‘You are thoughtful, my dear?’ he asked.
She could have sworn at herself for allowing her thoughts to become so visible. Colouring slightly, she said, ‘I was thinking of my poor father. He would have been so pleased to see me wedded to so successful a merchant. But he will be watching over us, I am sure.’
‘Yes,’ he said, with a slight clearing of his throat. He appeared nervous for a moment.
‘I do miss him,’ she said.
Mabilla sniffed slightly and Julia saw her turn a little away. ‘He would be very proud. I know that he was keen to have a respectable man for his only child, and he must have been as delighted as I am, Master Udo.’
‘I thank you,’ Udo said with a slight bow. ‘And now, perhaps I should offer this? With your permission, Mistress?’
Julia saw her mother give a nod, for Mabilla was as thrilled to see what the man had brought as was Julia herself. Udo stood and approached her with a small leather purse. He weighed it in his hand with an anxious expression.
‘My dearest, I have bought this for you, thinking that it would enhance your beauty, but now … I cannot but think that you are too perfect with nothing. I … I hope it is proof of my sincere devotion to you, and that you will look on me forever as a kind husband and master, who seeks only to make you happy. In all that I can do, I will seek your pleasure. I … Well, here it is.’
He suddenly thrust it out towards her and she took it. The purse itself was pretty enough, with small embroidery about the outside, but it was quite heavy, and she looked up at him with some doubt, wondering whether she should open it. He nodded encouragement, and she released the thongs at the neck.
From it spilled a necklace of gold, with a pendant that formed a cross.
‘Do you like it?’ he asked, and now the anxiety was all too plain.
‘I love it!’ she whispered, and smiled at him with tears of gratitude in her eyes.
The Priory’s gatekeeper was reluctant to allow them entry, even when Simon used the name of the Bishop as his authority, but before too long the prior himself had arrived and he haughtily deigned to allow Simon and Thomas into the Priory’s lands.
‘What do you want from me?’ Peter demanded.
‘I have heard that you were one of the men involved in the murder of the Chaunter many years ago. There have been two murders since then, of Henry Potell and a Friar Nicholas. Both were implicated in the original plot with you, I understand.’
Peter looked at him and his upper lip lifted just slightly, enough to expose a tooth. It looked like an expression of deep and sincere contempt. ‘I have nothing to say on the matter. And now you must leave.’
‘I’m going nowhere, Prior. You may not like me or my tone, but that’s not my concern!’ Simon spat. His head felt light from lack of sleep, and just now his temper was close to boiling over. ‘My best friend and companion was almost killed last night by an arrow. He may be dead now for all I know, and I want the murderer found before anyone else is harmed.’
‘Your friend?’ Peter said, his face suddenly still, as though he was thinking very quickly indeed. ‘Why should that be?’
‘I do not know, unless Baldwin’s questions were bringing him close to the identity of the murderer. If that’s the case, the killer should beware, because I intend to bring him to justice – and for trying to murder a knight, that will be a rope! I’ll take pleasure in pulling it tight round his neck myself!’
‘What do you expect from me?’
‘Your help, and that means telling me what happened on the night that the Chaunter was murdered.’
Peter stared at him, and then gazed up at the sky for a long while, before giving a low sigh and clearing his throat. ‘Very well.’
He told them all about the dissension in the Cathedral’s Chapter. It was much the same as the story which all the others had told. ‘It was simple, really. A fight between those who knew the city and had lived here all their lives. I was born here, only a short distance up from the main gates by which you entered this morning. I used to play ball in the street, bouncing a pig’s bladder against the wall of this Priory. Sometimes we’d play football against the next parish, seeing which could take the ball into the opposing team’s churchyard. It was hard work.’
Thomas nodded with a grin. ‘I remember that. You used to gang up on my friends. We were in the parish of the Holy Trinity, while you were in St John’s.’
‘Yes. We used to play on festive days. Your parish, Matt in St Mary Major, Joel in St Mary Arches. And my team always used to win.’ Peter smiled at the memory. ‘We could be quite competitive. Especially Matt and William, as I remember it.’
‘They were competitive about everything. The only time that I felt at risk of my life was when Matthew and William were betting on their target-shooting at the butts. Matt was winning as usual, and then I took a bow and fired one that beat them both! I thought they’d lynch me. William was furious,’ Thomas recalled.
‘What of Henry Potell? Was he there too?’ Simon asked.
‘Henry was born in St Kerrian’s, as was poor Vincent.’
‘He was the man killed when he tried to warn the Chaunter against the attack?’
‘Yes. Some thought him a traitor, but he was honourable. He had given his word, and he lived in the Chaunter’s house. That was the trouble, you see. When the Bishop arrived he upset a lot of people. He didn’t understand how we’d grown up in the alleys and streets, forming our own relationships. It was as though he was deliberately pitting all those who were from the city against the newcomers. I can recall us all arguing about it in a tavern, some of us wanting to support the new Bishop and give him the benefit of the doubt, while others were determined to oppose him and force him to see reason.’
‘What of the friar?’
‘Aye, well, Friar Nicholas always argued for supporting him. He was a foreigner too, you see, and reckoned that the Bishop was always right.’
‘But I thought you paid him to spread the story that the Chaunter needn’t fear any attack?’ Simon blurted out. He was suddenly aware of an appalling lassitude. The foundation of discovering the murderer was the fact that the prior had paid the traitor. If Nicholas wasn’t the traitor, then what could be the reason for his death?
‘Nick wouldn’t have considered betrayal,’ Peter said with conviction. ‘No, it was another.’
‘Who?’ Simon demanded, but with less force. In truth, he was very tired now. ‘It has been said that you were the man who paid a man to pass on the lie to the Chaunter that led him to believe that he was safe.’
Peter shrugged. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said. ‘The man who paid was more deeply involved than me. I was only there because I sought advancement. I thought that if I was to help John Pycot get what he wanted, he’d see to it that I was well-rewarded. More fool me!’
Simon grunted at this sign of his self-contempt. ‘You didn’t get much from it, did you?’
‘At least I am now the prior of this place, if only for a while.’
‘Tell me about the attack again,’ Simon said.
There was little to learn from him. The prior’s story merely confirmed all that Simon and Baldwin had already heard, and Simon could discern nothing in it which rang false against all the other testimonies he had been given.
‘I am still fascinated by the idea of the man who arranged for treachery. Who could have planted the lie so closely to the Chaunter? If a man were to behave so dishonourably, wouldn’t he feel the guilt afterwards? Surely his crime would be obvious.’
‘There are some who feel no such compunction,’ Peter said. ‘Look at my corrodian, William. He is a man of great resolve and determination, but if he finds another in his way, he will destroy the man. You have heard of his denunciation of the Mayor?’
Simon could feel Thomas suddenly stiffen, and Simon glanced at him as he said, ‘What do you mean?’
‘The Mayor was hanged because the King learned that the South Gate had been left open for the assassins
to depart the city after their deed. While we of the Cathedral Close went to our beds and hid, the others fled the city through that gate. The watch was not efficient, and there was no means to check on who was in the city that night and who was not, so all escaped. Well, since that gate was left open, the first two people whom the King ordered to be executed were, of course, the gatekeeper and the Mayor. The city was complicit in the act, the King declared, so the representative of the city must pay. It was William who told the King of the gate being left open, so it is he who bears the guilt of the Mayor’s death, yet you will see no shame in his eyes.’
‘Why did he do that?’ Thomas demanded.
‘Because he sought advancement,’ Peter said sarcastically. ‘If a couple of deaths would lead to his being taken into the King’s host, it was a trade worth his while. That was how he reasoned, and he was proved correct. He has lived to a good age in the King’s service and now he can expect a long retirement.’
‘All from a pair of executions so long ago,’ Thomas said bitterly.
‘I am sorry, Tom,’ Peter said more kindly. ‘I forgot the gatekeeper was your father.’
‘Where is William?’ Thomas said. ‘I want to see him.’
‘He left the Priory this morning quite early,’ Peter said. ‘I don’t know where he’s gone.’
William had, in fact, spent much of the morning in the Frauncey’s Inn over near the East Gate. When the sun rose, he went out from the Priory with a desire to find a good pint of wine and drink it as quickly as possible. In a city like Exeter, with over thirty inns and taverns, that was no difficult task, and he had eschewed the first three he had come across on the basis that he had been to all of them before only recently. Today he wanted anonymity.
It was clear enough that Peter was not going to help save them. Someone was out there with a grudge against William and probably Peter too, and he could probably harm William, but Peter didn’t seem to care, the bastard. He could rot in hell for all William cared now. The Prior just didn’t understand how worried William was that his corrody could be endangered by the stories of his behaviour during the assault on the Chaunter. It meant everything to William! If it was bruited abroad that he had been in on the attack, the King could remove his corrody and leave him destitute. Entirely without a penny. What could a man do when he was faced with that kind of stern reality? There was only one route – become an outlaw and steal what was needed for survival.
William reached that conclusion at the bottom of his first pint of wine, and he set out to empty a second jug with a sense of increasing gloom.
It was not because he had a moral objection to the idea of life as a felon. That was no concern to him. After all, he had behaved that way before often enough. No, it was that with his recurring dizziness and headaches, the idea of life out in the woods was less than appealing. It could well spell his death. And he was not the warrior he once had been. In the past he had been as quick as a striking viper … now he was still fast, but …
All men had to admit to themselves when they grew too old to defend themselves against younger men, and William knew full well that his time was come. If he were to offer himself in the ring for combat, he’d not be certain to win. He had done so in the past, when he was a noted fighter, and he’d seen off several good swordsmen and sword-and-dagger fighters for good purses. Only a few had died in the ring with him. There was no need to slaughter them all; the audience got the pleasure of the battle without the need for an actual death.
Yes, in his youth and middle years, organising a prize-fight had been a profitable business. If he gained a scar or two, so be it if the purse was good enough. But nowadays – well, it was a younger man’s game, that.
So with no prize, no corrody, the only life open to him was the harsh one of a felon, and that did not appeal to him. Living rough, always sleeping lightly in case the King’s posse arrived to poke a sword or pike at a man’s ribs, that was no way to live.
And then he had the idea flash in the back of his mind.
There was one other way to make a new life: find a wealthy woman who would marry him. Slowly his frowning concern left his face, ironed away by the brilliance of this new thought.
Mabilla would surely have him. She had wanted him. Oh, she’d said she hated him when they last met, because she blamed him for her old man’s death, but that was hardly his problem. And just now she could help him. She must see that. She had enough money, too. All he had to do was marry her and then he’d become master of her money. The corrody would be unimportant, and he could thumb his nose at the King if he chose to steal it back.
No sooner had he considered the benefits of this course, than he had finished off his jug of wine, and stood. His head was a little dizzy, but no matter. He shook himself and sauntered from the tavern, making his way across the city towards Smythen Street, and then walked down the hill towards Mabilla’s house. Reaching it, he banged on the door with his staff and stood back to wait. As soon as it opened he pushed his way inside and ignored the flapping maid who tried to keep him out. In the end he put an arm about her breast and shoved her ungently from his path.
‘Mabilla, my love! I need to talk to you!’ he called at the top of his voice as he left the screens and entered the hall, and then he stopped at the sight of the other man there. ‘Who are you?’
Mabilla rose to her feet, her face cold and angry. ‘You are not welcome here, William. What do you want here? I ask you to leave.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, woman. I came to talk to you. Where’s that little maid? Tell her to fetch me wine.’
‘You are going to leave, Will. You aren’t wanted here.’
‘Woman, that’s no way to speak to a future husband! I want to marry you.’
Mabilla’s face froze. She looked like a statue formed of steel. Her voice, when she spoke, was harsh and grating. ‘William, I would not marry you, were you the King of the lands. Now leave my hall.’
‘Mab, don’t be like that. You loved me before you married that foolish saddler. Come on. Give me a hug and say you’ll be mine.’
‘The lady asked you to leave,’ Udo said.
Will turned with frank surprise that the fellow should dare to thwart him. He had looked a vain, foolish sort of man, not one to test a warrior of Will’s mettle. ‘I piss on you. If you’re determined to have only one man here, you’d better go. Otherwise I’ll make you. Either that, or shut up.’
‘You have into this house of mourning broken, and now a riot you threaten?’ Udo said, his anger making his urbane English falter. ‘I would resist.’
William raised his staff threateningly. ‘Try to resist this, you piece of German shit! I’ll break your head if you get in my way!’
To his astonishment, the German didn’t flee, but instead drew a solid-looking broadsword.
It was all he could do not to laugh. Will changed his grip and held the pole as a quarterstaff, with a quarter of the wood between his hands, the metal-shod end outthrust towards Udo like a lance. He might be old, but he had a staff, and a man with a staff would always beat a fool with a short lump of steel in his hands.
Moving slowly, he prodded with his staff, catching Udo in the breast. It made the German wince, and Will chuckled. Then he poked more aggressively, catching the German in the belly, in the shoulder, then the nose. He’d been aiming for the eye, but the effusion of blood was satisfying enough. Udo swung with his sword, but he couldn’t get past the pole, and only when Will had backed him up against the wall did he lunge suddenly, cracking Udo across the head, and as the man slumped back, darting in to grab his sword. He stabbed once at the man’s belly, then kicked his face, feeling that thrill again, to see a man beaten and at his mercy. It was tempting to hack at his head, but before he could do so, he heard the noise of men at the screens.
Turning, he saw the figure of a tall man. The latter bowed courteously enough, while keeping his eyes on William. ‘My name is Sir Peregrine de Barnstaple. I am Coroner. You are arrested. D
rop the sword.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Simon and Thomas returned to the Close as the sun was just reaching its zenith, and were just in time to see a beautiful white Arab horse being led away from the porter’s home at the Fissand Gate.
‘Jeanne,’ Simon breathed, and broke into a run.
He reached the door and wrenched it open, suddenly panicked that his old friend might have died during his absence, and it was with a feeling of relief that he saw Jeanne at Baldwin’s side, one hand gripping his while the other stroked his brow. And then he became aware of the sword-point at his throat. ‘Christ’s Ballocks!’
‘Sorry, Bailiff.’
Simon swallowed. ‘Ah. Hello, Edgar.’
The tall, suave man at his side smiled and lowered his blade until its point rested on his boot-tip. ‘I thought I should guard the doorway.’
‘Not against Simon,’ Baldwin said weakly. ‘You can trust him, Edgar.’
‘Yes, thanks to God there is at least one man here we can rely on,’ Jeanne sighed. Then, ‘What have you been doing, my love?’
Simon bowed his head to her respectfully. ‘I am so sorry to have had to send for you,’ he said, ‘but I thought you should be here.’
‘He seems to have a slight fever,’ she said. ‘Has he been seen by a physician?’
Simon nodded. ‘Yes, the best in the city, so I’m told. Ralph of Malmesbury.’ He motioned to Thomas to enter and stand by the wall. Edgar turned to keep an eye on him.
‘Ask for him to be brought here, then. I shall need to talk to him,’ Jeanne said. She was still wearing her cloak and an over-jacket against the cold, and she took them off now, laying them bundled on a stool while she pulled up the long sleeves of her dress. ‘Simon, please fetch me a bowl of water. I shall stay here with him, as will Edgar.’
She returned to Baldwin’s side and rested her hand on his brow, essaying a smile. He had a curiously vulnerable expression on his face, like a child trying to hold back the tears after a painful fall, and then she realised that she was herself weeping. The thought of losing this man was too terrifying. Even after his moodiness and ungracious leave-taking when he set off for Exeter, her love for him was complete. She knew that. If he were to die, she didn’t know how she could herself continue living.
The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) Page 32