The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) (23 page)

Baldwin watched the canon hurrying off self-importantly, his black gown and tunic flapping, his
familia
– novices, choristers and servants – streaming behind him in a haphazard
line. Farther up the Close, more canons were emerging from their houses, each again trailing streamers of hangers-on, while the bells tolled for the service.

‘Is he always such a fool?’ Baldwin asked.

‘He is deeply spiritual,’ Paul said in a slightly pained tone.

‘Perhaps he would be more spiritual if he was more sympathetic,’ Baldwin observed.

‘You cannot understand.’ The Annuellar gave a deprecating smile. ‘It’s the nature of our service.’

Smug little arse! Baldwin had lived under the threefold vows for fifteen years before this little puppy was born! But he swallowed his own pride. The lad meant nothing by it, and since Baldwin had no intention of confessing to his past as a Knight Templar, there was little point in beginning that discussion.

‘I understand you found the body of the dead man in the Charnel Chapel?’ he asked instead.

Paul hopped from one leg to another. ‘Yes. I saw that the door to my chapel was ajar, and so I pushed it open. There was just enough light to see the body there.’

Baldwin eyed him. ‘Are you all right?’

‘It’s just the cold,’ Paul admitted.

‘Let’s find somewhere a little less chill, shall we?’ Baldwin suggested. ‘It is certainly too windy and cold here for thought.’

The Annuellar, nodded hastily as a gust of cold air blew around from the east. As Baldwin turned towards the welcoming door of the calefactory, he caught sight of the Charnel Chapel again, and his expression hardened.

Even to him, a warrior of some thirty-six years’ experience the chapel exuded an unwholesome atmosphere of its own.

If he were not so ill-disposed to superstition, he might have called it evil.

Udo was home again by twilight, and he was thrilled and not a little surprised by this sudden change in his circumstances.

He had walked into the hall and stood near the fire in his finery, picking his spot with care, knowing that the flames would sparkle and gleam on his new cote-hardie and the buttons of his gipon. Behind him, the boy with the basket was apparently overwhelmed by the appearance of the hall, and indeed it must have been an awesome sight to a poor, half-destitute youngster like him. The ceiling was high overhead, and the timbers were a pleasing light brown colour, since the building here wasn’t so old as the exterior might have hinted. The roof was thatched, and the lowest, original layer was open to view; the lighter colour made the hall feel more cosy than its size should have permitted. Whoever built this hall knew what they were doing: the dais at the far end was not so high as to intimidate any guests, but was sufficiently higher than the floor to allow the master to keep all in his view when he sat at table. The fire was not quite central in the floor, but instead was a little closer to the dais, where it might warm the family; the window was less massive than some Udo had known, but that only meant that although there was less light to brighten the room, there was also fewer draughts, which was a cause of great relief on this chilly day.

Yes. Although Udo saw the shabbiness of the decorations, the scruffiness of old wood, the faded and chipped paint, he could still understand the poor lad’s astonishment. It represented more wealth than a fellow like him could ever dream of. On entering, he saw the gracious figure of Mabilla rising from a seat near the window. She had been sitting there with some needlework, and now she hastily put her little workbox to one side, as though embarrassed to be found mending old clothing.

Udo smiled inwardly. If the poor lady must make do with old shirts and hosen, clearly she was in enough of a financial mess to be grateful for any man’s rescue. ‘My dear Mistress Mabilla,’ he breathed in his suavest tones. ‘Please allow me to offer my condolences. I have gifts brought – sweet cakes,
ja
?’

‘Oh, that is kind of you, Master Udo,’ Mabilla gushed. ‘And my daughter loves
dowsettes
so much. That is really very good of you.’

‘It is my pleasure.’ Udo tapped his staff with an impatient forefinger. Where was Julia? He wanted to talk to her.

‘My daughter,’ Mabilla offered hurriedly, reading his mind, ‘will be here in a moment. I know it is she whom you wish to see. A poor old widow is scarcely the same as a fresh young woman like her.’

Udo studied her closely. ‘My lady, you are most sad, and this is not an appropriate time, perhaps.’

‘Sir?’

‘When you are in mourning, I should not come and intrude.’

‘I was hoping that your visit would be no intrusion, but a welcome distraction, sir. My poor daughter would doubtless be happy to be diverted from her present misery. It is a terrible thing to lose a father … just as it is to lose a darling and devoted husband.’

She had some courage, this woman. Although her eyes gleamed with unshed tears, she wouldn’t bend or bow to her grief, but sat bravely holding his gaze like a queen, and Udo was as impressed as she had intended.

‘I know, my dear Mistress Mabilla, that before his death my relationship with your poor husband was not of the most cordial …’

‘Yes. And you may yet sue us for the damage,’ she said, and this time there was a faint break in her voice.

‘My dearest Mistress Saddler, I should not wish to have to do so, but a man must shift for himself, you know. What would other men say of me, were I to allow this sum to be lost? I could have been killed, and then there is the matter of the expense to which I was forced to go. Because I was in bed, I lost a great deal of money.’

‘And my husband would have wanted to make good your losses,’ Mabilla sniffed, and put a hand to her brow. ‘I shall see to it that we repay you, no matter what it costs us. But we should be glad of a little time, in order to overcome our sadness first.’

‘Surely this is not the time to talk of such matters,’ he said with his best attempt at kindness. ‘Mistress, I should be attempting to amuse you and help you to forget for a little while the dreadful circumstances in which you find yourself, and here we are discussing a debt which … well, it is a lot of money, of course.’

‘I know this. And we cannot afford to lose even a single ha’penny.’

‘You will forgive my saying this while you are in mourning, but you will need a protector. A man who can keep you both. Your husband – again, please forgive my bluntness – did he not provide for you after his death?’

Now she did break down. She put her face in her hands and sat silently sobbing, and Udo considered her with a feeling of admiration. All women had to dicker with tradesmen every day of the week, of course, but Mabilla was conducting this negotiation with all the skill of one who intended securing the most beneficial outcome for herself. Even the tears were splendidly timed. Not that he didn’t believe she regretted the passing of her husband, but that didn’t stop her using her position as a weak, lonely woman to best advantage.

He said gently, ‘Perhaps I should leave you and return another day when you are more composed?’

‘No, Master.’ She wiped her eyes and gave him a bright, terrible smile. ‘Please – do not fret. I shall be well in a moment.’

Udo cleared his throat. ‘Perhaps before your daughter arrives I should discuss her with you, although it seems to me that it is a great insult to you both to haggle. Doubly so when you are still in mourning weeds.’

‘Haggle? Over what?’

‘Over your daughter’s hand in marriage, Mistress. You have much to think of just now and I do not wish to add to your burdens, but I should like to know your feelings.’

‘I cannot deny that there are many other things for me to consider now,’ Mabilla answered, and for a moment her head hung dejectedly. ‘Henry was a good man, Master Udo. A kind husband and father, and I shall have to travel far and wide to find such another.’ She paused, then said passionately, ‘Yet how else could I support myself? The city is expensive for a poor widow woman. The business is worth little, and the property, for all its advantages, is not in the High Street. My husband had a few meagre savings, but a widow with her daughter needs a protector. I fear we shall have to leave together and seek a new life.’

Udo nodded, with sympathy clogging every pore of his face. She was transparent, the hussy! Well, he didn’t have too much to worry about here, then. ‘Perhaps, if your daughter were to marry, at least that expense would be saved you?’

‘My treasure?’ Mabilla said. And her voice trembled with a passion that was surely not feigned. ‘How could I think to dispose of her so lightly? My only darling, my little Julia?’

I am sure whatever you decide, Udo had thought to himself, you would not dispose of her lightly or cheaply!

And now, in the comfort of his hall, staring into the fire, his prized goblet of silver filled with wine in his hand, he knew the bargain. All living expenses for the mother to be paid, herself to keep the house in which she and Henry had lived for so long, and the threat of the court case to be dropped.

It was an expensive bargain, Udo told himself, pulling the corners of his mouth down. Very expensive. And yet as soon as the cost was named, as though she had been waiting at the door for her moment to enter, which no doubt she had, Julia walked into the room, and Udo felt as though the sun had suddenly landed on the ground before him. She was radiantly beautiful, even in her grief.

So! Udo was to become a married man.

Sara had stewed the meat with a handful of herbs and a little of the carefully hoarded salt she kept wrapped in a leather pouch. Every so often she glanced at the man at her table, wondering.

He was so vulnerable. It was curious: she was doubly bereaved, and yet he inspired a depth of sympathy as though his own pain and loss were incomparable. When he wept, she stared at him for a long while and then put her arms about his shoulders and rocked him gently, shushing him and remaining at his side until his terrible sobs eased. Then she kissed his forehead softly before preparing food. There was no need for words; both had needed and still needed comfort, and each had tacitly agreed to give it one to the other.

She hoped Saul wouldn’t object.

The supper was almost ready when she heard the rush of feet outside, and the door was thrown open. ‘Close it, Dan, it’s freezing.’

Her son didn’t move, but stood staring at Thomas. ‘That’s my dad’s stool!’

‘Thomas is tired,’ she said. ‘Look, he’s brought us meat! Do you want some?’

‘No! I don’t want anything from
him
!’

She stared. His face was streaked with dirt, clear lines where the tears had run during the day, but he wasn’t close to tears now. Instead there was a dreadful ferocity about him. ‘Danny, be calm,’ Sara entreated. She should have kept him here at home, not let him go out with his friends unwatched and unprotected. Something must have happened today to make him so angry. He sounded outraged just to see Thomas there in their home.

‘I’ll take nothing from him. Nothing!’ Dan cried. ‘He’s a murderer!’

Thomas’s head hung dejectedly. ‘I’d better leave.’

‘No, Thomas, please. Danny, he’s told me. It was a terrible thing, but a very long time ago …’

‘I don’t know what you mean, Mother,’ Dan interrupted. ‘I’m talking about Daddy! That’s the man who killed him.’

Sara gaped, and turned to Thomas to ask him what her son meant, but as she did so, he rose quietly and walked to the door. He opened it.

‘No, you couldn’t have!’ she breathed, but even as she spoke, he turned to face her and she saw the terrible guilt in his eyes.

‘I didn’t mean to. It was an accident,’ he said. ‘I’d do anything to take his place.’ Then he turned and fled from the room.

Sara had only enough time to sit down on her stool before the waves of darkness overwhelmed her. Her remaining son stood resolutely at her side, preventing her falling. She heard him sniff once, felt one tear strike her on the face after falling from his eye, and then she sank into the blackness.

Baldwin stood in the calefactory as close to the roaring fire as he could, while the Annuellar took a seat at the wall. Looking at him, Baldwin thought that he should have been out in the fresh air, riding and practising with weapons, not spending all his life sitting in chilly rooms or cloisters, while his fingers froze, his pallor and spots increased and his natural humours were subjected to slow decay.

He had once been like this lad, he recalled with a sense of shock. In those days, Baldwin had been impressionable, wary of others, and confused. His older brother, Reynald, was to inherit the manor of Fursdon, and Baldwin had the option of following a cousin into the Church or making his own way in the world. When he had heard of the disasters in the Holy Lands and the way that the crusaders were being evicted from God’s kingdom, he had known that he must do what he could to help. Such, perhaps, was his destiny.

So he had taken ship and left from Devon’s coast, a callow youth who had little to lose. He was supremely confident in his abilities and in those of the other pilgrims at his side on that ship. They were Englishmen, knights and men-at-arms who could beat any force sent against them. The French may have succumbed to the heat and the fury of warfare in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, but that meant nothing. If the German warriors had been beaten, it meant nothing. One good English pair of
legs with a stout English arm to wield a sword, and a man could vanquish any enemy.