The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) (9 page)

He could remember thinking that as he stood there that night, William beside him with his teeth shining in the torchlight, fiddling excitedly with the blade of his sword. Rather than the cold and the damp and the fact that they were there to slaughter a man who had interposed himself between two powerful factions in the Cathedral, Peter’s mind was fixed upon the glorious future he would enjoy. As soon as John of Exeter realised that Peter had been there and put in his own blow, Peter would be able to count on the Dean’s support for any promotions. The Vicars were fine, they could get the money and power that they craved, but the Dean had the ability to reward his own friends more liberally in the Cathedral.

And then there was the chink of light as the congregation threw open the great doors, and the Chaunter walked out, his black cloak and gown flapping about him like the wings of an enormous bat, his
familia
trailing along behind him; and then came the shout of warning that stopped them all in their tracks.

The Chaunter never stood a chance. Even though that damned idiot Vincent ran down to him, shouting that he was walking into a trap, it was too late. The boy was struck down almost instantly by Nick, one of the Chaunter’s men, thinking he was one of the assassins.

He might as well have been. As soon as the novice had fallen, the rest of them piled over the muddy grass, weapons ready, and bellowing their war cries. All apart from William. He simply smiled as he rushed onwards, eager to be in at the beginning. William always enjoyed the feel of a sword in his hands, and the idea of hacking at another man was appealing to him. All Peter could remember of William was a kind of
high-pitched manic giggle as he stabbed at the men before him.

The one who’d killed the novice, he went down fairly quickly. Then a second was killed by Henry. The latter was still riven with guilt over that, the fool. What he had to complain about, Peter didn’t know. He wasn’t even arrested.

Yes, Peter could remember every part of that night: the tension while they waited, the raw thrill of hurtling over the mud, and later the strange emptiness as he stood with the others, staring down at the bodies. There were no apparent survivors at that stage. Peter himself certainly didn’t realise that two of the men were still alive. Not that it would have changed anything. William might have executed them on the spot for sheer devilry, perhaps, but that was all. The two left alive couldn’t identify any of the attackers, not that that mattered. All knew exactly who had been there, including the Bishop.

Which was why two years later Peter was taken and held in the Bishop’s gaol: a terrible punishment. His livings were stripped away and he was left destitute, until he could join the monastery.

If he now wielded the power of a Prior, it was no more than he deserved. He had carried out the wishes of his Dean and of his Primate. The only man who disagreed with the action taken was Quivil!

Thomas wasn’t drunk. Not quite. After the morning’s events, he didn’t think he could be completely drunk, no matter that he wanted to forget all that which had passed. The sight of that poor, lovely woman lying in a faint was so sad that he could have thrown himself on the ground with guilt. Her sorrow and despair were all his doing.

If only he hadn’t seen that figure, he thought – but he had.
The ghost of the man he had once called friend, and whom he had then severely wounded.

The sun was bright, and warm enough to dry the ground. Only the mud in the roadways was still moist, kept so by the horses, oxen, cattle and dogs that trampled through the filth and straw. Tonight the rakers would come along again and cart off the worst of it, most to be taken to the fields and spread for fertiliser. The streets were not clean, and yet Thomas had seen worse. He dawdled along. The tavern where he had stopped after seeing Sara and leaving the wineskin at her hut was a short way up from the road leading to her section of the city. It was time for him to return to the Cathedral, except he didn’t want to. It would remind him of the man whom he had killed by accident today. As though in reminder of his guilt, his palms started to tingle and sparkle with fresh pain.

And seeing Saul crushed beneath that rock made Thomas think of Vicar Matthew. It was enough to slow his steps. When he had first arrived back here, he had thought that his beard, long hair and age would make him all but unrecognisable. Surely most of those whom he’d known in the Cathedral would have died long ago. When he first realised that the Vicar in charge of throwing down the old walls was Matthew, he had been tempted to bolt – and yet Matthew showed no sign of having recognised him. Curbing his desire to fly had been difficult, but then Thomas started to feel a little more settled. If even Matt didn’t realise who he was, surely he was as safe here as anywhere in the realm.

Still, he didn’t want to go back to the Cathedral and see Matthew just now. The Vicar would stare at him if not accusingly then somewhat pityingly, and Thomas wasn’t ready to suffer that. He carried on to Carfoix, the great crossroads where the main east-west and north-south streets all met. There
were a great many people there: men and women, horses, dogs and cattle, all vying for space while tranters added to the din, shouting their wares. Thomas took one long look at them all, and headed south.

He hadn’t been here since his return. Well, there wasn’t much point in coming here. He had no need to travel, and the Southern Gate was only useful for those who had to go down towards the coast. All the things that Thomas was likely to need were already available at the Cathedral. He didn’t need to even look this way usually.

But just now, after the shock of Saul’s accident and the wretchedness he had caused that beautiful woman, he felt the need to go and see the gate again. Just once more, he told himself. He’d never have to come here again after this.

The South Gate to the city was a massive affair, with two square towers set in the wall presenting a daunting view to those approaching from outside. From the interior, they were scarcely less alarming. A large building lay beside the roadway, with lodgings for the porter, as well as rooms for a guard. There was a room beneath in which all those whom the porter considered dubious could be held, too. Thomas could remember that place only too clearly, the foul odours, the sobbing of men or women as they waited for the guards coming to take them away … and the never-ceasing drip of water from somewhere. No matter what the weather, that cell always seemed wet.

Looking to the left, he saw the church, Holy Trinity, where he had been baptised and took Mass until he left. Beyond it was the wall where he had played as a child. It was huge, a rising rampart supporting the masonry, and as a mason himself he could only wonder at the labour that over the years had created this enormous ring of stone about the city. The wall was crenellated, and must have been eleven feet thick at the
base, narrowing to perhaps six or seven at the top. It was a wall that could hardly have been bettered by any other in the land.

But it wasn’t the wall which attracted his attention. He could not stop his eyes from moving back to the gate to take in the three wizened, blackened shapes hanging up by the gate itself. They were good and high, so that they should be out of reach of people attempting to move them, but positioned where all could see them, for these were men who had been accused of treachery to the King after the most recent wars, the fights between the Lords Marcher and the King’s friends, the Despensers. There were only the three, all of them knights, and each of them a loyal servant of his own master, whoever he might have been. Up and down the kingdom there were similar hideous shapes hanging or stuck on spikes. They would remain there until they had disintegrated, so that the King’s justice could be seen by all.

The King’s
justice
, Thomas sneered to himself. It was an amusing concept, here where a King could choose a man’s fate, whether he should live or die, on a whim.

Still, at least his own father wasn’t there any longer. His body would have rotted and fallen away many years ago now.

Sara woke to a miserable morning, feeling as though the cold had penetrated her very marrow. She wriggled further under the scratchy fustian blankets. They smelled of the damp, of cats’ pee, but it was better than rising. Outside, the rain was sheeting down. There was a growing puddle by the door, spreading slowly across the floor and curving back towards the wall, and she watched it dully for a few minutes. The idea of going outside to fetch water and empty her bladder was unappealing.

A widow must shift for herself, though. She embraced her boys, pulling them to her. Eight-year-old Dan was reluctant, as though such behaviour was too immature for him now he was the master of the house, but three-year-old Elias was enthusiastic, as always, and his arms gave Sara a strange feeling of comfort; she had found herself desperate for the little boy’s hugs since Saul’s death. He wanted as much of her warmth as he could take, and he happily snuggled closer. Then, when Dan had already risen and was trying to strike a spark from his flint and dagger, Sara finally eased herself up and pulled her old cloak about her, tucking the bedclothes in around Elias. She kissed him, then went to the door and peered out.

Rain was falling like spears, pelting into the mud about the huts. All was so wet, it was like staring at the sea. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter, and hurried outside. Behind her
hut was a little lean-to shack with her wood neatly stored on either side. Here she squatted over the hole Saul had dug for them when he built this little home for his family, and cleaned herself as best she could with a damp rag. Grabbing a bucket, she ran out to the walls near the West Gate, filled it with water and carried it back home up the hill, careful not to slip on the wet cobbles. Manure lying on the streets could make walking hazardous in this weather.

She was soaked. Still, at least Dan had managed to light the fire. The room was already filled with smoke as the dry tinder caught and started to singe the bits and pieces of wood shaving he’d put over them. He was still crouched on all fours, arse in the air, head down, like a puppy begging to play, when she entered.

Tipping a little water into her ewer, she rinsed her face, then grabbed a reluctant Elias and washed his face too. Dan would do his own later. Her children were always hungry. It was not something that would improve, she knew. So many children died too young to have ever known a full belly. Of all her friends about this city, not one hadn’t lost a child. All knew the pain of loss, just as she did herself. Her only daughter, little Claricia, had died just before her second birthday. It had been a close thing for Elias, too.

‘Oh God, let us find some food today!’ she murmured under her breath.

It was two weeks since Saul’s death, and still she found herself willing him back, as though he had gone travelling and must soon return. Somehow, she couldn’t quite believe that she’d never see him again.

Dan was coping with the loss. He was a little rock, he was. Strong, he had nodded when he was told, and then sniffed a little, before declaring that he would have to start breaking up
the firewood as his father always had before. He felt the responsibility of being master of the family very strongly. Bless him, he’d even borrowed old Jen’s hatchet, since he couldn’t lift Saul’s axe.

Elias was too small to understand. He had seen dead men before, of course, but he somehow thought of them as something else. His own father couldn’t have gone. Sara had seen the disbelief in his eyes as she told him. He’d listened as she explained he was dead and couldn’t come home again, and then he’d asked for some food, and while he chewed his bread, he said, ‘It’s all right, he’s bound to come back soon.’

The funeral was a blur. She’d seen little, her eyes were so fogged with tears, and when they carried her husband’s pathetic half-body outside, the heavens had opened again. There were inches of water in the grave, and a man nearly fell in as they were settling his body in his hole. Sara had stood there staring down at him, trying to remember his smile, his kind brown eyes, his mouth fixed in that half-smile he always wore. She tried to remember his hands about her waist, on her breasts, how his arms felt as they pulled her towards him in one of his great hugs – and found that all these memories and more were already fading. He was gone: the staunch defender of her and their children was dead, and there was nothing she could do to change the fact.

Elias looked terrible today. The rain was abating somewhat, and in the feeble light, she could see that his face had a sickly tinge to it, and she sighed as she mixed the greens into her bowl for pottage. He needed more sustenance – meat and eggs, not a weak broth of Good King Henry, Alexanders, some peas and a handful of beans. It wasn’t enough to keep a lad together.

She would go to the Priory again and see if she could beg some food. A rich fishmonger had died, so she had heard, and
part of his bequest was a great donation of food from the gate of the Priory of St Nicholas, bread and fish from the Almoner. If she could get a little fish and bread, it would make all the difference to her boys. They needed their food so desperately. She would go and plead with the Almoner.

Nicholas was already out. He had visited a church to preach, but the priest had refused him entry, and Nicholas was left to kick his heels outside. Rather than do that, he decided to go and have another look at the Cathedral. A keen urge prompted him to take a look at the Charnel Chapel, even though the rain was still falling steadily. It didn’t bother Nicholas much. He was used to all weathers.