It was many a weary year since he had last been here. After that evil night, he had been taken away to recover, and it was a long time before he could stand and speak. By then, of course, his master was gone, and he had no home at the Cathedral. Or so he felt. It was as though his life had been ended, his family slain about him. When Bishop Quivil visited him in the infirmary, he could only agree with him that it would be more expedient for all, were he to leave Exeter and find his peace in another city. Bishop Quivil had been kindness itself, as he should have been. After all, Nicholas had almost been killed while trying to protect the Bishop’s own man.
It had been for the best. He didn’t regret the decision to leave. When he was well enough, he had taken the cloth of the Grey Friars, living first in London, then York, and now at last he was returning to Exeter, to the city of his youth.
By God, it had changed, though! The Charnel Chapel had given him a surprise when he caught sight of it. It was built on the place where the Chaunter’s home had stood, just by the spot where he had died and where Nick himself had won this fearsome scar.
Recollecting, he had to close his eyes a moment: the boy’s screaming figure running at him, Nicholas grabbing for his dagger, then sweeping it across the fellow’s throat before he could attack anyone, the gush of blood as he fell at Nicholas’s feet, his eyes already clouding, his heels striking at the mud with a staccato rhythm as he drowned in his own fluids — and then the full onslaught of the ambush. Christ’s Pains, but it was an evil night.
As he stood pondering the past, and what might have been, a great shout went up, and shook his head to clear it. Irritably he told himself that there was no need for that kind of noise. It reminded him too much of that awful night.
Turning away, he began to limp off towards the High Street, not seeing the men who threw down their tools and pelted over the Cathedral’s Close to help remove the stone from the broken body of Saul Mason.
Udo Germeyne could hear the roaring from the Cathedral as he sat in his chair, but although he glanced up at the window in his hall, he didn’t go and see what had caused the noise. He had lost interest in everything since the accident. All his plans had gone to pot, simply because he had tried to impress the wench in a moment of foolishness.
This was the cost of love, he told himself. All he had wanted was a little companionship, and instead he was here, a prisoner in his own hall. Mein Gott, but this shoulder hurt!
Women. They were unreliable, weak creatures — but, no matter. He could love, he was sure. A man of fifty — well, five-and-fifty, then — a man like Udo craved companionship. He had lived here in this strange country for many years, ever since he’d come seeking a new life with a parcel or two of skins and an enthusiast’s determination to make money. And his enthusiasm had paid off. He was a successful merchant.
Yes, he was no different from other men. He wanted a woman he could call his own, a woman who would cleave to him and make him whole. She would have a good life with him, and when he died, she would have a marvellous dowry; he would see to that. And by the time he died, he would leave a woman who was mature, educated, and who knew her own mind.
It had been some little while since he first had this idea, that he would like to be married, but it had taken firm hold. Udo was not a man who believed in prevarication. He made a decision, and stuck to it. Udo was lonely, he had much to offer; naturally he should hurry and find a wife. And so he did.
Ach! She would have to have been a fool not to recognise how he felt! He had done all he could to demonstrate his interest in her. Yes, Julia Potell must know that he loved her. At least, her father Henry must, anyway — and he would surely have told her.
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.