The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) (15 page)

Stephen stopped and looked at him with keen eyes. ‘See the rebuilding? Everybody of any age in this city has seen the rebuilding works all their lives. We of the Chapter are the only
people who truly care about the works, Matthew. And as for a short cut – he lived out on Smythen Street, I’m told. This wouldn’t have been a short cut in any direction.’

‘Then he was here for business,’ Matthew said. ‘After all, who could have wanted to lure him here, as you suggest? You are not suggesting that a member of the Chapter was so angry with a faulty saddle that he killed him, are you?’

‘No,’ Stephen said, ‘but why should he have been killed here if it was nothing to do with the Chapter?’

Matthew shrugged and was about to turn away when the Treasurer clutched his arm. ‘I have just had an awful thought! He was found at the Charnel Chapel, the very place where John Pycot’s men killed Lecchelade …’

‘I know,’ Matt said unemotionally.

‘My apologies – I forgot you were hurt in that attack too.’

‘It is nothing. I recovered well enough. Now, what of this saddler?’

Stephen’s face was paler than usual. A man who adored his ledgers and accounts, he was already pale, but now as he glanced at Matthew, he seemed almost translucent. He shook his head emphatically, a hand going momentarily to his brow. ‘Nothing, nothing. It’s my shock at this killing. Nothing more. No.’

Baldwin went up to his solar as soon as the messenger had set off again, and stood at his chest for a long time before he could work up the enthusiasm to open it.

He had wanted only to return here, but his infidelity had made his homecoming a hollow reward after his travels. All the time in Galicia and Portugal he had looked forward to once more being able to hold his wife in his arms, but then he had almost died, and his arms had embraced another. It shouldn’t
have affected him, but it had. He felt as though his marriage had been shredded by that one act.

His sword was on top of the chest, and he pulled the blade out partway to peer at the cross carved into the peacock-blue steel. The smith had used a burin to etch the shape, and then hammered gold wire into it. It formed a Templar cross, to remind himself always of where he had come from, and the men with whom he had lived.

Baldwin had been a
Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon
, a Knight Templar, almost from the moment of leaving Acre when it fell in 1291, until 1307 when the knights were all arrested on the orders of the French King. It was the injustice of the capture, torture and murder of his companions which had led to his returning to England afterwards, determined to seek a quieter life in the Devon countryside and avoiding contact with any men in positions of power. He detested politicians after the French King’s betrayal of the Templars purely for his own benefit, and he couldn’t trust even the Church, for the Pope himself had left the Templars to rot in gaols, then aided the King in stealing all their possessions.

That was, perhaps, the guiding treachery which lighted his path thereafter. The Pope had been the ultimate leader of the Templars. They owned fealty to no man, no man on God’s earth, other than His vicar, the Pope. No baron, earl or King could command a Templar knight; only the Pope himself. Yet he had deserted them to their fate. The accusations levelled against the Order were so vast and all-encompassing that few of the men could present a case for their defence, yet they were not permitted the advice of even one lawyer. Their destruction was assured.

So Baldwin returned to learn that his older brother was
dead, and he was the owner of the small manor of Furnshill near Cadbury in Devonshire. Except he was not to be allowed to wallow in his feelings of hurt and misery. Soon after his arrival, he met Simon Puttock, and shortly thereafter he was given the post of Keeper of the King’s Peace as a result of Simon’s lobbying.

He had been content here in Furnshill, he had been happy as a Keeper; yet there was something that now, when he looked back over his life, seemed to be gnawing at him. Partly, he supposed, it might be due to his marriage.

When he had joined the Knights Templar, he had taken the threefold vows. The Knights were warrior monks, and although they lived as men-at-arms, they also lived apart from the secular world. They had a Rule which had been written for them by Saint Bernard himself, and Baldwin had adhered to it. He had sworn before God, accepting his Order’s harsh demands of obedience, poverty – and
chastity
. When he had left the Order, that had been the most difficult to adhere to, but he had recognised his loneliness, and he felt that in the absence of a Grand Master to obey, his other vows might equally be considered redundant.

That was fine, but still he had qualms. And these had magnified a hundredfold since his adultery. It made him feel less a man, more a beast. If only he had resisted … but he had not. And now, perhaps, he should confront the whole sin.

His marriage, although built upon love and, until now, mutual trust and respect, was surely foul in the eyes of God? Other Templars had managed to escape the fires and find their ways to alternative Orders, some joining the Benedictines or Cistercians. Provided that they went to an Order whose Rule was more stringent than the Templars’ own, they were permitted,
once the French King had raped their treasury and stolen all he could from their preceptories, to go into another House. Those who refused and lived were likely to be found begging on the streets of Paris.

He loved Jeanne, but how could she love him, if she were to discover that he had been so false to her?

Hearing a step behind him, he turned and saw his wife entering. ‘Jeanne.’

‘I wanted to know if I might help you to prepare for your journey.’

He saw, with a stab in his heart, that she had been crying. ‘My dearest, my Jeanne, I will not be gone for long,’ he said.

‘Of course not, Husband,’ she said. ‘I shall wait your return. And I shall always hold my love for you deep in my heart.’

He thrust the sword back into the scabbard and began to bind the belt about his waist. Unaccountably, her ignorance of his behaviour, and her sweet acceptance of his treatment of her made him feel a sudden anger, as though she was being unreasonable in the face of his own offence.

‘Sir, have I upset you?’

Her voice, so low, so level and yet so brittle, as though she was about to break down into tears of despair, made him glance at her again, and this time his anger was washed away by his guilt, but also his recollection of his love for her. ‘Oh Jeanne, Jeanne, come here!’

He put his arms about her and buried his face in her shoulder, eyes squeezed tight shut, and muttered, ‘Jeanne, don’t worry. There’s just something … I need to think about it, that’s all. I am not another Liddinstone, Jeanne.’

She stiffened to hear the name of her first husband, but then she seemed to melt into his embrace, and he felt her arms
reciprocate his hug. ‘Come home soon, Husband. I will miss you.’

‘I know,’ he whispered, hardly trusting his voice.

‘I love you,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t leave me.’

He felt his treachery like a blade in his throat.

‘What is it, Joel?’

He was still sitting in his great chair staring at the fire when his wife Maud entered, and he didn’t hear her at first.

‘Hmm?’ he grunted, then smiled. ‘Oh, it’s you. I was miles away.’

‘So I saw,’ she chuckled. She was a contented woman. Although their marriage had not been blessed with children, she and Joel had been together for almost six and thirty years now, and while she was feeling her age at all of four and fifty, and he no longer looked like the fresh-faced joiner she had married so many years ago, her affection for him had only deepened over the years. He saw to her needs, providing her with money and clothing, and in return she saw to it that his household was managed well and that his table was always overflowing with food.

‘Miles away? Leagues, more likely, Husband,’ she murmured. She was carrying a handful of scented herbs for their mattress, but catching sight of his expression again, she paused, then set them down on the table. ‘What is it?’

‘Henry. It’s such a shock.’

‘The market’s full of the news of it. He was found in St Edward’s Chapel, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes. Look, I didn’t tell you this, but Mabilla came here and accused me of killing him.’

‘What! That’s ridiculous!’

‘Of course,’ he said.

But there was something in his voice that made her look more closely at him. ‘You wouldn’t have hurt him, would you?’ she asked slowly.

‘My dear, of course not!’ he said more emphatically, and he smiled into her eyes, but when she returned his smile, she saw a blankness there, a space where once there would have been conviction, and she was suddenly aware of a sense of fear.

Thomas had taken Sara straight to her house, carrying her in his arms like a child. She weighed scarcely more than a girl. She clung to him while she sobbed, her face buried deep in his throat.

‘I don’t know what to do! I can’t continue like this!’

‘I’m so sorry about him …’

They had found Elias’s body very close to Sara. The child’s arm had been outstretched, as though in his final moment he was reaching out towards her. Thomas had tried to cover the little face, but he was too late and he heard her give a sudden intake of breath, then the low, animal moaning as she shook her head from side to side in frantic denial of this latest horror.

‘Sara, I’m so sorry,’ was all he had been able to say. The boy’s arm was snapped cleanly in two places, and the blood dripped like a viscous oil from the second gash above his elbow where the bones were thrust through the thin sheath of flesh. Yet there was no mark of suffocation about his face, and no sign of pain or anguish, just a terrible vacancy in his dead eyes.

In the end it took Thomas and two other men from the street to pull the young woman away from her trampled child, Thomas himself carrying Elias’s slack form off to the Cathedral.

They were most kind in there. Janekyn Beyvyn; the porter at the gate, directed them to a priestly-looking canon, and Thomas recognised the Almoner. This fellow took Sara to a
house nearby, in which a midwife lived, and she drew Sara indoors immediately, to give her comfort and a soothing draught. That was last afternoon, and now Thomas was taking her home again after the funeral.

‘You have no family here?’

‘None,’ she whispered. Her voice was rough and raw from weeping, and Thomas found his own breast spasm as though he was about to weep at any moment. He felt appalling guilt that she should have been reduced to this.

When he first saw her, only a fortnight ago, she had been a beautiful young woman. And then came the miserable accident that took her man away from her, reducing her status to that of a widow, and depriving her two sons of a father. The fact that there was no money in Saul’s purse when he died meant she had to rely on the alms given by the Priory. Her son’s death was a direct consequence of Thomas’s negligence in killing her husband. This woman’s misery was entirely his responsibility.

They reached the house and he kicked the door wide. Sara moved hardly at all in his arms, and he set her down on a stool while he unrolled her palliasse and spread blankets over it to make her bed. Then he took her up and placed her gently upon it.

‘Where is my son?’ she asked pathetically. ‘Where is Dan?’

‘He’s down the way,’ Thomas said, putting his sore palms under his armpits. ‘I sent a man here last evening to find him and see to his safety. He should be all right. Now, I am going to leave you a while and find a little food for you. All you need do is wait here.’

She looked at him. Her eyes were red, her mouth a vivid gash, and her whole manner that of a woman who had lost everything. ‘Just send me my son … my only boy.’

Thomas nodded, then fled.

First he went to the woman’s hut where Dan had been installed. He saw that the boy was well and fed, then hurried to the market, buying pies and wine with the few pennies he possessed. When he arrived back, the same woman who had last thrown him from the place was there again, but this time she was less severe, telling him her name was Jen and even smiling once or twice.

‘Thank you for helping her,’ she said in a low tone when Sara seemed to have fallen asleep with the exhaustion of despair. ‘Sara will need all the help she can get after the last two weeks.’

‘I’ll do anything I can,’ Thomas said. ‘But … I don’t know what I can do to help. I can try to bring food and drink …’

‘That’ll do for a start.’

‘She told me she has no family here. I thought her accent was strange. Is there no one?’

‘No. You know what it’s like for these workers on great buildings. Saul was a good mason, and he followed his master from one church or cathedral to another. This was the latest of the great buildings he’d worked on. Their families are somewhere else. I don’t know where.’

‘So she has no one she can rely on?’

‘No one.’

Thomas nodded, staring at the woman on the bed for a long moment. He would do anything to bring the smile back to her face. That lovely, radiant smile: the one he had erased for ever, just as his rock had wiped away her husband’s face.

William stood in the entranceway of the tavern, leaning on his old staff.