Michael Jecks - The Chapel of Bones

‘What use would Matthew have had for a clothyard arrow?’ the Dean asked. ‘You say that Stephen had no use for one — why then should Matthew have one?’

‘Matthew was a keen archer when he was younger. William told us how competitive he and his companions all were at football and other games, and Peter and Thomas recalled shooting at the butts. Thomas said how Matthew always used to win at archery. And at the butts men will use a standard clothyard shaft, will they not?’

‘Why then did Stephen choose to kill you when Matthew failed?’

‘Because Stephen had protected Matthew all through their lives. It was an ingrained habit from the last forty years,’ Baldwin explained. ‘For all that time I think Stephen protected Matthew because he thought Matthew was honourable and deserved to be defended. It would be hard for him to change his attitude overnight. Although perhaps,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘his own terror that I was about to bring up his past led to his deciding to remove me. That would also make some sense. Whatever, I am as sure as I can be of the relative guilt of the two.’

‘It is a terrible thing when a man of God decides to turn his skills to evil,’ the Dean said. ‘Especially when it leads to the Cathedral being without a decent Warden of the Fabric.’

Simon smiled broadly. ‘Dean, I feel sure that I can help you there.’

Peter reread the letter with astonishment, but at each reading the words jumbled up and he had to try again. In the end, he called in one of his assistants, who humbly took the sheet of vellum and read out the message, his brow furrowed with the effort. Then he put the roll back in Peter’s hand and congratulated him.

‘Me!’ Peter gasped as the fellow left his room. ‘Me!’ At last. After so many years, he was actually going to be permitted to take it on! He felt his heart swell. This was his first opportunity to show what he was made of — a chance to demonstrate his skills and his honour. He would make this Priory the most efficient in the country. His monks would be seen to be the most chaste and obedient, the length and breadth of the land. Before long, he would be able to hope to rise to a small abbacy, perhaps, and then …

No. Nonsense. The fact that his dear Abbot had decided that he was a safe master of the Brothers here in Exeter was a proof of his faith in Peter, but Peter needn’t grow above himself. He was probably here to stay, and to die here in the city where he had been born was no shame. It was a good city, and he could do some little to make life better for the population here. He had a duty too, to guard all the people here, the living and the dead, with his prayers and the prayers of his Brothers. They should all seek to save the souls of the men and women of Exeter.

Yes, that was enough for him. He had reached his zenith. As Prior he was now at last recognised as having paid for his crime forty years ago.

He puffed out his cheeks with relief to think that his other crime, so recently attempted, had failed so abysmally. Otherwise he would now be forced to obtain forgiveness for William’s death, when he had tried to shoot him down before he could make clear Peter’s involvement in the Chaunter’s murder. In a curious way, it was actually rather amusing to reflect that William’s excellent suitability as a felon was making the crimes of others invisible in contrast.

His job done, Simon took a leisurely journey homewards, refusing to accept the generous offer of a ship to carry him to Dartmouth. In preference, he hired a horse and took a long sweep through Dartmoor and thence down south towards the coast. It was a delightful journey, relaxing and soothing to his nerves, although he still missed his wife. He must soon arrange for her to join him. He couldn’t continue like this, with Meg living so far from him.

The first day back at his work was probably the most enjoyable he had spent there in the company of his clerk.

‘Andrew, I am afraid I shall have to lose your company. There is a new task for you in Exeter, a much more important one.’

Back in Exeter, Sara and Thomas exchanged their oaths at the door of St Olave’s, while Daniel watched sulkily and planned his escape into an apprenticeship.

At the same time Vincent was packing a small bag with some food and a cloak, and swinging it over his back. He walked down to the Western Gate, and there he met his father. The two of them set off, following the river southwards, walking as the sun set in the west, down to the little cave-like corner of the river, where they built a fire just as Wymond had done forty years before with another Vincent.

But this time, he was sure that he was not going to lose his son, and later, when Wymond sat back with his belly filled with meat and wine, he felt more content than he had for many a long year.

Baldwin rested at the inn while he waited for his wound to heal. Edgar remained with him, as though distrusting any others to look after his master, and Baldwin was as glad for his companionship as he was to have his wife with him still. Matters could only have been improved by the presence of his daughter Richalda. He missed her dreadfully. If he was forced to remain recuperating here much longer, perhaps he could arrange for her to be brought to Exeter to be with him and Jeanne?

Jeanne had flourished. While Baldwin was still sometimes tweaked by guilt at his betrayal of her while he was returning from pilgrimage, his guilt was oozing away under the influence of her careful attention. He was coming to appreciate her again, rather than seeing her as a reminder of his shame, and with that realisation came the renewal of his love for her. Perhaps not so complete and untainted as before, but no less warming to his soul for all that.

The Dean found him sitting on his bench there one morning while Jeanne was out at the market. ‘Sir Baldwin.’

‘Dean. Please, take a seat.’

‘Thank you. Yes — hmm — I shall, thank you.’ The Dean sighed as he sat, and rested his head against the inn’s wall. ‘That is better.’

‘You came all this way to rest against my wall?’ Baldwin asked with a grin.

‘I came to — ah — tell you of William. He has confessed to his deceit in telling the King of the gate being open, and now he admits that he himself opened the gate and left it wide.’

‘Did he explain why he wished to admit?’ Baldwin asked.

‘I think that he — ah — felt he might as well admit to all his crimes since he’s little to lose. Apparently he already has a letter of pardon from the — um — King in honour of his service over the years. Not that it’ll help him much, for the punishment is more cruel than we might think. The man has no money, the Prior of St Nicholas refuses to have him live there, and he will be forced to resort to begging.’

Baldwin shook his head slowly. ‘A hard way of life for a man of his age.’

‘Perhaps he has a friend who can help him. I do not know,’ the Dean said. ‘So long as he leaves Exeter soon and our lives can return to their even tenor. Oh — ah — yes, and there was the other thing: Matthew. He has confessed to trying to kill you. It was only the darkness, he said, that saved you, for otherwise he would have aimed true.’

‘Did he shoot from the Charnel Chapel?’

The Dean glanced at him, hearing his tone. ‘Yes. Why?’

Baldwin shook his head. There was no possibility that he would leave himself open to accusations of superstition by admitting to his strange feeling of fear at the sight of the chapel. ‘Nothing.’

‘It’s curious, though,’ the Dean said. ‘He did mention that he regretted standing on the chapel to fire. He felt quite sickly and weak up there, as though the building itself was moving under him when he released his bowstring. I think he must have been drunk.’