‘Christ!’ he muttered. The prospect before him was not one to inspire cheerfulness.
Still, he must persevere. Fear of William’s retribution was one thing: his fear of God’s wrath was infinitely more pressing. He would find poor, scarred Nicholas and beg forgiveness — but first he would go to the Cathedral and offer a prayer to show how sorry he was to have participated in the murder. It couldn’t hurt.
He stopped at the entrance to the Fissand Gate and peered down at the Cathedral. It looked so forbidding, he was tempted to turn around and go straight home again. The scaffolding which rose about the truncated walls looked eerily like giant polearms, as though God had sent a force of great angels to capture him and harry him down to hell. The thought was enough to make the saddler feel sick.
Right in front of him was the Charnel Chapel, a plain block, pointing towards the Cathedral’s western front, with a pair of doorways. One gave into the chapel itself, while the second opened onto a flight of steps which led down to the undercroft where the bones were neatly stored.
Henry shivered with revulsion, not because of the remnants of the dead, but because this undistinguished charnel block was the site of his greatest sin.
At the time it had seemed so simple, so straightforward. John Pycot the Dean was a local man, from Exeter, and Henry had believed him to be the better judge of what was best for the Cathedral, rather than some outsider like Quivil. Just because he’d been made a Bishop didn’t make the man infallible. And anyway, everyone knew perfectly well that he didn’t even have the support of his own Archbishop. It was only natural that when Quivil went and installed Walter de Lecchelade as his henchman and spy to counteract the beneficial influence of Dean John, that Lecchelade himself should become the target.
For Henry it was a matter of his personal belief in and allegiance to the Dean. John was an endearing man, the sort of fellow who could easily instill trust in a youth. He was interested in Henry, treated him with politeness and respect, which wasn’t normal for an apprentice saddler. Usually they were granted a level of disdain which fell only slightly short of contempt.
It was that easiness in the presence of other Exeter folks that endeared Dean John to so many, although others were keen to help him from less worthy motives. Henry knew that some, like Peter, were determined to slaughter Walter Lecchelade to further their own ambitions, aware that they’d be more secure if they helped their Dean to put this foreign Bishop firmly in his place.
Even those who sought political advantage were preferable to the others, who were only in it for the money; they repelled Henry just as they must any man with a conscience. He had no dislike of money, naturally enough; money was essential for any man, but some would betray their own master for financial gain.
As he had this thought, he swallowed his anxiety and forced himself onwards. At the gate itself he saw the beggar, John Coppe, sitting at his accustomed post; he threw him half a penny, as though that small donation could in some way redeem him for the harm done to Nicholas by his companions while the Friar was trying to defend his master. It was a strange coincidence, that Coppe too had lost his right eye in a sweeping blow which had raked down his face from temple to jaw.
The darkness of the narrow gateway always gave Henry the curious sense of some gloomy region that wasn’t quite of this world; entering the tall houses on either side prevented the sun from reaching the cobbles. And then suddenly he was out in the wide expanse of grass which was the Close, confronted with the mass of the Cathedral itself. It was an exciting moment, and just as he always had been, Henry was impressed. Even with the scaffolding about the sections of wall that were still being erected, even with the mess of builders and masons and all the labourers lying at its foot, the Cathedral was a marvellous, living entity, a symbol of God but also a growing proof of Exeter’s own importance.
As he strode along the grass among the workmen, he heard a voice address him.
‘Master Saddler! I am pleased to see you again.’
‘Udo … I am glad to see you, too,’ Henry said with a sinking heart.
Thomas was at an inn when the commotion began.
There was a clear, tinkling noise like a bell, and then he heard voices shouting. A bellow roared out, followed by a scream and then a rumbling noise … He quickly downed his quart of ale and went out after the other patrons into the street.
The row seemed to be coming from the entrance to the Priory. As Thomas hurried up Fore Street he joined a gang of children who were capering along too, and some women. Even a few hawkers who apparently had little better to do were giving in to their curiosity. All those with more urgent things to do were already over beyond Carfoix, Thomas said to himself moodily.
Further up the street, the crowd increased, and soon Thomas could not see the Priory gate itself for the press of men and women thronging the path.
The screams were much louder now, and made the blood run cold. Necks craned, there were confused shouts and then the press of people parted as the first of the wounded appeared — a girl, eyes wide in terror, arms outstretched, pushing and wailing, desperate to get away. Thomas grabbed her arms and tried to calm her, to get her to explain what had happened, but she only mewed like a cat, and as soon as she could, pulled away and bolted past him.
People were suddenly melting away, and Thomas barged onwards, not certain why, but convinced that he must get forwards, to the front.
Later it became clear what must have happened, but at that moment, when he reached the Priory’s wall, he gasped in shock as he, and those around him, found themselves confronted by the pile of bodies.
So many, he found it hard to believe. Some at the top were still twitching, but those beneath were still, their eyes open, blood dripping from scratches and scrapes, hands and feet mingled in a hideous mound of death. All about there was a strange, tragic silence.
Thomas doubted that there could be any survivors in that monstrous heap, and yet someone must make sure. Reaching for the first, he tentatively pulled at the scrawny ankles until the thinly dressed figure of a girlchild of maybe nine years fell on the cobbles before him — a pretty little waif, with round face and fair hair. ‘My God!’ he exclaimed, his throat constricted with the horror, and reached for the next. ‘Help me!’
Other willing hands were soon at work, and they began hauling bodies aside. Some were still breathing, and these they set apart, but the dead were the larger group, and it was easy to see why. They were all malnourished, the children with rickets, the adults with the yellow or grey skin that spoke of illness and hunger.
It was when he had pulled the fourth body from that obscene mound that he found Saul’s wife, poor Sara.
Udo extended his hand and nodded to the saddler.
‘I … er, I’m pleased to see you so well,’ Henry stammered.
‘Ja, well, your physician is very good,’ Udo said with a grimace. ‘He bled me twice, and assures me I can expect to have a full recovery.’
‘I am very glad to hear it!’ Henry said effusively.
Udo glanced at him. ‘It was exceedingly painful,’ he noted.
God in heaven, but how painful he could never describe. The physician, Ralph of Malmesbury, had arrived with two assistants, both carrying large leather bags filled with the tools of their trade. Almost as soon as he entered Udo’s hall, he subjected the room to a cursory investigation, and only when he had noted Udo’s silver plate and the pewter jug and goblet on the table at his side did he show any desire to study the patient himself. Blasted physicians always wanted to make sure a man could pay before bothering to exert themselves.
‘I understand you fell from your horse?’ Ralph began. He was a chubby fellow, with bright blue eyes set rather too close for comfort, and hair of a faded brown, like a fustian cotte that had been washed too many times. His chins wobbled softly whenever he nodded his head, which he did a great deal as though everything Udo said was merely confirming his initial opinion.