The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) Read online

  Not that it could help Udo since that damned fall two days ago. He winced as he tested his bruised arm. At least it was improving since the physician’s visit. Ralph of Malmesbury charged a small fortune for his treatment, but he was good.

  Udo had seen Julia first in the market, when she was still a foolish, gangling creature, all coltish and clumsy. He had glanced at her, but there was nothing there to desire. Nothing that could make him wish to take her to his bed.

  Since then, he had seen the girl more regularly. Her parents brought her to his church. Henry he knew moderately well. He was a saddler, with a thriving business and a good head for profit. Yes, a man whom Udo could admire. Strong in his beliefs, and respected among the men of Exeter, Henry was a useful potential father-in-law. His wife, Mabilla, was one of those strong, quiet women whom Udo rather liked. She watched and witnessed much, but saw no need to open her mouth and chatter inanely all the while. With luck, her daughter Julia would follow her in this quiet attitude. Although in middle age, Mabilla was still handsome, and she had the carriage of a much younger woman. A man would be proud to have her on his arm.

  But Julia. Julia!

  God, but she was lovely. The gauche young maid had grown into a beautiful young woman with the fair skin and hair of his homeland. She had stopped tripping and stumbling; now she glided like an angel. And her smile was the most seductive he had ever seen.

  He was besotted.

  Which was why he had bought the damned thing from her idiot father in an attempt to inveigle his way into the family. What better method to get to know them than by purchasing a saddle? He needed a new one anyway.

  He had walked to Henry’s hall by way of Ham’s cookshop. There he bought some of Ham’s finest little pastries and cakes. Tarts filled with flavoured custards were the ideal way to win the heart of a maid and her mother. It was little gifts like these which made the difference between a failed negotiation and a successful one. He entered the hall, he spoke at length to the saddler, discussed the leathers and decorations, and agreed the deal. Only then did he offer the basket of cakes for the saddler’s wife and daughter with no further comment, merely a stiff nod, and, ‘May I present these for your lady wife and your daughter with my compliments?’ as he left the shop.

  There. All done; all easy. They must wonder at his motives – but not for long. A logical man like Henry would soon discern the thinking behind the gift.

  Two days ago a messenger had come from the saddler. Henry had asked to see him and his horse to try out the new saddle, and so Udo took his best rounsey over to Henry’s hall, binding the reins to the ring in the wall before knocking.

  The saddle was magnificent. Supple, soft, it felt like he was sitting on a cushion. He mounted as soon as the horse was grown accustomed to its weight, and tried it out, trotting up the road, then turning and riding back a little faster.

  ‘How do he feel?’ Henry called after him in his thick Devon accent as he passed the man’s hall again, but Udo didn’t speak. To him, this was one of the most wonderful sensations in the world, riding a good horse with a fine saddle beneath him. He glanced about him, then gave a short twitch of his rein-end to his rounsey’s rump, and cantered gently down the hill towards the wall. Reining in at the bottom, he snapped his horse’s head about and set off back up the hill towards Henry.

  And it was then that the devil tempted him.

  Udo was a good horseman. He knew that. There was hardly a horse he hadn’t managed to bring to his command in a short time, and this rounsey was one of the best pieces of horseflesh in the city, so when he saw the object of his affections in the window to the upper chamber of the hall, he spurred his mount on, just like any churl who sought to impress his young woman.

  He galloped up the hill, cobbles sparking where the flying hooves caught them. Up, up, and then, as he drew level with the hall, he wrenched the horse to a halt. There was a crack, a ripping sound, and suddenly he wasn’t in the saddle any more. Something had happened behind him – he couldn’t tell what, but suddenly all support had gone – and then he felt himself sliding sideways and backwards, over the horse’s backside. With a final despairing wail, he toppled, and had just enough good sense to throw out his arms and break his fall before his head slammed onto the cobbles.

  The pain was instantaneous. A thrust of agony shot from his shoulder to his throat, and for an instant he thought he must be about to die, but then mercifully it abated somewhat, and he could pant cautiously, trying to keep his shoulder still.

  ‘Master! Are you all right?’

  ‘No thanks to you, verdammtes Idiot! Scheisse!’

  ‘Have you hurt your head?’ Henry asked with panic.

  ‘No, my shoulder. Call a physician, man! Your damned saddle could have killed me,’ Udo roared, and then winced. ‘My God! This is terrible.’

  ‘I’ll call the best doctor … and of course I’ll pay for him,’ Henry said miserably, bellowing for a servant.

  ‘You’ll pay for more than that!’ Udo swore.

  So that was why he was here, broken in spirit and body in his hall when he should have been out adding to his treasure. He had been tempted by a maid; the temptation caused him to buy a saddle; and the saddle caused him to dislocate his shoulder.

  The whole incident had cost him dearly.

  When Prior Peter heard of the mason’s death, it served only to lighten his mood a little.

  Peter was not unkind. He had no feelings of hatred or anger towards Saul. In fact, the man’s life or death were immaterial to him. A mason was a necessary fellow, no doubt, and useful when there were buildings which required his services, but any misfortune which happened to strike that damned Chapter was pleasing to Peter.

  He heard of Saul’s death in the small open area south of St Nicholas’s Priory. The gatekeeper had sent a novice for him, and he inclined his head as he listened to the short lad. Peter was a tall man, grey of hair but with startlingly black eyebrows. His face was worn, and somewhat lugubrious, but there was a steely glint in his eyes that spoke of his intelligence. As he listened, the long fingers of his right hand tapped pensively on the wrist of his left – a strange mannerism which some whispered he had learned while in the Bishop’s gaol at the Cathedral. Peter neither knew nor cared what others said: it was merely a habit which he found comforting.

  ‘A man has been killed at the Cathedral? What of it?’ he enquired coolly.

  ‘Prior, he was a mason, and the man here, he wants to find the mason’s wife – to tell her he’s dead. Only no one knows where he lives.’

  ‘He doesn’t live any more,’ Peter said, his attention going to the little gate which led onto the High Street. The gatekeeper was there already, his hand resting on the door’s handle, and through the open way Peter could see the panicky face of the man sent to tell the wife that she was become a widow. ‘Tell him that I can’t help.’

  The novice was quiet a moment, then, ‘May I ask the Almoner, Prior? He may know her.’

  Peter glanced down at him dismissively. ‘If you wish, yes. Now leave me to consider.’

  ‘Yes, Prior,’ and he scampered away.

  Peter continued walking around the open area. It had been his custom to walk about the Priory from the first moment he arrived here. Those years in the Bishop’s gaol – damn Quivil’s memory! – had made him feel uncomfortable in small rooms for any period. As soon as he was released, he had taken to walking, morning and afternoon, out in the open. It mattered not a whit whether it was raining, snowing, or the sun shining. All he knew was that he had a compulsion to go outside and breathe the clean air whenever he had an opportunity.

  The boy had called him ‘Prior’. It was rather pleasant to be so addressed, although ‘my lord Prior’ would have been better. Alas, Peter wouldn’t ever be given that salutation.

  All because of the evening so long ago when he had helped his companions to attack and kill the Chaunter. It was a grievous price he had paid since then. Some had been forced to suffer still
more, and he honoured them, but others had survived, living out their years in comfort, without the penalties which Peter had endured. Even now some were rich merchants in this city, wallowing in their wealth like hogs in the mire. Repulsive people!

  Peter had been looking at a successful career when disaster struck. He had thought that he would be able to move up the ranks of authority within the Cathedral, perhaps one day winning his own Bishopric, if he built enough support for himself along the way. There was no chance of that now. Since his punishment, when he had been thrown from the Cathedral’s Chapter by those hypocritical dogs the canons, he had been forced to renounce all possessions and income. He had been made a monk, had taken the vows, and sent to moulder at Battle Abbey, far from here. There he was expected to live a life of penance for the murder.

  Penance, indeed! The other members of the Chapter well knew what was happening. It was the Bishop’s fault. Quivil had created the hatred and mistrust that had led to the Chaunter’s death, not Peter. Peter was simply one of those who responded to Bishop Quivil’s idiocy by removing his ally.

  It was fortunate that he had been able to return here. Battle Abbey was a hideous place, and when he heard that there was a post here at its daughter house in Exeter, he had pressed to be allowed to return. He had been born here, he knew the area, he knew the air; fortunately his Abbot was an amiable, generous-hearted soul, who looked at the misery on Peter’s face and felt compassion. He agreed, and Peter was given leave. He would never have authority, but he was a good, reliable monk, and he could live out his days in the monastery outside whose walls he had played as a child.

  And then the Abbot at Battle Abbey died. Prior Roger from St Nicholas’s Priory was chosen to rule the Abbey, and when he left Exeter, a new Prior was due to be selected. However, the election was contested, and as there was no clear winner, Abbot Roger asked Peter to caretake the role. So here he was in the position of full power, without the possibility of keeping it.

  All because of the malicious treatment he’d been given by the Cathedral’s Chapter forty years ago, and their vindictive Bishop – may he rot in hell!

  Chapter Two

  Thomas was still feeling that odd juddering in his belly, as if a load of moths were fighting in there. Vicar Matthew had seen his shock, and gave him a little wine to calm his nerves after he’d helped Thomas down from the ruined scaffolding. However, Master Robert de Cantebrigge was entirely unsympathetic, even when he saw Thomas’s raw hands.

  ‘Look at him, you prick! You dropped a ton of rock on the poor bastard, and killed him! That’s criminal carelessness, that is!’

  ‘Christ’s Bones, Master, I didn’t mean it to happen … I don’t know what—’

  ‘You don’t seem to know sod all, do you?’ Robert spat. ‘You can call on Christ as much as you want, but it won’t bring back a bloody good mason, will it?’

  ‘Master, I didn’t mean to … I’m sorry, it was an accident.’

  ‘Oh no, it wasn’t, Tom. You killed him – it was sodding negligence, that’s what. Don’t try to get out of it that way. This was no bleeding accident, laddie – it was near as buggery pure sodding murder!’

  The Master Mason was almost screaming at him, the spittle flying from his mouth, and Tom averted his head. Unwise move – for doing so made him catch sight of the corpse, and that in itself was enough to make a man heave. Sweet Jesus! Saul had no head left, no upper torso. The rock dropping a good thirty feet straight onto his head had completely removed every vestige of humanity above his belly. It was merely a repellent smudge of blood and flattened muscle, with a few yellowish cartilaginous lumps that made Tom want to puke. At one side he saw a single tooth, snapped off and not quite destroyed, but the rest of Saul’s face and features were gone. It was like a chalk picture smeared away with a damp cloth. That was all Saul was now: a smear.

  ‘I can’t bring him back,’ Thomas said sadly, and he could feel the tickling of tears behind his lids. Matthew shouted for linen bandages as he said quietly, ‘I would if I could.’

  ‘No, you can’t, can you? Cretin! Where am I going to find another decent mason like him? God’s Ballocks! What a fucking mess!’

  ‘He was married,’ Matthew said, his voice hushed. He put a comforting arm about Thomas. ‘We should tell his wife.’

  ‘His widow!’ Robert rasped. ‘That prickle can do it. He took her husband from her, let him be the one who explains it to her. I’m damned if I can understand a word he’s said about how he managed to lose the block, myself.’

  Thomas looked back up at the pulley at the top of the crane. Still lashed to the hook was the metal wedge that should have remained inside the block, while whips of rope were tossed from side to side in the wind, their ends frayed where they’d broken. That was the first crack he had heard, when those ropes snapped under the weight of the rock. One, he saw, was still blackened with his own blood where he’d tried to hold it. His hands were raw, the flesh stripped from the palms, and he’d covered both with pieces of linen he’d hacked from his own shirt. They’d be dreadfully painful for days, he knew.

  His rope and the others weren’t supposed to support all that ponderous mass. It should have been the iron wedge that took the weight. How could it have slipped out? He couldn’t have thrust the wedge in properly. That was the only explanation. Robert was right: his negligence had killed Saul.

  Poor Saul. Thomas had known him slightly. There were so many men working here on the rebuilding of the Cathedral that it was hard to get to know even all the stone-workers, let alone the members of the other crafts. Saul was a foreigner, Thomas remembered hearing. One of those who’d been working on some other project with Robert de Cantebrigge and had been brought here with him. That was how Master Masons made sure that their work was up to scratch. They kept a stable of good workers with them, taking them from one job to another, so that hopefully when the Master Mason had to go to another site, he could leave his men working together, knowing what he would expect them to do.

  It was a hard life, building churches and cathedrals. Saul had been too young to know the misery associated with growing older in the trade: the bones that ached in the mornings on a winter’s day, the sudden cramps in the legs, the back that locked and wouldn’t move, the weariness at the end of a summer’s day when every moment of daylight had to be used to the full; no matter that your fingers were scratched and bruised, the nails ripped out from the last falling rock you tried to lift onto the wall, nor that your arms refused to lift another pebble, they were so exhausted. The work was the thing. Any man here on the site must work as quickly as possible to bring to fruition the creation that men would look on for evermore, thinking, That, that is God’s House.

  But a Master Mason didn’t only have one project on the go at a time. He was a skilled engineer, hence much of a man like Robert de Cantebrigge’s life was spent on horseback travelling from one city to another, monitoring each of his building projects and making sure that they remained on target.

  Saul had been with him longer than Thomas. That was the thing. It was why Robert would probably never forgive Thomas. He had taken away one of Robert’s best, youngest, strongest men, and finding a suitable willing replacement would prove a considerable headache.

  And now Thomas had come to see the Almoner at St Nicholas’s Priory, to trace the whereabouts of Saul’s wife.

  ‘You wished to know where a certain woman lives?’

  The Almoner was an austere-looking man who listened gravely as Thomas explained his mission.

  ‘What a tragic event,’ he said when Thomas was finished. ‘I knew Saul slightly. A good man – he often gave to the poor. And his woman seems good, too. They have two children. Little boys, both of them. This will be grave news for her, poor Sara.’

  ‘I would do anything I could to escape telling her,’ Thomas muttered. ‘Even if it meant taking his place. It’s not right for a boy to grow without a father.’

  ‘It’s not right for a man to consider self-murde
r, either,’ the Almoner said sharply. ‘I hope you are not speaking in earnest. Saul is dead because God thought this was his time; when it is your time, God will call you too.’

  ‘I wouldn’t kill myself,’ Thomas declared. ‘But I wish he wasn’t dead.’

  ‘That is good. You shouldn’t hanker after the death of another, no matter who he might be,’ the Almoner said approvingly.

  He began to give directions. Apparently Saul and his wife had lived in the easternmost corner of the city, in the area vacated by the Franciscans when they moved to their new six-acre site down outside the southern wall.

  ‘As soon as the friars were gone, a small army of the poorer elements of the city took it over, building their own sheds from dung and straw and roofing them with thatch. Now they live there in their own little vill, made by themselves for themselves.’

  ‘I have never been there,’ Thomas admitted. ‘I live at the Cathedral while the works go on.’

  ‘You have a local man’s accent, though,’ the Almoner noted.

  ‘I used to live near here, but I left when I took up my trade,’ Thomas said quickly. He still feared being discovered. For all he knew, he could still be taken and hanged.

  The Almoner was too rushed with other work to notice his defensiveness. ‘Well, go back to Fore Street, take the first street on the right, and follow that all the way to the end. That will bring you to the friars’ old compound, and you’ll find all the huts there. I think that Saul and Sara’s was the third on the left as you bear round to the right, just before the left-hand turn in the road. She used to have a door of limed oak – but I don’t know if she still has. A door like that is expensive, and many up there would be keen to filch it, I don’t doubt. So remember to count.’

  ‘I thank you, Master Almoner,’ Thomas said, respectfully ducking his head low as he set off.

  As the man had said, it was easy to find the place. Where the Friary had been, the workers had removed all the building material, razing the old house and leaving nothing but a wasteland. It was here that the poorest of the city had taken up residence, throwing up a series of hovels, each one room and no more. The stench was overwhelming, for although there was a drainage channel cut into the lane leading up, the area itself was relatively flat and, rather than walk to the gutter, people threw their wastes into a huge malodorous midden that lay just to the left of the entrance to the place.