The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) (26 page)

He woke to the sound of hammering on his door. Startled from a light doze, he was halfway out of his bed, his hand reaching for his sword when the door slammed wide. He grasped his hilt, swung it free with a flick of his wrist, sending the scabbard flying across the room, and span on his heel to face the doorway.

‘Come on, Keeper, put the bloody thing down. You should be up by now, anyway.’

‘Simon!’ Baldwin gasped with relief and delight.

Then he scowled. ‘Shut that door, Bailiff, before I catch a chill, and what is the meaning of this ridiculous noise? Are you so short of amusements that you must terrify a poor sleeping knight with your infernal row?’

‘Yes, it’s good to see you too,’ Simon grinned.

It had been the right thing to do. Yeah, of course it was. Vincent swung his legs out of his little cot and sat there naked with his legs dangling. It was cold, so he dragged his blanket over his shoulders. He’d done the right thing, sure enough. It was only …

He’d been really horrified to hear his master say all that last
afternoon. To learn after all this time that his master had been involved in that murder, to think that he’d been there on the night his old man’s brother had been killed … well, it was really weird.

Rising, he pulled on his shirt and tunic and tied his hosen to the dangling laces. He had a thicker quilted jack which he pulled over the top, and then he tied a short strip of material about his throat. It was perishing cold out there in the yard and the workshop at this time of year, especially first thing, before anyone had time to build up a bit of warmth in their work. He tidied his bedclothes, put his blanket back on top, and patted the side of the cot. It was one of his first jobs when he was taken on as apprentice to Joel. His master had brought him up here and pointed to the small chamber. ‘You could make a bed in there if you wanted. The wood’s all outside.’

The first attempt had been embarrassing. He’d not known how to joint properly, and how to make the ends of the planks square so that they fitted together neatly was beyond him, but gradually as he learned his trade, he saw how to make the cot better. Each time Joel demonstrated a new joint or explained the principles of smoothing and chiselling, or how to square-off ends, Vince saw how to improve his work, until after two years he had a cot that was more prone to holding his weight, rather than falling apart every two months as wooden pegs worked loose.

His first real project, that bed. It was the sort of thing which he could knock up in a few hours now, but he was enormously proud of it. The cot had shown him that he was capable of doing this job, that he was right to be a joiner.

It hadn’t been easy at first. The old man wanted him to follow in his own footsteps and learn the tanning trade, but Vince was determined to escape that trap. The idea of
remaining his whole life with that stench was revolting. He’d been there long enough as a boy, before he managed to win the argument and come here instead. It hadn’t been an easy fight, that.

The trouble was, his old man was determined to keep Vince with him so that he could protect him from the dangers of the city. Out on Exe Island, Wymond reckoned they were safe, free of the risks of politics and the disputes between the rich and powerful. The Church had regular fights amongst its different parts, between the Priory and the Cathedral, the friars and the monks. Wymond said it was only a few years before Vince’s birth that the Cathedral had fought a bitter fight against the friars down at the southern wall, because the friars claimed the rights to some dead man or other and the Dean and Chapter stole the corpse to give it the funeral rites in the Cathedral. That was fine, but the man’s estate was due to pay well for the funeral, and when the Cathedral later brought the body to the friars, they refused to accept it. The man lay there outside their gate for ages until the Cathedral shamefacedly sent someone to collect it.

Wymond wasn’t an expert on Church law, but he believed that if a man was dead and his soul was at risk, it was the duty of men from the Church to see to his protection without worrying about how much money they’d receive. The behaviour of those churchmen was enough to convince him that a man was safer outside the city. Country people were more pleasant.

That was what he’d always said, anyway. And there was the other event, the one which had coloured his life so vividly. The result again of Church disputes: the murder of his brother Vincent, after whom Vince himself was named.

Over the years the memory of that dreadful night had faded in the city’s memory. It was forty years ago: Wymond himself
was only six-and-forty, but he remembered his brother with a fondness that bordered on adulation. When he was killed, it was like a bolt from heaven. And then the stories started to circulate.

It was just like the rumours which began over other events. If you have enough people together in one place, and you give them the opportunity of gossiping, some will inevitably come up with a theory that sort of fits the facts, without ever worrying about minor details like the truth.

So when there was the murder of the Chaunter, and some folks heard that Vincent hadn’t been in the Cathedral with the others at that Matins, it was assumed that he had been outside in order to help the assassins. He had been one of the killers.

That, so Wymond had always said, was ballocks. His brother Vincent loved the Church, and he was a devoted member of the Chaunter’s
familia
. The idea that he’d have betrayed his master, still worse taken part in his murder, was beyond belief.

Still, Vincent’s complicity in the murder was assumed for many years. His death meant that there could be no defence, because the accomplices refused to talk about his part. In fact, the Dean and the vicars who were caught refused to discuss any part taken by Vincent – because they simply knew nothing. Other men had commanded the attack at the Cathedral’s door; the Dean wasn’t there, and the vicars were standing at other points of the Close. Only the men in the group who actually killed the Chaunter could answer yea or nay to Vincent’s guilt or innocence, and they refused to admit their crime. The Mayor, Alured, didn’t confess – so who else could speak for Vincent?

In the absence of any others, Wymond himself spoke of his brother’s innocence and his devotion to his master, but that wasn’t enough, and soon the whole city was convinced that the
novice was an ally of the Dean, like so many others. His memory was polluted; his integrity slandered. That was why Wymond detested the city. It had allowed his brother, his wonderful, kind brother, to be turned into a traitor and killer.

Poor Uncle Vincent. The tale told yesterday by his master had come as a shock, because he had been content to consider that in those far-off days his uncle might have been persuaded to change his allegiance and join the men allied with Pycot; perhaps he had gone to murder the Chaunter at their side. Only now he had heard from a witness that the poor fellow had been trying to
save
the Chaunter, his master. He had been honourable to the very end, when he was struck down by the man Joel called Nicholas.

One thing Vince knew, and that was that his father ought to be told. So late in the afternoon, he had invented a ruse to take him out of the house, and he had fled down the hill to the tannery. Before long he found his father, stirring skins in the handling pits.

He was panting slightly, and he caught his breath, savouring the moment that he should explain to his father what he had heard. Wymond would be delighted to hear that his impression had been vindicated, he’d be over the moon to learn that there was a witness, a credible witness, who had confessed at last.

Which was why Vince was baffled when his father listened, and then walked away, head bowed with sorrow. Vince ran after him, gabbling that all was well: Vincent his uncle was cleared, but his father waved a hand for him to go. And as Vince went, he could hear the sound of dry, racking sobs. It completely mystified him.

Baldwin threw on his clothes, washed his face in the bowl of water provided, and then followed Simon down the stairs.

‘You cannot know how glad I am to see you here,’ he said as they sat at a table. The owner’s daughter gave them bread and some cold slices of meat with a large jug of weak ale.

Simon gave a chuckle. ‘Nice to know that I’m indispensable at last.’

‘This affair is peculiar, old friend. A man suddenly appears in the Charnel Chapel, with a knife wound in the back. It’s a strange place to commit a murder.’

‘Perhaps. All I can say is, I am glad to be here,’ Simon said.

‘How is Dartmouth?’

Simon crumbled a piece of bread in his fingers. ‘It’s lonely, Baldwin. I hate living there without Meg and the children, and I worry all the time about Edith. What she won’t do in order to get her way, I don’t know, and it’s not healthy for Meg to be looking after her on her own. They both need a man about the place to stop them fighting.’

‘That’s Lydford, not Dartmouth,’ Baldwin pointed out.

‘Dartmouth is a pleasant, fresh little vill. There’s a great port and lots of ships,’ Simon said drily. ‘It’s convenient, because it means that yesterday when I heard I was required here, I was able to be directed to a ship and board it to come here swiftly, rather than making the arduous journey on horseback.’

‘You came by ship? That must have been a difficult transport!’ Baldwin joked.

‘You can smile, if you wish, Baldwin,’ Simon growled. ‘You won’t get me on another, though. Damned thing. I had to stay up on deck the whole time to stop myself throwing up, and that meant I was soaked with spray and rain by the time I landed. Foul things, boats.’

During the year the two men had travelled to Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, Simon had learned that his belly was
most uncomfortable aboard ship. During their return voyage, foul weather and pirates had almost killed both men, and the memory wouldn’t fade from Simon’s mind. He passionately detested anything to do with ships, and he intended to avoid them all his life. It was particularly galling to have to resort to a ship to come here now, when he had sworn only a matter of weeks ago, on their return, never to use that means of transport ever again.

‘I am delighted to see you here, in any case,’ Baldwin said, and explained what he had so far learned about the death of the saddler.

‘So plainly we need to visit the man’s widow,’ Simon observed.

‘Yes. It is unlikely to be a pleasant encounter.’

‘A woman who’s just been made a widow is hardly likely to be congenial, no,’ Simon agreed. ‘Does this mean you’re getting to be a little less ruthless in your questioning, then? The knight who was always known for rigour bordering on callousness in the search for the truth is at last learning empathy?’

He’d only meant his words as a light jest at Baldwin’s expense, and he was surprised to see his friend was offended. Baldwin half-turned his head from Simon, and when he spoke, his voice was a great deal quieter. ‘There is nothing callous in my make-up, I hope. I try only to serve justice to the best of my ability.’

‘I didn’t mean …’ Simon was unsure how to comfort Baldwin. ‘Baldwin, I’m deeply sorry if I’ve given you offence. I wouldn’t have dreamed of it, you know that.’

‘Yes, of course. I’m just feeling rather fragile at present. It is the effect of coming here when I should be at home with my own wife.’

‘I can understand that,’ Simon grunted. ‘In any case, my
apologies if I’ve upset you, old friend. I’d never want to do that.’

‘I know,’ Baldwin said with a faint smile. ‘And now, to our food.’

Mabilla was finishing her morning meal when she heard the bang on the door. Her heart sank as she heard the two voices. She looked down at her full board and hurriedly finished her dish of a tart and some apple.

This was a most inconsiderate hour to visit a lady, she told herself. At this time of day, civilised people returned from their early Mass to take something to break their fast, just as she had, and to turn up at a woman’s doorstep now meant that there was serious business afoot. To her mind, that could only mean men who intended to demand money from her, supposedly because her poor darling husband owed it. Well, they’d soon learn the position, if they’d come here for that, damn them!

Hearing the knocking, Julia entered from the solar where she had been resting, and Mabilla felt her anger rising. Julia was looking particularly pale today. Usually such a complexion would be a sign of perfection in the opinion of most men, but today it was merely evidence, along with her red eyes, of her misery. She hadn’t slept well last night again. Mabilla had heard her bedclothes rustling in the little truckle bed, and felt the floorboards move as she tossed and turned. Although she was being courageous about her marriage to Udo, it wasn’t ideal, as Mabilla herself knew. If she could, she’d have tried to snare the man herself. She wasn’t such a poor catch, surely … but he wanted a woman in order to start breeding his own line, and Mabilla’s days of childbirth were behind her now.

Her poor, darling daughter. There was a look of resignation
on her face as she entered the room, followed by a too-bright smile. She hadn’t eaten anything yet today. Mabilla must make sure that she ate later. This starvation was all very well, but it’d be certain to weaken her.

Julia faced the door, and then, as she heard the voices, she threw a look at her mother in confusion. ‘I thought …’

‘It’s not Udo,’ Mabilla said as her maid walked in with two men behind her.