Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

Simon pondered that for some while as he walked along Fore Street and then up the narrower ways to the old Friary. He turned the corner at the end of the road and continued until he reached the house with an old oaken door, upon which he knocked.

It was opened by a pale, drawn-featured woman with red-gold hair. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded suspiciously.

‘I am a Bailiff; Simon Puttock is my name and I want to speak with Thomas the mason.’

‘What makes you think he is here?’

‘There’s nowhere else he could be,’ Simon said equably. ‘Will you send him out here to be viewed by all your neighbours, or shall I enter and speak with him inside?’

Ungraciously she stood aside, staring hard at him as though daring him to bring any more misfortune into her dwelling.

As he entered, Simon saw the large vertical post that supported the roof, where Thomas had been bound last time he came in.

‘Hello, Master Thomas,’ he said.

The man seated at the table grunted. ‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve heard much about the killing of the Chaunter, but there’s one thing I cannot understand: why did you choose to leave the city after his death?’ Simon asked.

‘Because I was repelled by it all. I saw what I’d done when I attacked Nicholas, and it made my stomach turn. I had become a butcher who would happily slaughter his own best friend for a little money.’

‘Money?’

‘Henry, Joel and I were promised coin for taking part. John Pycot wanted as many men as possible so that the Chaunter would have little means of escape. He paid lots of us to be there. That night I stabbed Nicholas, my oldest friend, and thought that I had killed him. Later, when I got home, I decided to leave and never return. I could only bring dishonour to my family, so I thought.’

‘And you never came back until now?’

‘Why should I? There was nothing here for me. I was an only child. My mother had died when I was a boy and thanks to the Chaunter’s murder, my father was dead, too.’

‘Dead?’

‘Oh yes. That happened not long after I left. William, the devil, stood up and told everyone about the Southern Gate being open. Soon afterwards, my father was taken out and hanged.’

‘He was the Mayor?’ Simon asked.

Thomas frowned at him. ‘Of course not! He was the porter, the man in charge of the Southern Gate. When William announced to the King that the gate was open all night, he chose to punish those who were responsible: the Mayor, because he represented the city itself, and my father, because he had left the gates open.’

‘ Why did he do that?’ Simon asked quietly.

Thomas looked confused. He stared at the table-top, shaking his head slowly. ‘I don’t know. I think he must have guessed that I had a part in the killing, because he found me the next morning, and I suppose he opened the gate to make it look as though someone from outside the city had committed the assassination. But it didn’t work, of course. It was a mad idea. Even if it was true that he had allowed the murderers to escape, he’d then have relocked the gates, not left them open all night.’

Simon nodded thoughtfully. ‘I see. What of your companions? Were you so very friendly with men like Joel and Henry and William beforehand?’

‘William wasn’t someone I’d have kept in touch with. He was always ruthless — not a pleasant character. Henry and Joel were good fellows, though. I always enjoyed a drink or a game with them. And Nicholas, too. He was a laugh.’

Simon felt his instinct had failed him. ‘So you didn’t see much of William, then?’

‘We went about a lot together. He stayed at my home, and I stayed in his, when we were younger. It was only when we got older that I saw what he was really like, and I started to avoid him.’

‘He knew your home, then?’

Thomas looked up at him. ‘What are you driving at, Bailiff?’

Simon stood with decision. ‘Nothing. Don’t worry about me.’

He bowed slightly to Sara, then turned and left. As soon as he was gone, Thomas looked despairingly at Sara.

She saw his expression and said, ‘Don’t worry, Tom. I don’t mind.’

‘It’s just going to keep reminding you, that’s all,’ he said thickly.

Sara rubbed at her eyes tiredly. ‘No, Thomas. I don’t need reminding. Saul’s always here with me.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll go soon and leave you.’

‘You can’t stay?’

‘I won’t be arrested, the Bailiff said so after the Treasurer was buried. He reckoned that there’d been enough death resulting from the Chaunter’s murder.’

‘So you could stay if you wanted?’

‘I can’t. I’m a reminder to you of your loss.’

‘All I know is, I’m happy while you’re here.’

He was staring at her, dumbfounded, when there was another knock at the door. Thomas rolled his eyes. ‘What now, Bailiff?’

Jen poked her head around the door. ‘So you are here, then. I just wondered. Suppose you haven’t got any more of that wine, have you? No? Right, well, never mind. Well done, Sara. I said you ought to snare him. You look after her, fellow. She needs understanding, that woman does. You be careful with her, all right?’

She withdrew her head and Sara and Thomas exchanged a baffled look. Gradually she began to smile, her lips twitching. ‘You realise that means everyone around here will know you’re here?’

‘I am sorry. It will give you a reputation.’

She nodded, her smile gone. ‘I would not have my husband’s memory besmirched by gossip over my behaviour.’

‘I … it would be impertinent to ask,’ he stammered. ‘But I think …’

‘What?’

‘It would mean upsetting those who believe you should honour your dead husband for a period.’

‘Do you mean-’

‘Sara, I’d ask you to be my wife.’

She stared at him. In her mind were all the little events since Saul’s death. The day that this stranger appeared in front of her house to tell her Saul was dead; the day that she and Elias were pulled from the mound of corpses before the Priory; the day he brought her meat; the day he left money for her … waking from her faint to find him kneeling at her side weeping. He cared for her. There were few men whom she could trust as deeply, nor for whom she felt such an attachment. Saul was only recently dead, but there was nothing in the Priests’ laws which said a widow couldn’t remarry as soon as she liked.

‘You could at least ask properly,’ she said tartly, and then she gave him a sweet, shy smile.

Dan would take time to understand. He would find this man’s presence hard to accommodate. But she was lonely, and perhaps, given time, even Dan could grow to appreciate his kindness and honour. She hoped so. Because she needed Thomas and she wouldn’t risk losing him.

A week later, in the gaol, William sat and fulminated.

It had cost him good money, but he’d been removed from the stinking pit that was the general gaol and been brought up here to this more civilised cell with a view over the eastern landscape from the slit window. From the north he could see the castle on its mound, but he preferred to avert his eyes from that dread building. There was every chance that he might one day be tried in there, and that would not be a pleasant occasion. With luck, he might only lose his Corrody; and that was better than a lingering death hanging from a rope while the crowds laughed and jeered.

His money had brought him a table, two benches, and a room with a few rushes scattered. It was less noisome than other places he had lived when he was free, so he didn’t complain, although the gaoler charged dearly for his food. William couldn’t survive much longer at this rate.