But Vincent had worn that same cloth, and Vincent in that clothing was the victim. In the end, it was impossible for Wymond to decide who was deserving of life and who deserved death. This man was, so far as he knew, guilty of having played some part in the death of Vincent – but what if he was wrong? There was a reluctance to shoot at a man who was in the same uniform which Vincent had worn. Looking at Matthew now, Wymond realised he could in fact have been an older, sadder Vincent. The thought had brought to his mind a picture of his brother: that happy, smiling face, the calm, generous spirit beaming from those bright eyes. The image for a moment obscured the reality of the snivelling Matthew, and made Wymond lower his bow. Killing like this was the last thing Vincent would have wanted, he knew.
Perhaps forty years ago Wymond could have released the arrow, but not now. Instead he had let Matthew see his bow, and had sat back to wait. The Hue and Cry couldn’t take too long to find them.
And now the last stage of the tale was to be told. Wymond wanted to hear this. It might, perhaps, allow him to put aside all those feelings of sorrow and loss which had plagued him over the years.
Looking about him now at the richly decorated hall of the Dean, he realised that whatever the truth, there was little chance that he would ever be able to obtain any justice. This was a rich man’s house, not the sort of place in which a mere tanner like him could hope for help or restitution.
Sara approached the Fissand Gate with a strange sense of nervousness. She wanted to know what would happen to Thomas. No matter what Daniel thought, he had been kind to her, and if he was truly a murderer, she must know why, and what his punishment might be.
There were rumours that he’d not only killed Saul, but that he’d killed two other men in the city as well – and tried to murder a third. He only failed because his arrow missed its mark in the gloom of evening, or so the people said.
The porter at Fissand was always helpful: he would give wine or bread to those who had need, and perhaps today he might be equally forthcoming with news or assistance, showing her where to go to hear of the case against Thomas. She had no idea when the Bishop’s court was likely to convene, and the idea of waiting for days was very unappealing. She only hoped that, like most other courts, this would meet very soon and the sentence be imposed quickly. At least then she would know that justice of a sort had been served.
There was no porter evident. Instead she approached a vicar. ‘Master? Can you tell me where—’
‘I don’t have time, woman!’ The cleric to whom she addressed her enquiry was a tall man, quite old, and he threw her an anguished look. ‘If you have questions, go in there and ask the porter!’
Feeling very small, she watched him stalk away. Sara didn’t know why she’d bothered to come here in the first place. This was a man’s world, not suitable for women like her. She was mad to have thought otherwise. She would have turned tail there and then, and returned home, but Daniel chose that moment to bolt, running over the graveyard towards the Bishop’s palace, calling out that he’d find out where they must go.
At the wall was a beggarman. Sara had seen him about the city before: with his horribly scarred face and missing leg, he was hard to miss, but he’d never spoken to her.
‘Maid, is there something wrong?’
The gentle tone of his voice nearly made her weep. ‘I just wanted to know what’s happened to the mason who killed the others here. Is he going to be put on trial soon?’
‘What’s your interest?’
‘The dead mason, Saul, he was my husband.’
‘Oh maid … I’m sorry.’
‘Do you know what’ll happen?’
John Coppe eyed her sympathetically, but closely. A beggar was quick to gain an insight into the feelings of others – it was an essential element of his make-up. He had to size up his market and grab the most money from those most likely to pay him. In his opinion this woman was close to her limits. She couldn’t cope with any more shocks or alarms.
He said, ‘Maid, I think Thomas, the man you’re talking about, has already been proved innocent. Another man was attacked last night, while Thomas was in the gaol. So he seems to be innocent.’
‘Innocent!’ Sara felt as though her legs must fail her. Suddenly both knees began to wobble, and she teetered on the brink of collapse.
Coppe tried to lurch to his feet, but he was already too late, and all he could do was shout for assistance.
The door to Janekyn’s chamber opened, and Edgar stood there, his sword ready in his hand, eyes flitting about the Close before they came to rest on Sara’s figure and the desperate beggar at her side.
Others were already running over, and a number of men and women came to Coppe’s side, lifting the woman up. ‘Where can we take her?’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Ah, she’s only fainted!’
Jeanne pushed her way past Edgar and peered at the huddle of men and women. Coppe saw her with relief. She was one, he was sure, who would look after a woman like this. ‘Mistress, please help us! Can we put this poor widow in the room with your husband?’
‘What is the matter with her?’
‘She’s fainted. It’s her husband, he died here a few weeks ago. Crushed when a stone fell on him, and since then she’s been … well, you can imagine.’
Through the encircling crowd Jeanne saw how young Sara was, and how vulnerable she looked. That one look was enough. ‘Of course you must bring her in here. When Baldwin’s physician arrives, I shall ask him to see to her at the same time.’
They carried her within, while Edgar stood at Baldwin’s side, sword threateningly still in his hand. There was no need for him to wave it about to make a point. His apparent languid stance was enough to put fear into the hearts of all who eyed him. The crowd deposited Sara on a bench near the wall, and left.
As Jeanne stood over her, the woman started to moan softly, and Jeanne took her hand, pressing it. ‘It is all right now. You are safe here.’
‘How can I ever be safe?’ came the bitter response.
‘I am sorry,’ Matthew said, his head hanging. ‘I didn’t think that my actions could cause so much grief.’
‘You were happy enough to commit murder, though,’ Simon said.
‘I only did what I thought I had to.’
‘Yes – you murdered Saul,’ Simon said unsympathetically.
‘No!’
‘But you admitted it before,’ Simon said. ‘Out there, you said you killed him!’
‘Not on purpose … but it was the same thing to God, though,’ Matthew said with a pious shudder.
‘What are you talking about?’ Simon demanded. There was a noise of hoofbeats from the cobbles outside, and he turned to see Sir Peregrine ride in with his party. The Coroner threw himself from his saddle with the energy of a man half his age and hurried over to join them.
The clerk turned to Thomas and spoke clearly.
‘I mean this: Thomas, I am sorry. I confess my sin, and I beg your forgiveness. I tried to kill you on the scaffold.’
Thomas gaped. He rubbed his hands against his thighs. The palms were sore again, but in some odd way the feel of roughness against his legs was soothing. It seemed to make the world more comprehensible, since the only feeling he was aware of at this minute was that of unreality. ‘But the stone fell because of an accident.’
Matthew shook his head. ‘I released the metal wedge that held the stone up. I thought that it might kill you.’
‘What did you want to kill me for?’ Thomas cried.
‘Because I thought you knew about my part in the attack. I knew that William was aware, and I knew you were one of his friends. Henry and Joel had kept silent all the time I was being nursed after the Chaunter’s death, but you I feared.’
‘Why not William too?’ Simon asked.
‘Because, he was the man who paid me. If he betrayed me, he’d betray himself. As he did today,’ Matthew said bitterly.
‘So you let the stone fall?’ Thomas said.
‘You
had a rope about your wrist. I thought that were I to release the stone, it must drag you down and kill you. I was panicked. I didn’t know what else to do!’
‘And Saul?’ Simon said.
‘He shouldn’t have been there,’ Matthew said resentfully. ‘He ought to have been in the works, not hiding under the walls. I didn’t know he was there, not until I saw the legs sticking out from under the rock and realised it had crushed someone.’
‘So Thomas had no part in Saul’s death?’ the Coroner said.
‘He was only the intended victim,’ Simon agreed.
‘Which hardly makes him culpable,’ Sir Peregrine nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘Except we still do not know who was the murderer of Henry and the Friar, and the would-be assassin of Sir Baldwin,’ Simon pointed out.
‘Wasn’t that him too?’
‘No, I had nothing to do with their deaths. Saul’s death was an accident, and you can’t make me confess to the others. They were nothing to do with me!’
‘And the sun doesn’t rise in the east,’ Sir Peregrine said, smiling.
Jeanne had called for some wine to help Sara’s recovery, and she was glad to hear the steps at the door. It opened cautiously, and she saw Stephen standing there, holding a jug and some cups on a tray. He proffered the tray to Edgar, who glanced at Jeanne, busy with the sick woman, then set his sword at Baldwin’s feet and took the tray. Even as he turned to take it to Jeanne, she saw the pale face of Stephen looking at Baldwin, not even shooting a glance at Sara, and she wondered why. It wasn’t important, she told herself, taking a moment to reflect on the importance of Edgar in her life. Without him, her husband would certainly be dead already, because his trusted servant had been at his side in almost all the dangerous situations he had experienced during his life. Edgar was the most devoted, loyal and obedient servant she had ever known.
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.
Chapter Twenty-Six
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.
The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) Page 36