The King’s justice, Thomas sneered to himself. It was an amusing concept, here where a King could choose a man’s fate, whether he should live or die, on a whim.
Still, at least his own father wasn’t there any longer. His body would have rotted and fallen away many years ago now.
Chapter Five
Sara woke to a miserable morning, feeling as though the cold had penetrated her very marrow. She wriggled further under the scratchy fustian blankets. They smelled of the damp, of cats’ pee, but it was better than rising. Outside, the rain was sheeting down. There was a growing puddle by the door, spreading slowly across the floor and curving back towards the wall, and she watched it dully for a few minutes. The idea of going outside to fetch water and empty her bladder was unappealing.
A widow must shift for herself, though. She embraced her boys, pulling them to her. Eight-year-old Dan was reluctant, as though such behaviour was too immature for him now he was the master of the house, but three-year-old Elias was enthusiastic, as always, and his arms gave Sara a strange feeling of comfort; she had found herself desperate for the little boy’s hugs since Saul’s death. He wanted as much of her warmth as he could take, and he happily snuggled closer. Then, when Dan had already risen and was trying to strike a spark from his flint and dagger, Sara finally eased herself up and pulled her old cloak about her, tucking the bedclothes in around Elias. She kissed him, then went to the door and peered out.
Rain was falling like spears, pelting into the mud about the huts. All was so wet, it was like staring at the sea. She shivered and pulled her cloak tighter, and hurried outside. Behind her hut was a little lean-to shack with her wood neatly stored on either side. Here she squatted over the hole Saul had dug for them when he built this little home for his family, and cleaned herself as best she could with a damp rag. Grabbing a bucket, she ran out to the walls near the West Gate, filled it with water and carried it back home up the hill, careful not to slip on the wet cobbles. Manure lying on the streets could make walking hazardous in this weather.
She was soaked. Still, at least Dan had managed to light the fire. The room was already filled with smoke as the dry tinder caught and started to singe the bits and pieces of wood shaving he’d put over them. He was still crouched on all fours, arse in the air, head down, like a puppy begging to play, when she entered.
Tipping a little water into her ewer, she rinsed her face, then grabbed a reluctant Elias and washed his face too. Dan would do his own later. Her children were always hungry. It was not something that would improve, she knew. So many children died too young to have ever known a full belly. Of all her friends about this city, not one hadn’t lost a child. All knew the pain of loss, just as she did herself. Her only daughter, little Claricia, had died just before her second birthday. It had been a close thing for Elias, too.
‘Oh God, let us find some food today!’ she murmured under her breath.
It was two weeks since Saul’s death, and still she found herself willing him back, as though he had gone travelling and must soon return. Somehow, she couldn’t quite believe that she’d never see him again.
Dan was coping with the loss. He was a little rock, he was. Strong, he had nodded when he was told, and then sniffed a little, before declaring that he would have to start breaking up the firewood as his father always had before. He felt the responsibility of being master of the family very strongly. Bless him, he’d even borrowed old Jen’s hatchet, since he couldn’t lift Saul’s axe.
Elias was too small to understand. He had seen dead men before, of course, but he somehow thought of them as something else. His own father couldn’t have gone. Sara had seen the disbelief in his eyes as she told him. He’d listened as she explained he was dead and couldn’t come home again, and then he’d asked for some food, and while he chewed his bread, he said, ‘It’s all right, he’s bound to come back soon.’
The funeral was a blur. She’d seen little, her eyes were so fogged with tears, and when they carried her husband’s pathetic half-body outside, the heavens had opened again. There were inches of water in the grave, and a man nearly fell in as they were settling his body in his hole. Sara had stood there staring down at him, trying to remember his smile, his kind brown eyes, his mouth fixed in that half-smile he always wore. She tried to remember his hands about her waist, on her breasts, how his arms felt as they pulled her towards him in one of his great hugs — and found that all these memories and more were already fading. He was gone: the staunch defender of her and their children was dead, and there was nothing she could do to change the fact.
Elias looked terrible today. The rain was abating somewhat, and in the feeble light, she could see that his face had a sickly tinge to it, and she sighed as she mixed the greens into her bowl for pottage. He needed more sustenance — meat and eggs, not a weak broth of Good King Henry, Alexanders, some peas and a handful of beans. It wasn’t enough to keep a lad together.
She would go to the Priory again and see if she could beg some food. A rich fishmonger had died, so she had heard, and part of his bequest was a great donation of food from the gate of the Priory of St Nicholas, bread and fish from the Almoner. If she could get a little fish and bread, it would make all the difference to her boys. They needed their food so desperately. She would go and plead with the Almoner.
Nicholas was already out. He had visited a church to preach, but the priest had refused him entry, and Nicholas was left to kick his heels outside. Rather than do that, he decided to go and have another look at the Cathedral. A keen urge prompted him to take a look at the Charnel Chapel, even though the rain was still falling steadily. It didn’t bother Nicholas much. He was used to all weathers.
It was a strange little building. Dedicated to St Edward the Confessor, because it was built in honour of King Edward I who had come to hear the trials after the murder, Nicholas thought it a peculiar place. Of course, all cemeteries had the same problem: if the religious establishment had been there for a while, when new bodies were ready to be interred, the pit-digger would keep coming up with old bones, and where should one store them? Bones took so long to rot down compared with flesh and blood. The favoured route was to put up a little chapel like this with a large storeroom beneath in which the bones could be installed, while above prayers were said for all the poor dead.
This was an innovation since Nicholas’s departure. When he had lived in the Cathedral’s grounds, he had truly lived here, on the spot where the chapel now stood, when this place had been the home of Walter de Lecchelade, the Chaunter.
No one had said what had happened to the old house. Presumably it was an accident: a fire had razed it to the ground, or a supporting beam had collapsed. It was of no importance. The place was only a building, when all was said and done, whereas this little chapel was significant. It protected people, giving a shelter to their remains while annuellars prayed for their souls.
It was as likely that after Walter’s murder the Chapter decided to remove the memory by eradicating his house. And they honoured the King while so doing.
Naming it after King Edward was fair, Nicholas considered. After all, if it weren’t for him, the guilty might never have been punished.
This was the first chance he’d had to take stock of the Cathedral since he had arrived, and now he studied the place with interest.
When he was living with the Chaunter, he had been prone to walking about the works, and he had been fascinated by the way that the workmen had gone about their tasks. Of course in those days they were working on the eastern range of the Cathedral, whereas now that end was completed and the men were attacking the nave and western front, bringing it up to the same height as the rest. It meant that scaffolding and equipment were standing apparently all higgledy-piggledy about the main entranceway. Also, the masons, smiths and carpenters had brought all their tools so as to have them closer to where the work was being conducted.