Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

Baldwin had at last fallen into a light sleep, and Jeanne was able to release his hand; she stood, stretching her back. Just recently she had started to develop a mild back strain every so often, and hurrying down here to Exeter this morning had not helped matters. She missed her daughter Richalda terribly. Richalda would be fine, she knew, playing with Edgar’s wife. Crissy and she always got on, the maid spoiling her daughter atrociously. Still, Jeanne hated to be away from Richalda for any time. Meanwhile, she was growing aware of an emptiness in her belly. She’d ridden here at such speed, there had been no time to pause for food. Looking at her husband, she reckoned that he wouldn’t miss her for a little while, were she to seek food.

‘Do you want something to eat?’ she whispered to Edgar.

He looked at her and shook his head silently. She knew him of old, and she was happy that he would stand here by the door with that small smile on his face, watching over his master. That smile of his had won the hearts of many women until his wife, Crissy, had snared him. It showed his humour and essentially flippant, amiable manner. People little realised that it could hide a ruthless single-mindedness. This servant was a trained warrior, and he would have no compunction about using his weapons to protect his master. None whatsoever.

Walking from the room, Jeanne stood in the Close feeling the sun on her face, warming her body and making the earth smell fresh. It added to the all-encompassing joy she held within her, knowing that Baldwin was so pleased to see her. Her heart felt a renewed love for her man, and although she was anxious that he might suffer complications from this arrow-wound, she was at least content in the knowledge that Baldwin had rediscovered his love for her. She didn’t understand his snapping at her over that maiden, and nor did she care. He had returned to her now.

She saw Janekyn and asked him, ‘Where may I find some food and wine?’

‘Don’t worry, Lady, I’ll get someone to bring you some,’ Janekyn said. He gazed across the Close and saw a pair of choristers playing a game of catch around a tree. Lifting his chin and inhaling until his chest looked like that of a pigeon, he suddenly bellowed at the top of his voice, ‘HAM AND ULRIC, COME HERE!’ Turning back to Jeanne, he bowed slightly. ‘Would a loaf of paindemaine and some wine with water be all right? I’ll see if they can find some cold meats too, if you want.’

‘That will be fine,’ Jeanne said. She caught sight of John Coppe sitting on the ground by the gate and gave him a smile.

‘Mistress, Godspeed,’ he said, a grin twisting his awful scar.

‘Godspeed, friend,’ she said. ‘I didn’t see you before when I arrived here. I should have given you some coin otherwise.’

Coppe watched as she reached for her purse, and he felt a warm regard for her as she brought out a whole penny. ‘Lady, I am very grateful. You are always generous to a poor beggar.’

‘I try,’ she said, but already her eyes were returning to Janekyn’s door. She felt guilty to be out here when Baldwin was inside, so unwell. A thought prompted her to turn to Janekyn. ‘Master porter, we have taken your room and bed. You must let me compensate you, too.’

‘No need,’ Janekyn said gruffly. ‘Your man was ill, and it’s enough payment to me to see him well again. No need for more.’

Jeanne’s hand wavered near her purse for a moment, but then she nodded. ‘I thank you, then. I-’

She caught sight of the expression in Jan’s eyes, and when she looked over her shoulder, she saw Simon and Sir Peregrine marching back to them. Simon’s face was grim.

‘He’s fled. Probably saw us from up there on the scaffold and decided to bolt before we could catch him. We need horses!’

Matthew’s soul felt heavy with despair as he marched on down the road. Half a mile from the walls he passed over the Shitbrook bridge, glancing at the leper house that stood just over it, and then carried on, past the last houses and into the spare woodland and open fields that surrounded the city to the east and south.

Despair was the right word: it reflected his desolation, hopelessness, anguish, and desperation. All that he had ever done was gone. He had seen that as soon as the men started talking in their huddle, William in their midst. It was plain that they had spoken to him, and he was going to claim his rights as an Approver to protect himself. The King must listen to a man who had once been one of his own favoured servants, so there was nothing that Matthew could do to defend himself against Will’s allegations.

Not that he could, in all conscience. Matt could hardly deny that Will was telling the truth. Matt hadn’t had to lie about anything since that terrible night, and he wasn’t going to risk his immortal soul by committing perjury now. No, he had been involved in that murder as a non-active participant, merely telling one untruth — and that not under oath. He was an accessory, perhaps, but plainly not guilty of the actual murder. After all, he was struck down only a moment or so after the attack was launched.

Yet all his life, all his efforts, had been built on the foundation of his integrity and honour, because people thought that he was the sole survivor of the murderous attack on his master. The Chaunter had died — and now everyone would find out that, instead of being a heroic defender of his master, in fact his master was slain because of his action. From being the hero, he must become the villain. He would be hounded from the Cathedral, forced to undergo humiliating punishments, and finally sent away to a monastery to live the rest of his life in penance. Sweet Jesus! He couldn’t do that. The only reason he’d decided to join the Cathedral was because he had seen the easygoing life of the canons and reckoned that a civilised existence within the Bishop’s enclosure, with good food, ale, and the ability and freedom to wander about the city, must be a great deal better than life as a humble apprentice.

Without his home in the Cathedral, he had no idea where to go or what to do. How could a mere clerk with training in controlling the Fabric Rolls be suitable for anything else? He had no money, no coin of any sort about him. He hadn’t expected to have to run like this. He should have foreseen this situation. Damn those busybodies, the Bailiff and the Keeper! In his bedchamber he had secreted a small purse which was full of coins, but he had been forced to leave it all behind, so urgent had his escape become.

There was only one route open to him: to become an outlaw. Rob from others.

He stopped in the road, glanced about him, and then sank to the ground, his hands covering his eyes and weeping.

How could he become an outlaw? He was nearly sixty years old, he’d never learned how to fight, and his arms were feeble. There was nothing he could use as a weapon; all he possessed was a small knife, which was fine for paring nails, perhaps, but utterly ineffectual as a means of committing murder, or even threatening a traveller. Any merchant or carter would beat the shit from him for having the temerity to try such a thing.

Wailing, he rested on his knees in the dirt, staring about him with no idea what to do. His entire life had been ordered by ritual, by the seasons and dates, by the Feast Days of the saints, and the Offices of the day. The very concept of planning or fending for himself was alien.

One act so many years ago, and all his life was ruined. Now all must loathe him and look upon him with scorn. He was become a creature of contempt. How low could a man fall in his brothers’ esteem? He couldn’t live in the city any more, carrying that guilt with him.

He bent his head and wept again, just as Wymond slowly drew back the nocked arrow and let the barbed point rest on the bone that protruded at the top of Matthew’s back, where the neck met the spine.