The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) (49 page)

Which was why, as she saw the cudgel and guessed the truth, there was only time to gasp before the blow fell and Edgar dropped like a stunned ox. He collapsed on the shards of the cups, and when she saw the red liquid seeping over the
floor by his head, Jeanne couldn’t help but open her mouth and scream and scream …

John Coppe was still outside, thinking of little but where the next coin might come from, but when he heard that cry, he hoisted himself to his feet. Jan was nowhere to be seen, and there were few people walking about in the Close at this time of day, so John was unsure at first what to do, but he could identify the cry of a woman who needed help. He hobbled with his crutch over to the door, but when he pushed at it, it seemed jammed. Unbeknownst to him, Edgar’s body lay against it and John couldn’t gain enough leverage to open it.

Instead, he opened his mouth. John Coppe had been a sailor, and a man who has had to bellow over roaring wind and thrashing seas learns to make himself heard. He bawled the ancient call for the Hue and Cry at the top of his voice:

‘Out! Out! Out! Help! Murder! Out! Out! Out!’

In the Dean’s hall, Coppe’s cries were just loud enough to penetrate the thick hangings and solid walls, and Simon set his head to one side as he listened a moment. His mind was still on the man in front of him, however, as he asked sarcastically, ‘If not you, who else could have wanted to silence Henry and Nicholas and Baldwin?’

‘How should I know? All I know is, it wasn’t me!’ Matthew wept.

Simon looked over at the Coroner; Sir Peregrine grinned at Simon. ‘I’ve often seen this sort of thing before. A man realises he can’t get away with his crimes and decides to surrender himself for a lesser crime. It won’t work here, though.’

‘It is a shame,’ the Dean sighed. ‘Matthew has been a good
servant of the Cathedral. After all, that is what we do here. We are all servants of the Cathedral itself.’

Simon gaped at him in horror. Now he realised who was responsible for the murders! Even as his mind made the leap, he recognised John’s hoarse bawling, and with a muttered oath he span on his heel and bolted from the room.

‘What on …’ Sir Peregrine murmured, and then grabbed Matthew’s arm. ‘Not you. You’re going nowhere.’

Wymond was already hurrying after Simon, wondering what the screams might signify. He hurtled through the front door and gazed about him wildly until he caught sight of the Bailiff’s sturdy body running off towards the Fissand Gate. He immediately set off in pursuit, wondering whether he should have strung his bow.

Jeanne threw herself over Baldwin’s body with a fresh scream even as Stephen reached for the sword. As his hand touched the hilt, she grabbed at it and managed to catch the blade, pulling it from him. The brightly burnished steel cut into her palm, but she refused to acknowledge the pain, shrieking as loudly as she might to gather help. Somehow she must keep this fiend from her husband.

The sword clattered on the floor, and now Sara was screaming as loudly as Jeanne. Jeanne lunged for the hilt, but as she did so, Stephen swung a fist at her. His face was set in a white, determined mask. He looked petrified, but resolute. Jeanne felt the same, but seeing his own terror helped her to conquer hers. She ducked and his blow missed, but she also released the sword. It span away, out of reach beneath the table. They both went for it, Stephen on all fours, clambering over Edgar in his haste, while she scrambled across the floor, shards of broken pots and cups slicing her knees. A great splinter
lanced up into the ball of her thumb, but she paid it no attention, her hand reaching out to take up the sword again.

This time his fist found its mark. While she stretched, oblivious, a blow thundered into the side of her head. It was like the first time she had been drunk: the very room appeared to whirl about her, and nausea bubbled in her breast, ready to spew forth. She tried to clear her head, but her arms and legs were formed of lead. There was a mistiness in the room, and a strange silence which made little sense. That was when his fist hit her in the eye.

Through the fog she could see Stephen. He stood near Baldwin, the sword held aloft in both arms, ready to strike, but his eyes were on Jeanne. Later, she thought he might have been pleading for forgiveness, or begging her to try to understand … but she could never be truly sure. He turned away from her, and prepared to deliver the coup de grâce.

But then she saw her husband’s good arm rise up, and with the little strength remaining in him, Baldwin stopped the blow from falling. And as Jeanne saw that, she was aware of the door opening, juddering against Edgar’s body, and Simon pelted in. He stopped and gaped for an instant as he took in the scene.

Behind him, Wymond, the experienced brawler of a hundred tavern scuffles, didn’t hesitate. He shoved Simon from his path, then poked his unstrung bow like a pike into Stephen’s face. The Treasurer gave a shriek of agony and dropped the sword. Wymond stepped to the side, and as Stephen’s hands went to his ruined eye, he swung his heavy bow. It cracked across both Stephen’s forearms, and he howled as an arm broke; then it swept back one last time, and smashed into his throat. Stephen fell to the floor, gurgling and thrashing as he desperately tried to take in air, but as he lay there, Edgar crawled to him, placed a hand on his brow, and ran a dagger over his throat. In the
spurt of blood, Stephen’s movements became more panicked for a while, but then gradually ceased.

At last he lay still, just as Thomas shoved his way in through the door and saw Sara, her face and torso smothered in blood. He gave a great roar of pain and grief, and ran to her, putting his face in the corner of her neck as he wept.

Udo lay back in his bed with a groan. His arm was exceptionally painful and his face was one massive bruise, while he could hardly breathe from his nose since its breakage by that madman William.

There were always some who were simply mad, no matter what the city or the environment. Udo had known some men in the highest courts in Europe who were absolutely insane; men who would whip off a man’s head as soon as look at him. Yes, but they generally tried to behave within their own rules of courtesy. The trouble with a man like this William was that he was too lowly. He had no conception of the ways of his betters. That was why he ranted drunkenly before hitting Udo.

‘My darling, are you all right?’ Julia asked.

Udo grunted a response. If there was one benefit from all this, it was that Julia and he had grown very close. She had seen how he had leaped in to risk his own life and limb to defend her and her mother, and if she had held any secret doubts about their marriage, that act had immediately removed them. She adored him, and Udo had to admit, having experienced her devoted nursing for this past week, that she would be an ideal companion.

He looked at her now. She was sitting at his side, an expression of sweet kindness on her face, and he thought she could easily be the Madonna. Yes, he would be delighted to be
married to her, and he would do so as soon as possible. For a while, perhaps only a little while, they would be man and wife, and when Udo died, she would have a goodly sum of money to protect her widowhood until she found another man to look after her.

It was good. She was lovely. He was enormously attracted to her. Her beauty would warm his heart, and he could adore her as he went about his business. Then in the evenings he could speak with her and instruct her in the ways of polite company. After all, taking on a child like her was rather like becoming a second father to her. It was a stern responsibility.

Except just now, he felt nothing remotely like responsibility. If he was honest, there was only one emotion uppermost in his mind: he loved her.

‘I do not think that you should be walking about so soon,’ Jeanne said as she helped Baldwin into a heavy cotte.

He winced as his arm was thrust into the sleeve. ‘Damn this wound! It quite drains a man to have a hole in breast and back. I could return to bed and sleep for another week!’

‘I don’t think you should do that, Sir Baldwin.’

‘I didn’t ask
you
, Physician! You took so damned long to come and see me when I needed you, I see no reason to listen to you now,’ Baldwin growled at Ralph.

Ralph smiled cynically.

It was one of the first things Baldwin had decided he disliked about this fellow: the complete lack of obsequiousness. At least most physicians had the decency to try to appear as though they cared a little for their patients, but not Ralph. He had one ambition, and that was to make as much money as possible.

Now he gave a little sniff, as though he was disapproving but not bothered. If Baldwin intended to kill himself, that was
his own affair (so long as he was up to date with paying his bills, of course). Ralph would give advice, and that was an end to his responsibilities. ‘It is up to you, but I have found that my patients survive better if they arise from their beds and indulge in some light exercise. Still, the corollary to that is that you should not overstrain yourself. I urge you to remain here, Sir Baldwin. It would be most unfortunate if you were to ruin the excellent progress you have made in the last week just for this one meeting. What good it could do you, I do not know. Far better that you should walk a little about the Cathedral Close, sit in the sun when it shines, and rest yourself.’

‘Shut up, fool!’ Baldwin snarled.

Jeanne took his arm, and the pair walked from the room. Outside Simon stood waiting, while Edgar sat on a bench nearby. His head was still very painful, as was obvious from his grimace as the sun shone full in his face, but for all that he was remarkably well recovered after his heavy knock. Seeing Baldwin, he stood immediately and the four of them set off.

Their path took them past John Coppe. Baldwin himself reached into his pocket and fumbled for a coin, throwing it to the beggar as they passed.

‘That was kind of you,’ Jeanne commented.

‘He deserves better,’ Baldwin said gruffly. ‘If it weren’t for him, you and I might both be dead.’

That was a sobering thought. She was silent for some while. Her black eye was still a glorious colour, with blues and purples fading to yellow at the edges. The whole of the battle in Janekyn’s small chamber was hazy to her, and she was glad of the fact. She craved forgetfulness. All she knew was that her man was alive and recovering. With that she was well-satisfied. She thrust her arm through his. Unseemly, perhaps, to behave in so forward a manner in public, but convention be damned.
She wanted to be like this for ever – close to her husband, secure in his love.

For that was how she felt. Ever since that appalling day of her arrival here, she had been convinced that her husband’s love had returned. She looked up at his stern features with a sense of relief, tempered with the memory of that bleak time when he seemed to lose his affection for her. She dreaded it happening again and would do everything in her power to prevent it. She loved him: she couldn’t bear to lose him.

Joel was already sitting in his chair waiting when they knocked on the door. He swigged back the wine in his mazer and rose to his feet as Vince led them into his hall. ‘Godspeed.’

Baldwin nodded, and Simon managed a short bow, while Jeanne murmured her own greeting, dipping her fingers in the stoup by the door and making the sign of the cross over her breast. Edgar said nothing, but walked away from Baldwin to the wall not far from Joel. From there he appeared to be keeping an eye on Joel and on his apprentice, and Joel gave him a suspicious look. The man looked intensely threatening.

Joel was surprised to hear the next knocking at the door, and when he saw Vincent’s father, his astonishment was reflected on his face. ‘Wymond? What do you want?’

‘My boy reckoned I ought to hear what you’ve got to say.’

‘Vincent? What’s this about?’

Baldwin interjected, ‘Perhaps it will become clearer if you tell the story.’

Joel nodded. He contemplated the men in front of him as he began. ‘I suppose you’ve heard all about the murder of the Chaunter?’ he said heavily. ‘Well, all I can say is, you don’t understand how things were. It was hell in the city when that new arse came in.

‘No one wanted Quivil. He was out to stop anything that made business profitable for us. The fellows from the city wanted someone who was more …
congenial
, but Quivil was determined to interfere, silly bastard! Sorry, my Lady,’ he added, glancing at Jeanne.

‘When the Treasurer managed to get himself the Deanship, that was like a red rag to Quivil. He went berserk, so they said. Ranted about the corruption eating at the Chapter, said John Pycot was a canker that had to be cut out, and the like. And then, to stifle any ambitions John might have had, he put that idiot Lecchelade in place to hinder him. Everything John tried to do, Walter de Lecchelade stopped him. Even refused him access to the Dean’s stall in the choir. It was impossible. All business at the Cathedral was effectively held up by their antipathy. And what else could we do, but try to save the place?’

‘By murder.’ Baldwin’s tone was flat and unemotional.

‘Granted it wasn’t the way most people would have sought to straighten things, but John Pycot had taken about as much as he could stand. He was at least a sensible bloke you could talk to, while the Bishop and his lackey wanted their own way and weren’t prepared to discuss it.

‘It wasn’t just a few men in the city with an axe to grind, either. It was a whole mixture of people, many of them from the Cathedral. No one wanted this idiot Lecchelade foisted on us. There were vicars, men like Stephen … poor devil.