Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

‘So, Husband. You’re still here, then? Are you going to try to drink all of the wine in the house?’

Mabilla’s sarcasm was of little consequence to Henry. He had made up his mind. He stood slowly and, so he felt, magisterially. ‘I’m going out.’

‘Out? Oh, no! You can hardly place one foot in front of the other, Henry. Please, stay here and have a rest. We can talk about it again later, when you’re sober.’

‘Woman, I am as sober as I need to be for this!’ Henry exclaimed, and strode purposefully to the door, grabbing his thick, fur-lined cotte as he passed the chest.

Outside, the sun was harsh at the limewashed houses opposite, and he winced as the brightness stabbed at his brain. Here, on his side of Smythen Street, all was in shadow; the low wintry sun couldn’t reach his front door, and all along his walk he had to keep his eyes narrowed. There was a cacophony of noise as he went, hawkers shrieking, horses neighing, dogs whining and barking — all conspired to erode whatever calmness there had been in his mind. As he passed by yet another female huckster selling apples from a great basket, he almost bellowed at her to be silent. God, he thought, grabbing hold of a table outside a shop, if only these damned people could be quiet for a moment!

Joel lived at the corner of Goldsmith Street where it met the High Street. The place was not as large as Henry’s own house, but it was comfortable, and it had the advantage of a great yard behind it where Joel could store all his timber.

Henry staggered to the door and pounded upon it with his fist. He had a slight light-headedness, he found, and he had to take some deep breaths of air as he stood there, contemplating the crowds hurrying past. The town seemed unaware of his predicament. Some folks did indeed cast a glance in his direction, but for the most part, all scurried along like so many rats in a sewer. Except this sewer was of their own making. His own making. That made his predicament all the more terrible.

‘Yes? Oh, it’s you, Henry.’

‘Yes, Joel, it’s me,’ Henry said, shoving his old friend out of the way without further ado and stomping through into the hall.

‘You look unwell,’ Joel remarked in concern. ‘Do you want some wine?’

‘Why not. Yes, broach your best barrel, Joel. You never know, you may not have time to finish it,’ Henry said nastily.

He slumped on a stool while Joel first stared and then hurried from the room.

The joiner’s hall was well-proportioned, with a wealth of pleasant carvings. Henry knew that Joel often relaxed with a baulk of timber and a set of chisels, and carved decorations for his own amusement when he had time; this hall was a testament to his skill. It was lovely, and it made Henry feel unutterably sad. He had no such tribute to leave behind him. All he had was his family, when all was said and done, and a certain amount of money. All he had made, his saddles and bridles, were owned by others. He had nothing — not even a simple harness of his own. He had no need: he didn’t possess a horse. There was little point, when a man could hire a mount when he needed to travel.

Looking about him now, he felt that his own life was lacking. Even though he had the love of his dear Mabilla, and his daughter was a model of perfection, there was an emptiness at the core of his life. And that life would not go on for ever. He was over sixty years old, in God’s name!

‘Come, Henry, tell me what the matter is,’ Joel said as he returned to the room. He held a quart jug and two cups, and as soon as he reached Henry, he poured a good measure into the first cup, passing it to his old companion.

‘Where’s Maud?’

Joel’s eyebrows rose at that. He was a portly figure with a thinning crop of pale hair, not quite light enough to be fair, not dark enough to be mouse-coloured. His face was rounded and comfortable, more prone to laughter than rage, and the crow’s feet at his eyes proved that he was cheerful company. ‘My wife is out at the market, I think — why?’

‘I wouldn’t want her to hear me like this,’ Henry said.

Joel sat and sipped his wine. ‘Tell me what this is about, Henry.’

‘One of my bloody saddles broke last week, Joel. Hadn’t you heard?’

‘Well yes, I had heard something about that.’

‘And it was the frame that broke. It happened right in front of me — in front of my own house, Joel! The customer was reining in, and the cantle broke. I saw it with my own eyes. He plunged down to the cobbles headfirst, and I was sure he must die …’

‘Terrible.’

‘Yes, pretty damned terrible. And then he demanded that I pay for his physician, and told me he’d sue me for damages. He lost a lot of money that day, Joel.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

Henry saw the sympathy in his eyes, but that wasn’t good enough. ‘Not as sorry as I was. But that frame was one of yours, Joel. It was one that you sold me. You told me you only had good quality wood, but it snapped. You rooked me, you bastard! What did you do, put together green wood knowing I wouldn’t notice?’

‘You’ve known me long enough to realise I wouldn’t do that to you.’

‘Do I? That saddle frame was lousy, Joel.’

‘I’ll repay you for the frame, if you like, old friend.’

‘You’re damn right you will!’

‘Is that all? There’s something else eating at you, isn’t there? Come on — get it off your chest.’

Henry set his cup on the floor, then put his head in his hands. When he spoke again, it was a whisper. ‘Joel, I can’t go on much longer.’

‘Come along, old fellow, you’re as hale as I am!’ Joel said heartily.

‘Perhaps I am, but I had a visit last week. From the madman.’

Joel’s face set as though it had been carved from stone. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Who did we always mean by that?’ Henry sneered. ‘William is back in the city. He’s a corrodian at St Nicholas’s Priory.’

‘Sweet Mother of God,’ Joel mumbled, looking away.

‘He dropped in to see me,’ Henry continued. ‘At first he only had eyes for my daughter, but then he wanted to chat to me about the good old times. Not only that, he was happy to tell me all that he has done in the last forty years. God in heaven! Joel, the stories he told … you wouldn’t want to hear them, let alone believe them. The men he has killed …’

‘I never thought to see him again,’ Joel said.

‘Nor I. Yet here he is. He has served the King and the King’s father well, it seems. Well enough for his master to buy him a pension at the priory of his choice. So he is here, and he visits my house almost every day. I tell you, Joel, it makes me sick to hear him. Sick! I had to sit and listen to him snigger to think of poor Nick’s injured face, then boast about how he slaughtered the Chaunter himself, and then how clever he was to divert attention from himself and get the Mayor and gatekeeper hanged.’

‘That was how he found his patron,’ Joel agreed.

They both remembered the old story. When King Edward I, the present King’s father, arrived in full panoply to determine who should pay for the murder of the Bishop’s man, it had been William who pointed out that the Southern Gate to the city had remained open all night. The King had decided to execute those responsible, even if they couldn’t find the true murderers. Then he rewarded William by taking him into his host. William had never looked back.

‘What of it? He’ll probably die soon enough,’ Joel said. ‘He was that bit older than us.’

‘I don’t know that I can continue to live with the guilt,’ Henry said. ‘My life is scarcely worth a candle. I am to die before many years are out. I’m lucky to have survived so long already. Before I die, I have to make my confession to the Cathedral.’