‘Who stabbed him? It was a man called Nicholas. Funnily enough,’ he added, ‘it was the same Nicholas who’s dead now. The friar.’
‘This Vincent — where did he come from?’
‘Oh, he was a local boy, I think, but not from inside the city. City men wouldn’t have tried to save that arse Lecchelade.’
‘And afterwards?’ Simon pressed him.
‘Oh, after all that, we bolted. The gate to the south was open, and some men made their getaway through that. Others like me, Henry, and some friends, didn’t need to try that. We knew our way in the city, and we just went home. The Bishop was furious, but no one would ever tell stories on us, not even when he brought up the idea of excommunicating us all. It didn’t matter, we could all get absolution at John Pycot’s door.’
‘It must have made for a miserable time in the Cathedral.’
‘I suppose so. The two camps refused to talk. The Bishop wouldn’t acknowledge the Dean, and the Dean treated him with contempt. That lasted two years or so. In the end the Bishop petitioned the King, the King visited, he tried the city and found it wanting. He executed a couple of people, including the Mayor, and left. That was about it.’
‘Why execute the Mayor?’ Baldwin asked. ‘Was he implicated?’
‘Well, the gate was left wide, so the King saw that the city was complicit in this crime. He wouldn’t slaughter every man, woman and child in Exeter, but he could at least kill the man who represented the city. So poor old Alured de Porta was hanged, along with the gatekeeper of the Southern Gate, because both were thought to have had a part in the ambush.’
He smiled at them both, a sly old man with the eyes of a fox. There was no need to tell these two bumbling fools who it was who’d told the King that the gate had been left open.
Thomas stood at the gate and stared out at the lands beyond. He hesitated for a long moment before coming to a decision.
He couldn’t go, not without seeing her one more time. She was so pretty, so defenceless, and he was responsible for her plight. She’d not want him in her house, but perhaps he could pass by, just to see whether she was all right. And if she wasn’t about, he could leave a gift. Nothing special — he didn’t possess anything special — but maybe a little sum of money, or some bread. Anything to help her. It couldn’t do any harm. Although the urge to commit self-murder had left him after last night, he held little value for his life now. All he had, he could give to her happily.
On the inside of the northern wall here was a street that led down towards the place where she lived among the poorer inhabitants of the city. It didn’t take long to reach her home.
There was no sign of life. The door was shut, no smoke trickled from beneath the thatch, no cries or laughs came from within. It was as still as the grave.
This unwonted silence grated on the mason’s nerves. The lad, Dan, he should have been making a row. It was what youngsters like him would do, shrieking and laughing, running about. Yet now, having lost his father and brother, maybe he simply sought to comfort his depressed mother as she descended into utter despair. A lad of eight or nine years having to cope with the anguish of a widowed woman was heartrending, and all the more so since Thomas was responsible. He had the blood of two members of her family on his hands.
Surely they were not dead? He had to know; he must. Taking a deep breath, he put his hand to the latch and licked suddenly dry lips before pushing the door wide.
The room was unchanged, a dark cell with few belongings. There was no food in evidence. On impulse, he grabbed his purse and untied the thongs that bound it. He’d need a little to buy food on his way, but she had more need of it than he. There was always work for a man like him; he’d easily earn more money. In the name of God, he had to do something to help this woman.
Pulling his purse open carefully so as not to hurt his hands again, he divided the full coins from the clipped fragments and left the whole ones in a neat pile on the table. All the bits and pieces he placed back in his purse and then he bound it tightly once more. He was refastening the thongs to his belt when there was a slight sound behind him. He didn’t recognise it at first, but there was no reason why he should: the unfamiliar noise of a plank of wood whistling through the air, followed by a deafening crack as it struck the back of his skull.
As Vincent made his way down to his father’s tannery the odour of faeces was clear in the cool evening air, and Vince knew that his old man had been preparing more skins. His poor little bastard apprentice must have been out with the scavengers again.
‘Hey, Dad! Where are you, you old fart?’
Last night when he’d left his father, he hadn’t been able to see Wymond’s face, but he knew that internally, he was crushed and broken like a man who’d fallen under a mill-wheel. In one sense, to know at last what had happened to his brother, so long dead, must be a relief — but to hear that it was his brother’s own comrades who had slaughtered him in the belief that he had become an enemy … that was a tough one to swallow.
Vincent was an only child, so the idea of losing a brother was hard to comprehend, but only last year he had lost a friend called Wat who drowned while fording the Exe in winter just to save the cost of the bridge’s toll. Wat had been swept off his feet and sent tumbling two miles downriver. Hearing of his pal’s death had put Vince in a spin. Joel had been good to him that day, too. He’d understood when he found Vince puking in the doorway after getting rat-arsed on cheap wine and rough cider.
‘When I was about your age,’ he had said, ‘I lost a good mate of mine and I got out of my head in the same way. Just remember, a good friend is hard to find, and when you do find one, and he dies, he deserves all honour.’
Somehow that had helped. Vince had gone down to the horse trough at the end of the street and ducked his head deep, coming up blowing and puffing, ready to throw up again, but feeling better for having paid his proper respects to his old companion. Not that it helped over the weeks that passed. He was always aware of Wat’s absence; whenever he wanted to go out for a drink, whenever he’d had a shitty day, whenever he’d had a brilliant day … or whenever it so happened that the sun was shining and the Church had declared that it was to be a feast day for a saint. At each event, he was lonely, and it still could make him sob in the depth of night, when he remembered his dear friend Wattie.
At the time Wymond had clouted him on the back and mumbled in that gruff voice of his, ‘It’s what happens as you grow up, son. Get used to it.’ And then his eyes had clouded, and Vince knew he was thinking of his dead brother again.
‘Oy — old man?’
He pushed the door open to the shack which his father happily called his home. The place was a mess. The table was on its side, his knives and tools all over the floor, as though someone had been in there and fought a bitter fight with Wymond. There was a bow and a quiver of arrows near the door, and Vince picked them up, a little worried to see such mayhem, but when he gazed about, he could see the barrel on its side in the corner of the room. The old twerp had been pissing it up again.
His father lay almost under the table, and although his mouth was wide, there was no snoring. Vince squatted at his side. ‘Hello, Dad,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘How many quarts of ale did you drink last night, eh? Or was it gallons you measured them in?’
He grinned, and then grabbed his father’s hand, only to drop it very quickly.
‘If you’re going to puke, do you have to roll in it?’ he groaned, and then went out to fill a bucket from the river. With it full, he returned and stood contemplatively for a moment before upending it over his father’s face and torso.
Blowing and cursing, Wynard rolled over, blessedly away from the pool of vomit and gradually came to grumbling under his breath as Vincent set about gathering some food. The bread was green; he took one look at it before throwing it out through the door. Even the rats would probably reject that. There were some tough old pieces of bacon, and an egg, so Vincent put fresh water into Wymond’s old cooking pot, tossed in the meat and set it over the fire. There were some leaves; he shredded them with his hands and put them in too, adding the egg and mixing it quickly so it dispersed. Soon there was a broth with white strands of egg and lumps of greyish meat.