First he had saved his money carefully, rarely getting into the normal occupations of apprentices and vomiting or pissing his money away on wine and ale. No, Henry had a plan even then. He wanted to be a wealthy fellow in his own right, and everything he did was aimed at that one target. He made saddles from the finest materials and presented the very best workmanship to those who could afford it. While others spent their days knocking together cheap stuff to make workaday equipment that a modest fellow could afford, Henry concentrated on buying in the most elegant decorative pieces, beautiful ironwork from the best smiths, enamels from old Jack in the High Street, silken threads and soft padding. His saddles gained a reputation for being the most comfortable, distinctive examples of his craft; works of loveliness as well as function. His reputation had grown as had his purse, and soon everyone who had a pair of pennies to rub together wanted one of his saddles.
And now all that was at risk because of bloody Joel Lytell.
Stephen, Treasurer of the Cathedral, stood staring at the body with a feeling of revulsion. The victim had been so cruelly disfigured by the lump of stone, it was hard to see that the upper part of the torso had once belonged to a man.
‘The mason should not have died,’ Stephen said. He had been down here at a trestle table, arguing with a lead dealer when the screams and shouts had disturbed him. Men must die in a project like this, of course. Men would always die in the cause of great tasks, and there was nothing greater than the construction of God’s Own House. It was crucial that this wonderful Cathedral be built as quickly as possible to God’s praise. Yet it was sad to see a man like this mason die unshriven. Perhaps he would receive special recognition in heaven for his works down here on earth. It was sincerely to be hoped. Stephen would pray for him.
And poor Matt. He had already suffered enough in his time. That was why Stephen looked after him, because Matthew was deserving of honour for his role in that fight so many years ago. His integrity was proved at the same time as Stephen’s own was destroyed. He supported and helped Matt because he hoped that it would reflect well on him.
But for now the vital thing was to clear up this mess and get the builders back to their work. The Cathedral mustn’t be delayed, not even for death.
Joel Lytell showed his client out through his front door with a respectful bow before shutting it quietly and breathing, ‘What a little shit!’
‘He was a right smarmy churl,’ Vincent agreed.
‘I didn’t ask your opinion,’ Joel snapped. ‘Take that frame back out to the workshop, and don’t be cheeky about your betters, boy.’
Vincent said nothing. It was rare for his master to be in a bad mood, but Vincent felt sure that this was the beginning of one. He had no wish to be in the vicinity when Joel was angry. Since he had been apprenticed here, Joel and Maud had been like Vince’s father and mother. Especially since his own mother had died some years ago. She had been on her way home from the Cathedral, where she had been helping to brew ale for the canons and their servants, when a clerk racing a companion on horses rode by at the gallop and knocked her down. Two hooves struck her, and she was dead almost before the clerk could ride back to her. Vince had hardly known her, which was why he loved Maud and respected Joel.
Now he ran to the table, took up the frame and hefted it out to the workshop, past the pile of fresh, green wood that had been delivered a few weeks ago. It was too young to use yet. Put to use on a saddle frame or decent piece of work, and it would twist and crack, ruining the workmanship. Only well-cured wood could be used for frames. Of course, much of the older wood had been used up now, and the possibility of finding more that had been dried out and kept under cover for long enough was a problem. Recently, even Joel had …
No. That was daft. Vincent set the frame on the table at the back of the workshop, and moved away to gaze about the room. The light was beginning to fail now; the sun had slipped beneath the roofs of Joel’s house and the houses opposite on the High Street. At this time of year, Vince had to work much of the time in the comparative dark. That was why they had a large bill for candles during autumn and winter. Still, it wasn’t dark enough yet to light a candle, so Vince set to with his adze, trimming wood ready to be jointed to make a table-top.
It wasn’t a bad life here. Vincent was a keen worker, and was proud of the results of his efforts. His stools and chairs were highly regarded.
He only had another two years of his apprenticeship to run. After that he could leave and establish his own business, where he could build his own saddle frames, and then join forces with a saddler to finish the work and sell it on. There weren’t enough saddlers in the city to cope with demand. Sure, there were some like Henry who could sell the really expensive ones, and there were quite a few who could sell cheap ones which would almost cut a man in half over a long journey, but there was a need for strongly constructed saddles which weren’t as grossly over-priced as Henry’s. And Vince reckoned he could make them.
His plan was similar to Joel and Henry’s arrangement. Vince’s father was a tanner, and he had a friend who would take the tanned hide and work it into useable leather. Then there was another apprentice, Jack, who worked with one of the cheaper saddlers up near the East Gate. With all of them working in conjunction, they could make saddles that would be ideal for the merchants of Exeter …
‘Vince? What the hell are you doing in there? Get a move on!’
Joel was really in a foul mood. Vince left his daydream behind and began working again, making the chips fly. Yes, one day he would be a known face in Exeter. He’d be a man with money.
Chapter Three
Dean Alfred of Exeter Cathedral was by nature a quiet and introspective man, better suited to studying than vigorous effort, but today he felt he should go outside when he heard that a mason had been crushed.
The weather was as clement as usual in late October, which was to say it was cold and the air damp. He felt the chill on his tonsured head. The spare fringe of white hair did little to keep him warm, and he pulled on a woollen cap before he left his chamber and made his way down the stairs.
‘Dean. Good of you to come so soon.’
The voice belonged to Brother Stephen, Treasurer to the Cathedral. He was a taller man, stooped and somewhat drawn-looking, with deep trenches of disapproval gouged at either side of his mouth.
‘Oh … ahm … yes, Treasurer?’ The Dean knew that his mannerisms irritated Brother Stephen, but this only spurred him on. For some reason the Treasurer got on his nerves. He appeared to think figures were more important than the souls they were all supposed to be saving.
‘Ah — yes — hmm. I came as soon as I could,’ the Dean murmured happily. At the first clearing of his throat he could almost hear Stephen’s infuriation. His eye took in the ruined body, and he automatically crossed himself. ‘My dear fellow! How could this have happened?’
‘This man was walking along here,’ Stephen said in a cold tone, ‘while another mason was up on the scaffolding removing a stone from the wall.’
‘It was a sad accident,’ Robert de Cantebrigge stated.
‘It was either incompetence or an act of malice,’ Stephen countered.