The rabbit sat transfixed, the arrow’s fletching protruding from the side of its head, while the barb had gone straight through and into the earth behind. He pulled the rabbit from the fletchings, then took some grass to wipe the arrow and pulled it free from the ground, replacing it with the others.
The shock of the massive yard-long arrow penetrating its head had killed the rabbit instantly, and when he snapped its neck it was purely a precaution. He squatted and took out his little skinning dagger, paunching the cony and pulling out the entrails. He set these down with the head, and skinned it quickly, slipping his hand in between the pelt and the muscles and loosening it all about the body, cutting off the paws and slipping the skin over the little stumpy tail. Then he wrapped the body in a sheet of linen, and made his way to the river again.
He knew a little place where the river bent and where there was a short stretch of sandy beach; up above it lay a sheltered spot with a cosy little hollow. When they were lads, he and Vincent had used to come here to play, pretending to be outlaws. They would kill a rabbit, bring it here and cook it for their supper, sharing alike. Once they had stayed out all night when Vincent was debating with himself whether he should take up the post offered to him by the Bishop. He had not wanted to take it, knowing that it would alter his relationship with his family for ever, but in the end he had little choice. None of them did. A job at the Cathedral meant education, and that meant money. He could help them all if he won that.
So that was perhaps their last night together. The following morning, Vincent had left home and gone up to the Cathedral, and suddenly Wymond saw less of him. It was, in large part, the end of his childhood.
Now, as the light faded, he gathered up twigs and branches, and when he had a decent pile, he began to strike sparks from his flint and dagger. Soon wisps of smoke rose from the bonfire, and he settled back to wait.
It was a perfect evening. The soil was warm from the day’s heat, the water rippled merrily, and the dying sun painted the trees and grasses with a golden hue. He jointed and cooked his rabbit, skewered on sharpened sticks over his fire, then sat back in the curve of the hollow, and let the warmth of his fire soothe his memories.
In his mind he saw the happy young face of his brother, then the broken, bloody body after that terrible night in 1283. He saw his dear wife’s face, lit up and excited when she realised that she was pregnant, and then he saw her ruined body after the horse had knocked her down. The subsequent fever had taken her life, leaving him with his second Vincent, squealing and bawling in the corner.
These scenes were all so close, he felt he could hear little Vince’s bawling again; he could smell the herbs and blood on his wife’s body; he could touch Vincent’s icy corpse.
Vincent was killed by the Cathedral. He had been destroyed because he was loyal to his master, and had tried to save him. A traitor cut him down. His wife had died because of the Cathedral, run down by a young fool of a clerk playing silly devils on a horse. The Cathedral had taken the two most precious people in his life.
There was no surprise in hearing from his son that Vincent was innocent of the accusation. Wymond had always known it. Yet the Cathedral had spread the news of his guilt as though it was established fact. Everyone knew that those raised in the city were against the Bishop, and that was enough to damn Vincent in their eyes. To many it seemed as though he was a hero, having stood up for his city, but Wymond knew that he was innocent. No, Vincent would never have betrayed his master. He had given his word to the Chaunter, and he would have guarded him with his life. As, indeed, he did.
Wymond fell asleep late into the night, struck with a strange melancholia.
It was long after dawn the next morning that he rose and stretched. He threw some water over his face from the river, dried it on his sleeve, and then picked up his package and bent his way towards the island. When he was close to the Friary he stopped, hesitated, and then carried on towards the city itself. He would go to the market and buy some bread.
Jeanne studied the wound. It looked like a tiny mouth with bright red lips. Now that the arrow was gone, it was smaller than the arrow’s diameter as the flesh closed together. So small, it was hard to believe that it could do so much harm.
Simon peered closer. It was early days, but the wound didn’t appear to have become too inflamed as yet. He prayed that Baldwin might survive.
Paul backed towards the door, his eyes fixed on Edgar’s bright sword.
Watching him, Simon suddenly frowned. ‘Have you seen the Coroner recently, Paul?’
The Annuellar shook his head quickly. ‘Not today, sir, no. I think he went into the town.’
‘What of the inquests? Has he said when he will hold them?’
‘He has ordered the bodies of the friar and the mason to be disinterred so he can examine them. I think he means to hold all three inquests at the same time, and he has still to view all the bodies from the crush in the street outside St Nicholas’s Priory.’
‘I had forgotten all that,’ Simon breathed. So many deaths in such a short time. The city was filled with distraught people. Everybody must know someone who had died recently. Yet there was nothing new in that. People died all the time, whether from brawls or illnesses or accidents. There was always somebody who was mourning for a child or parent or lover.
And there was one man who was perhaps mourning for people who had died here many years ago. Who could be so angry and bitter that he still sought to avenge that murder?
With that thought he was about to speak to Thomas when there was a noise in the gateway outside: the tramp of heavy boots and an angry voice shouting, ‘Get your hands off me, you fornicating son of a diseased whore! What are you, you piece of shite! Brave when I’m bound, aren’t you, but wait until I get a chance to pull a dagger on you, man, and we’ll see how fucking brave you are then, eh?’
Simon glanced at Edgar, puzzled, but then he saw Thomas grit his teeth and suddenly recognised that furious voice. It was William again. Making a quick decision, Simon pulled the door open and walked outside. Thomas was immediately at his back, and Simon heard Baldwin’s weak voice demanding to be able to hear what was going on. Edgar chuckled, and when Simon shot a look behind him, he saw the servant standing at the side of the doorway, his sword in his fist, the blade held at the ready across his body. No one would get past him to enter the room.
‘Oho, Bailiff!’ laughed Sir Peregrine. He was at William’s side, holding onto a thong which bound the man’s wrists. ‘Here’s a fine man. He tells me he is the King’s corrodian, yet I found him attacking a poor merchant in his fiancée’s house. A strange way to behave, wouldn’t you say?’
From where he stood, Simon could smell the sour wine on William’s breath. ‘I wished to ask this man a couple of questions.’
‘Please do so. I was about to take him to the city’s gaol, but he claimed benefit of clergy since he’s a corrodian, and I am on my way to ask the Dean what he thinks I should do with him. It cannot hurt to have him lodged here, I suppose — but I should prefer to see him in the city’s custody if there is to be a fine laid upon him!’
Simon was uninterested in Peregrine’s legal ramblings. ‘William. You told us how you took part in the murder of the Chaunter all those years ago. You also implicated two innocent men, didn’t you? You told the King that the gate had been left open, knowing that he would hang those responsible, and knowing that he’d reward you for your information.’