It was late afternoon by the time that Simon and his little group had reached the Bear Gate again, and they trotted into the Cathedral Close before leaving their mounts with a pair of grooms who promised to see that the horses would be well looked after and the Dean’s taken to his private stables.
‘So, Matthew. You’ve caused enough trouble already,’ Simon said coldly. ‘You can come with me now and see the Dean.’
‘So there he is at last!’
Simon turned to see Thomas striding towards him. ‘Hold on, Thomas! This fellow’s coming to the Dean with me now. We’ll see what Dean Alfred decides to do with him.’
‘I have little interest in him. I just wanted to see his face one last time, to see what a man looks like who’s lived a lie for so many years,’ Thomas said sadly. ‘If there’s someone I want to see punished, it’s William. He was the one who had my father killed.’
‘Then come with us and hear what Matthew has to say,’ Simon suggested, and they marched their prisoner along the Close, out to the Dean’s house and inside to his hall, Wymond trooping along in their wake, his bow still in his hand.
The old tanner was feeling oddly disconsolate. After the excitement of haring off after this cleric, he had the sense that there was something amiss. He couldn’t go home; not yet. There was some sort of unfinished business here, he felt, and he had to try to resolve it while he could. Perhaps this man’s confession would make sense of Vincent’s death on that black night in 1283.
Still, at least he had avenged his brother in some small way. His speed in capturing Matthew was deeply satisfying, although he’d have preferred to have killed the man on the spot, rather than see some protracted punishment. There was nothing that the Dean could do which would repay the debt so speedily as an arrow, so he’d thought.
It was only when he had the barbed tip aimed at Matthew’s neck that he realised he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t fire.
All his life he had wanted to hate the men in the black garb of the Cathedral, because they represented the ones who had destroyed his brother, and later, his wife. It was they who had set up his Vincent and had him slaughtered in front of the Cathedral doors. If not for them, Vince might still be here now.
But Vincent had worn that same cloth, and Vincent in that clothing was the victim. In the end, it was impossible for Wymond to decide who was deserving of life and who deserved death. This man was, so far as he knew, guilty of having played some part in the death of Vincent — but what if he was wrong? There was a reluctance to shoot at a man who was in the same uniform which Vincent had worn. Looking at Matthew now, Wymond realised he could in fact have been an older, sadder Vincent. The thought had brought to his mind a picture of his brother: that happy, smiling face, the calm, generous spirit beaming from those bright eyes. The image for a moment obscured the reality of the snivelling Matthew, and made Wymond lower his bow. Killing like this was the last thing Vincent would have wanted, he knew.
Perhaps forty years ago Wymond could have released the arrow, but not now. Instead he had let Matthew see his bow, and had sat back to wait. The Hue and Cry couldn’t take too long to find them.
And now the last stage of the tale was to be told. Wymond wanted to hear this. It might, perhaps, allow him to put aside all those feelings of sorrow and loss which had plagued him over the years.
Looking about him now at the richly decorated hall of the Dean, he realised that whatever the truth, there was little chance that he would ever be able to obtain any justice. This was a rich man’s house, not the sort of place in which a mere tanner like him could hope for help or restitution.
Sara approached the Fissand Gate with a strange sense of nervousness. She wanted to know what would happen to Thomas. No matter what Daniel thought, he had been kind to her, and if he was truly a murderer, she must know why, and what his punishment might be.
There were rumours that he’d not only killed Saul, but that he’d killed two other men in the city as well — and tried to murder a third. He only failed because his arrow missed its mark in the gloom of evening, or so the people said.
The porter at Fissand was always helpfuclass="underline" he would give wine or bread to those who had need, and perhaps today he might be equally forthcoming with news or assistance, showing her where to go to hear of the case against Thomas. She had no idea when the Bishop’s court was likely to convene, and the idea of waiting for days was very unappealing. She only hoped that, like most other courts, this would meet very soon and the sentence be imposed quickly. At least then she would know that justice of a sort had been served.
There was no porter evident. Instead she approached a vicar. ‘Master? Can you tell me where-’
‘I don’t have time, woman!’ The cleric to whom she addressed her enquiry was a tall man, quite old, and he threw her an anguished look. ‘If you have questions, go in there and ask the porter!’
Feeling very small, she watched him stalk away. Sara didn’t know why she’d bothered to come here in the first place. This was a man’s world, not suitable for women like her. She was mad to have thought otherwise. She would have turned tail there and then, and returned home, but Daniel chose that moment to bolt, running over the graveyard towards the Bishop’s palace, calling out that he’d find out where they must go.
At the wall was a beggarman. Sara had seen him about the city before: with his horribly scarred face and missing leg, he was hard to miss, but he’d never spoken to her.
‘Maid, is there something wrong?’
The gentle tone of his voice nearly made her weep. ‘I just wanted to know what’s happened to the mason who killed the others here. Is he going to be put on trial soon?’
‘What’s your interest?’
‘The dead mason, Saul, he was my husband.’
‘Oh maid … I’m sorry.’
‘Do you know what’ll happen?’
John Coppe eyed her sympathetically, but closely. A beggar was quick to gain an insight into the feelings of others — it was an essential element of his make-up. He had to size up his market and grab the most money from those most likely to pay him. In his opinion this woman was close to her limits. She couldn’t cope with any more shocks or alarms.
He said, ‘Maid, I think Thomas, the man you’re talking about, has already been proved innocent. Another man was attacked last night, while Thomas was in the gaol. So he seems to be innocent.’
‘Innocent!’ Sara felt as though her legs must fail her. Suddenly both knees began to wobble, and she teetered on the brink of collapse.
Coppe tried to lurch to his feet, but he was already too late, and all he could do was shout for assistance.
The door to Janekyn’s chamber opened, and Edgar stood there, his sword ready in his hand, eyes flitting about the Close before they came to rest on Sara’s figure and the desperate beggar at her side.
Others were already running over, and a number of men and women came to Coppe’s side, lifting the woman up. ‘Where can we take her?’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Ah, she’s only fainted!’
Jeanne pushed her way past Edgar and peered at the huddle of men and women. Coppe saw her with relief. She was one, he was sure, who would look after a woman like this. ‘Mistress, please help us! Can we put this poor widow in the room with your husband?’
‘What is the matter with her?’
‘She’s fainted. It’s her husband, he died here a few weeks ago. Crushed when a stone fell on him, and since then she’s been … well, you can imagine.’
Through the encircling crowd Jeanne saw how young Sara was, and how vulnerable she looked. That one look was enough. ‘Of course you must bring her in here. When Baldwin’s physician arrives, I shall ask him to see to her at the same time.’
They carried her within, while Edgar stood at Baldwin’s side, sword threateningly still in his hand. There was no need for him to wave it about to make a point. His apparent languid stance was enough to put fear into the hearts of all who eyed him. The crowd deposited Sara on a bench near the wall, and left.