‘What is all this?’ Stephen demanded, gazing from one to the other. ‘This is Church land! What are you doing here, Coroner? You have no rights here, what’s the meaning of your intrusion?’
Baldwin cut across the Coroner’s explanation. ‘We’re trying to prevent another murder, man! The murderer came here to hide and we need to find her.’
‘Her?’ Stephen gasped.
‘Wake up, Canon! Who knows this area best?’
‘Um… I suppose the architect, but he’s not here, he’s…’
‘Henry, Sir Baldwin,’ came the calm, unhurried voice of Gervase. ‘Henry knows all the Cathedral precinct. He has to, from running and hiding from people all the time.’
‘Fetch him.’
Gervase didn’t move but instead bellowed Henry’s name at the top of his voice. There was no sign for a moment that anyone had heard, beyond one Annuellar, who happened to bear the same name, looking up anxiously, but then there was a rush of pattering feet and Henry appeared from the direction of the Bear Gate with what looked like a suspiciously innocent expression on his face. Gervase didn’t miss it, but passed the lad to Baldwin without comment.
‘Henry, the murderer who killed Peter is here somewhere, but we don’t know where. Do you know where someone could hide?’
‘The tunnel,’ Henry said immediately.
There was a stone in his sandal. Jolinde groaned and sighed, then leaned against the wall with one hand while he fumbled in the dark to untie the thongs about his ankle which bound it. Releasing the sandal, he felt something damp and slippery on the sole and withdrew his hand in disgust as the noisome odour reached his nostrils. ‘Dog’s turd; oh, God’s teeth!’
The shoe fell with a soft ‘plop’ into a puddle and he peered downwards in an attempt to pierce the murk. ‘Oh, God’s body – what next?’ he breathed, his foot still in mid-air, one hand on the stones of the rough wall.
It was no more than he deserved, really, after spending the previous night with Claricia, missing the night’s Mass as he and she made love and slept fitfully, but since the death of Peter he was growing ever more depressed and unconvinced of his potential as a priest. He had taken his father’s money, agreeing to try to ruin another man purely to help Vincent; he had forced his friend to join him in robbing a man; he had failed in his oaths by missing services and spent his time indulging his gluttonous whims and in rutting with his woman. Still, she had agreed to wed him once he had left the Cathedral, so this was probably the last time he would come along the tunnel. It was only really from a sense of shame and embarrassment that he had taken this route rather than walking in boldly through the Fissand Gate.
Gloomily he reached down for his sandal and felt his hand sink into a soft, wet muddy-feeling dampness. It could have been anything, and Jolinde found himself hoping very intently that it was only mud.
It was no good. He couldn’t keep on living his life in two halves: one that of a serious Secondary, the other that of a secular man who enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. He must find a new career. If his father would still agree, he could study a while at University, but if he wouldn’t, Jolinde would find a living as a clerk, either with another merchant, or perhaps with the Coroner. There were always openings for a fellow who could read and count.
As he came to this conclusion, he heard voices and saw a glimmer of light ahead. The sight made him want to dart back along the passage, but then he realised that with his new resolution there was no point. He would meet them, whoever they were.
Bracing himself and squaring his shoulders, he held his head high and marched towards the light.
There was a flash at his side and he froze with terror as the gleams of light caught a blade that swooped towards him. He screamed, thinking it was some appalling horror from the grave which was setting upon him; he could almost smell the putrefaction of the corpse.
Leaping back convulsively, he saw the razor-edged knife flash past his breast. Before he could say a word, it was reaching towards him again, up to his throat, and he was aware of maddened eyes in front of him. Jerking his head to one side, he felt the swift dragging at his flesh as the dagger sliced through his cheek and on up to his eyebrow. There was no pain, not yet, and he was only aware of a slickness, as if he had broken out into a heavy sweat. Jumping backwards again, he tried to escape the fast-moving blade, but it seemed impossible. His chest was open and unprotected. He saw rather than felt the blade sink into his upper body, grating against his collar-bone, before it was pulled out and came back.
Sobbing with shock and scared beyond his wits, he could do little more than keep moving back, for ever trying to get beyond the range of the knife, but then he was saved by a loose stone. With a muffled cry, he fell on his rump. His assailant hadn’t noticed and even as he scrambled to escape, Hawisia fell headlong over him. He felt the dagger pierce his thigh and clapped a hand to it before she could take it again. With a strength born of sheer panic and terror, he tugged it free and stabbed once, twice, three times, and was rewarded by the twitching and shivering which he recognised as his assailant’s death throes.
It was only then, as her blood seeped over him and her body gradually became flaccid in death, that he recognised his attacker from her odour. He could not believe his senses.
Chapter Thirty-One
Vespers, Baldwin thought, had to be among the most tedious of all church services. It was invariably later than it should be, because the priests all wanted to let their meals sink down beforehand and would sit around drinking their fine wine while the congregation waited patiently, but at least tonight, on the eve of the feast of the Holy Innocents, there was a subtly different feeling to the place.
The light had long since fled. In the Cathedral there was a thick fug, composed of the smell of sweat and the herbs and spices carried by the richer people in the city to conceal it. Damp clothing gave off various scents: fur smelled of wet dogs, leather stank of burned wood or urine. The effect of these different odours in such a confined area was powerful upon Baldwin. Fortunately, they were driven off by the wafting clouds of pungent smoke which issued from the censers.
All this was normal, but tonight as Baldwin stood in the nave of the Cathedral, his wife on one side, his friend on the other, he could sense that the atmosphere had greatly improved. Only this morning the place had been filled with panic-stricken folk who were fearful of the murderer, and then who wanted to see the body of the dreaded woman who had so unsettled the city. Her body had to be displayed before the Cathedral doors for all to see, because rumours had flown about so speedily, many didn’t believe she had died.
Now all appeared serene. The end of Hawisia’s short reign of terror had fortuitously coincided with the celebration of the boy-Bishop, and all were keen to enjoy themselves. That was obvious from the cheerful, happy attitude of all the people in this great room.
The mood grew lighter still as the boy-Bishop himself appeared, dressed in his miniature mitre, gloves, and carrying his pastoral staff. He was accompanied by Choristers, all likewise dressed in their silken copes. Once at the altar steps, they faced the congregation and sang the text of the Book of Revelation where it spoke of Herod and the slaughter of the innocent boy-children of Israel.
‘Centum quadraginta quattuor milia qui…’
Baldwin could translate it in his mind: ‘The one hundred and forty-four thousand who were redeemed from the earth… They now reign with God and the Lamb of God with them.’