Matthew found himself studying his mentor with a feeling of prickly nervousness running up his spine. This man, the one who had given him the better posts, who had looked after him in forty years of life at the Cathedral, had once been there trying to kill him just because … Why?
‘Stephen,’ he said quietly. ‘Was it you struck me down?’
The Treasurer was still staring at the cross. He blinked then, as though the cross had itself stung him. There was a slight moisture at the corner of his eye, Matthew saw, and he felt the shock thrill through him before Stephen had even answered.
‘The Chaunter was divisive,’ Stephen said. ‘He was a malign influence on the Cathedral – my God, anyone could see that!’ His eyes were on the cross again, as though pleading his sincerity. Gradually his eyes fell, and he turned his attention back to Matthew. ‘But I swear to you, Matthew, I never wanted to see you or anyone else harmed! Only him! He was evil, a man who would divert us all from our tasks and drive a wedge between the Bishop and his Chapter. Who could want to leave him in power when his entire efforts were dedicated to ruining us all? Any man who had a relationship, no matter how tenuous, with the Dean and Treasurer, was detested by de Lecchelade, and belittled and demeaned. No one who held the good reputation and honour of the Cathedral in his heart could tolerate his behaviour.’
‘He was the Treasurer, wasn’t he?’
‘Dean Pycot? Yes. And perhaps he should have given that up earlier, but it’s a man’s nature to keep to the job he knows and with which he feels most comfortable. Dean John was like you, Matthew. He was excellent when it came to numbers; they held no secrets for him. It was possible for him to run a finger down a roll and when he reached the bottom, he could tell you the total. As fast as this,’ he demonstrated, running a forefinger down a column. ‘I could never emulate that, so I never thought I should take over from him.’
‘He was your master?’
‘I lived with him. I was Clerk to the Works at the time, and when Dean Pycot was made Dean I couldn’t take over. I was too young, Matthew. Far too inexperienced.’
‘It has been said that the Dean siphoned away a great deal of money.’
‘Such accusations are easy to level against another man,’ the Treasurer said dismissively. ‘It is a great deal harder to prove that you are innocent.’
‘So you took his part during that attack?’
‘I swear I didn’t hurt you, Matthew,’ Stephen said. He looked at Matthew again with real fear in his eyes. ‘I have wanted to tell you so many times in the last four decades, but there has never seemed to be the right moment. At first you were so badly beaten, it seemed ridiculous to add to your trials by saying I was myself one of those who might have hurt you; then when you were healed, it seemed foolish to risk my own position; more recently, it seemed madness to try to bring up long-dead history again.’
‘But now?’
‘The Dean has asked me who was here then. Who still lives at the Cathedral who was here forty years ago.’
Matthew understood. ‘So you must tell him of my part. And that you too were here.’
‘Yes,’ Stephen said, and looked away with shame flooding his eyes. His voice was soft. ‘I would have your forgiveness, if you feel you could be so generous towards me.’
He looked pathetic. Matthew was repelled by his tears and weakness. ‘I forgive you,’ he said, ‘provided you were not the man who actually beat me and left me for dead. If it were not you, who was responsible for my injuries?’
‘It was dark, Matthew. I think we’ll never know. I was myself running to attack de Lecchelade, but I know I didn’t hit you.’
‘How can you be so sure?’ Matthew demanded hotly. ‘If it was so dark and you were so lost as to not know what was going on, how can you tell?’
‘You were knocked senseless, were you not? I did not hold a club, Matthew. I had only a sword.’
Simon hauled Thomas to his feet. He stood like a man who has lost all his will to resist further, his head hanging, his expression utterly devoid of hope. There was only a grim fatalism in his eyes.
Simon had captured many people in his time. Some felons would wail and tear at their bonds, others would show no remorse, only a determination to escape any possibility of retribution. Seeing a man so hangdog was not unusual; it was a common attitude of one who had committed a crime in a flash of rage, only to regret his own behaviour later, especially when he was caught.
‘Get a move on!’ Simon growled, and the man stumbled slightly as he walked forward, his legs moving loosely and in a gangling manner, like one who was drunk or befuddled.
Baldwin was already outside, and Simon manoeuvred Thomas to the door just as Sara appeared in the lane.
‘Thomas?’ she said, glancing at him and then looking from Baldwin to Simon. ‘Who are you?’
Baldwin introduced himself and Simon, and then nodded towards Thomas. ‘This man was in your house to steal your money.’
‘What money?’ she asked with an expression of surprise. ‘I don’t have any.’
‘There were some coins on your table,’ Baldwin said. He beckoned to Jen. ‘You have the coins?’
‘Here they are,’ Jen said, heaving her bulk through the door and holding her hand out to Sara. ‘Look, this is what he was trying to take.’
‘These aren’t mine,’ Sara said. ‘I don’t have more than two pennies, and they’re here,’ she added, hefting her purse in her hand. ‘I wouldn’t leave money in my house.’
‘Then where did the pennies come from?’ Simon demanded.
‘I tried to explain,’ Thomas said wearily. ‘I put them there for Sara. When I decided to leave the city, I wanted to give Sara something to help her get by. I left her all the whole coins in my purse. That woman saw me enter and chose to assume the worst of me. When I was putting the coins down, she hit me.’
‘And where did you come by all these coins?’ Simon asked.
‘They are the money I’ve been paid for my work. Since I’ve taken away Sara’s husband, I thought the least I could do was try to help her.’
‘It was kind of you,’ Sara said. ‘You didn’t have to.’
‘He’s a murderer!’ Dan said to Baldwin. ‘Take him away from here, we don’t want him or his money! You keep it, murderer!’ he spat.
‘Leave him, Danny,’ his mother said quietly. She was exhausted, and although she had tried to seek work, she had failed through the day. All she wanted was a chance to fall onto her bed and sleep. ‘Thomas was trying to help us. Sirs, he can’t have been robbing us, so can’t you let him loose? I won’t accuse him of anything.’
‘Mistress, we can’t,’ Simon said. ‘He was involved in a murder many years ago, and he may well be the killer of two more men who have died recently. Until he’s been questioned, we can’t let him go.’
‘If he was a murderer, he’d not have been so kind to me and Danny,’ she declared.
Baldwin set his mouth in a firm line. ‘I am sorry, but we do not know that. He must come and be questioned.’
‘Sara, forget me. I hope the money will help you. Just be happy and find someone else to protect you,’ Thomas said quietly. ‘Take me away, please.’
Simon had him by the shoulder, and he directed the man away from the rough home, along the lane and then down the sloping road towards Fore Street. He glanced over his shoulder once, and saw the widow still standing in front of her doorway, her hands on her son’s shoulders, gazing after the three men.
They soon reached the Cathedral, and Baldwin walked straight in through the gate.
‘You made good time, Sir Knight,’ Janekyn called. ‘I’ll be closing this gate soon. What have you there?’
‘This fellow was trying to run from the city,’ Baldwin said. ‘The Coroner will want to see him in the morning, so we need to have him securely held in the Bishop’s gaol. Who can open it for us?’
Janekyn eyed Thomas with some interest, and then led them to the part of the Cathedral where the gaol was, ask
ing them to wait while he sent a novice to look after the gate for him, and then he disappeared to find the gaoler.
‘I didn’t do it, masters,’ Thomas said.
‘What?’ Baldwin asked.
‘I didn’t kill the Chaunter, and I haven’t killed anyone else. Henry was an old friend. I could never hurt him. And Nicholas … I gave him his wounds all those years ago, and I spoke to him to beg forgiveness. He did forgive me.’
‘He forgave you those dreadful scars?’ Simon said disbelievingly. ‘And then what? He bought you a barrel of fresh ale?’
‘No, only a quart of cider,’ Thomas said.
‘When?’
‘The very night he died,’ Thomas shrugged. ‘He forgave me and we went to the tavern on the right as you go up beyond Fissand Gate towards the High Street. We were there for some little while.’
‘Was there anyone there who could vouch for you?’ Baldwin asked.
‘I don’t know. There must have been people there who’d recognise a description of the friar, though. They may have noticed me too.’
‘We will check,’ Simon promised. ‘But for now, you’ll have to remain here. The Coroner will want to speak to you in the morning.’
‘He’ll see me hanged.’
Simon was struck by his attitude. ‘He may agree you’re innocent. How could you be so sure that he’ll want to have you hanged?’
‘I cannot hide my guilt, Master. I was there on the night the Chaunter was killed, as I said, and I fled the city afterwards. I felt guilty and ashamed of my crime. And then, later, I heard that the South Gate had been left wide open, and those responsible hanged. Well, it wasn’t fair or just, but it was a judgement of a sort. It was my father who was hanged. He died in my place.’
Simon gave a grunt of sympathy. ‘I see.’
‘I never thought to return here, not after hearing that. Especially now, though. I have learned who actually had my father killed. It was that devil, William. He told the King about the gate being left open and accused the city of complicity so he could worm his way into the King’s favour. It was because of him my father was hanged.’
‘Is that William the corrodian?’
‘Yes. I was with him and Henry on the night of the killing, and I wish I’d taken the opportunity to kill him. If I had, I’d not be here now.’
Baldwin and Simon led him towards the cells as the gaoler and Janekyn returned. They passed him over, and Thomas walked with them. As Baldwin and Simon stood waiting, they heard the rattle of keys, then the slam of a heavy door being closed.
‘So that is that,’ Simon breathed.
‘Yes,’ said Baldwin. Then he sighed. ‘Ach! Let us return to our inn and take our rest. We have little more to do tonight, and we don’t have to do anything in the morning. There’s no need to worry about haring off after Thomas now. Come, let me buy you some wine.’
‘That sounds good,’ Simon smiled.
They were outside the Charnel Chapel when Baldwin stopped and stared at it. ‘Evil is not a word I use often, Simon, but I have been aware of a feeling about that building ever since I first saw it. It was built as a reparation for the murder of the Chaunter, but it brought nothing for the Dean who constructed it. Now it stores the bones of the dead, and yet bears an atmosphere of pain and fear. Do you know, old friend, I fear it myself.’
‘And you used to accuse me of being superstitious!’ Simon laughed aloud.
They walked past the chapel, up towards the flickering light of the torch in the arch of the Fissand Gate. And it was there that he heard it.
It was a soft, whirring sound, a little like a bird’s wingbeat. For an instant, Simon wondered what it might be, and then he opened his mouth to shout while he threw himself to the ground. ‘Christ Jesus!’
Luckily Baldwin had heard it too, Simon saw. He lay full length beside Simon, and the Bailiff frowned as he gazed about the place. There was no sign of the arrow. Now, lying on the ground, he wasn’t even sure which direction it had come from. ‘Did you see the man?’ he asked softly. He might still be there, preparing to fire again. ‘Baldwin? We ought to get away from here, find some cover.’
‘Simon … Simon, help!’ Baldwin’s voice sounded strong enough, but there was a strange quality to it, as though he was a long way away and calling to Simon on a foggy day.
When he looked at his friend, Simon frowned. His mind didn’t register at first. All he could see was the knight’s suddenly pale face, the eyes grown huge, and then Simon saw the apparently frail stick, the fletchings quivering gently with the wounded man’s every rasping breath, and he had to bite back his scream. ‘Baldwin, hold on! It’ll be all right, Baldwin – just hold on!’
Simon leaped to his feet and ran to him. Baldwin gave him a twisted grin as Simon knelt by his side, staring about them for a sign of the assassin, but there was nothing, no movement, no scurrying shadow-figure. All was still as he leaned down to Baldwin; he felt the skin crawling on his back, as though his very flesh was anticipating the next arrow to strike, but then he was studying his friend, and had no time to worry about his own safety.
The arrow had entered his back high, not far from his spine, and now protruded from his breast about three inches below his collar-bone. Baldwin’s sword arm was all but immobilised, and Simon reckoned that his shoulder-blade was pinned by it. Still, as he helped his friend haltingly to his feet and pulled Baldwin’s left arm over his shoulder, he was glad to see that there was no bright blood dribbling from his mouth. The lungs must be safe, and so high as it was, Simon was sure that Baldwin’s heart was safe. He whispered encouragingly as he helped his old friend towards the nearest shelter, which was Janekyn’s lodge at the gate.
‘Janekyn? Jan! Come here now! Help me!’ he bellowed as he approached the door. Baldwin was whispering urgently in his ear, but he ignored his friend’s words. ‘You’ll soon be all right, Baldwin. You’ll be fine.’
It opened as he reached the light of the torch still flickering under the arch, and then Janekyn, his face filled with alarm, helped Simon carry Baldwin through the door to a stool near the brazier. There they sat the wounded knight, panting, and Simon could see at last the wicked arrow-head. It was a modern ‘pricker’, a square-sectioned bodkin of some four inches long, designed to penetrate chainmail armour. The sight of it made Simon’s heart stand still, but then he was ordering Janekyn to wrap his friend in a blanket and keep him warm, while he bolted for the Dean’s house.
All the way, all he could hear was his friend’s rasping breath, and those words spoken in his quiet, self-possessed manner.
‘My wife. Tell her … Tell her I loved her. I still … love her.’
Chapter Twenty-One
That night was the longest Simon had ever spent. The Dean gaped, and then ordered that his steward should rouse the Mayor’s household to ask who the best physician was in the city, and then bring him at once. Soon Ralph of Malmesbury was with them in Janekyn’s little room, and he at once set about his work.
While the physician studied Baldwin’s breast, Simon stood at his friend’s side. There was no great effusion of blood, which gave Simon some hope, but he knew that the danger which threatened Baldwin would only become clear when the arrow was removed and the wound could be studied more closely. Ralph opened a small vein to release some of Baldwin’s bad humours, and then started to work on the arrow itself. Baldwin maintained a steadfast patience, only showing his temper when the physician stood on his foot. ‘Do you not think I have enough damage done to me?’ he said weakly.
‘I am at least experienced in this kind of wound,’ the physician said. ‘Stop your bellyaching. Most surgeon barbers would pull the arrow through one way or the other. At least there are no barbs on this bastard, eh? If there were, a barber would bend them back and try to yank it through you again. Me, I think that’s daft. What’s the point?’ He took a pair of strong-bladed shears and rested them upon the arrow’s shaft. ‘Better to cut the arrowhead off like this. Are you strong?’
Baldwin gave a pale smile. ‘As strong as I can be.’
‘This may hurt,’ Ralph said, and he threw a look to Simon. Understanding, Simon put his arms on Baldwin’s shoulders and held him still as Ralph began to cut through the shaft, turning the arrow as he did so. ‘This will be uncomfortable, but by moving the arrow itself, I free it up ready to be withdrawn,’ he said. The process was slow, the shaft solid and difficult to cut. The grain was strong. Still, after some minutes, the shears were biting through the outer surface, and then sinking deeper and deeper. Although Baldwin grimaced, closing his eyes and grunting, he didn’t cry out. Simon could feel his muscles tense, but then he slowly relaxed, as if he was growing accustomed to this peculiar pain.
‘All done!’ Ralph declared suddenly.
He was about to throw the arrowhead onto the floor, when Simon said, ‘Put it on the table there. I shall want to look at it.’
Ralph glanced at him in surprise, looked at the bodkin in his hands, and shrugged. As though humouring the vill’s idiot, he placed it carefully on the table before turning back to the arrow shaft. He cleaned its length with a mixture that he produced from a small bottle, smearing it over the shaft with a finger that grew crimson from Baldwin’s blood, stoppered the bottle and rose. ‘I need to stand behind him.’
Simon stood before Baldwin, and the physician rotated the shaft in his hand gently. ‘This will hurt, I fear, but try to keep him still.’
Feeling the nausea in his throat, Simon took Baldwin’s shoulders and stared deep into his eyes. Baldwin was in great pain, that much was obvious from his wan features. Simon had never seen him look so colourless, and if that weren’t enough, the sight of Baldwin’s white knuckles on the stool’s seat was proof. Baldwin reached up as Simon took his shoulders, and put both his hands on Simon’s forearms, gripping them tightly.
Ralph was watching almost absently as he turned the shaft slowly, and then he began to pull it out as though it was screwed, constantly turning it, while his gaze remained unfocused on a point over Simon’s shoulder. Simon saw the cut-off end slip backwards until there was only an inch or so protruding from about three inches beneath Baldwin’s collarbone, and then it was gone. The dreamy-eyed Ralph remained there for a few more moments, slowly rotating the shaft, his fingers slick with blood, until the remaining section came free, and he glanced down at his hands with apparent surprise. ‘Ah! All done.’
The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) Page 29