘I thought I should guard the doorway.’

‘Not against Simon,’ Baldwin said weakly. ‘You can trust him, Edgar.’

‘Yes, thanks to God there is at least one man here we can rely on,’ Jeanne sighed. Then, ‘What have you been doing, my love?’

Simon bowed his head to her respectfully. ‘I am so sorry to have had to send for you,’ he said, ‘but I thought you should be here.’

‘He seems to have a slight fever,’ she said. ‘Has he been seen by a physician?’

Simon nodded. ‘Yes, the best in the city, so I’m told. Ralph of Malmesbury.’ He motioned to Thomas to enter and stand by the wall. Edgar turned to keep an eye on him.

‘Ask for him to be brought here, then. I shall need to talk to him,’ Jeanne said. She was still wearing her cloak and an over-jacket against the cold, and she took them off now, laying them bundled on a stool while she pulled up the long sleeves of her dress. ‘Simon, please fetch me a bowl of water. I shall stay here with him, as will Edgar.’

She returned to Baldwin’s side and rested her hand on his brow, essaying a smile. He had a curiously vulnerable expression on his face, like a child trying to hold back the tears after a painful fall, and then she realised that she was herself weeping. The thought of losing this man was too terrifying. Even after his moodiness and ungracious leave-taking when he set off for Exeter, her love for him was complete. She knew that. If he were to die, she didn’t know how she could herself continue living.