‘To try to help the man who promised us much,’ Joel said.
‘Just as we should all try to help other Christians,’ Henry said bitterly. His heart felt as hollow as the empty cup on the floor beside him. ‘I don’t know. I think I should tell the Bishop.’
‘Well, I think you shouldn’t. Indeed, you mustn’t.’
‘Do you remember that first lad? The one who ran to the Chaunter to warn him? What was his name? Ah, it was so long ago. And then the Chaunter’s own man cut the boy down, thinking he was another assassin. That was the beginning of the slaughter. All so unnecessary.’
‘It may seem that way to you now,’ Joel said soothingly. ‘But it was necessary.’
‘Oh, damn you and damn Matthew! I must do what I think is right!’ Henry exclaimed. ‘I can’t carry on like this. Prior Peter on one side telling me I ought to confess before I die, and you two seeking only …’
‘Henry, don’t bellow like that, not in my hall,’ Joel remonstrated.
‘Oh, to hell with you, you old devil! I’ll have nothing more to do with you,’ Henry said, rising heavily to his feet. There was no anger in him now, only a kind of dull resignation. ‘I’ll decide what I’m to do. In the meantime, if Udo Germeyne decides to sue me, I’ll sue you in return. I won’t be left damaged by your shoddy work.’
Joel followed him out to the door. ‘Friend, be easy. I’ll return your money for that frame.’
‘You’ll do more than that, Joel Lytell — you’ll take back all the frames you’ve sold me, and you’ll compensate me for the damage done to my business by this fiasco.’
Henry glared at Joel as he pulled the latch and threw open the door to the High Street, then stumped away in a semi-drunken state of misery.
It was as he was approaching Carfoix, past the Fissand Gate in this busiest street in Exeter, when one man’s features suddenly stood out: the cold visage of a man he had thought dead many years ago — a man with a livid scar that slashed through the whole left side of his face from temple to jaw. That eye was clouded, the other was brown and intense, glittering with the fervour of the religious fanatic.
‘Sweet Jesus! Nicholas!’ Henry swore, a hand rising to his throat, but in that moment the figure was gone.
He felt entirely alone in the middle of the crowds, like a foreigner with no knowledge of the language or customs. The past was vivid before him, and his throat closed up in dread.
Chapter Four
The Clerk of the Works was relieved to enter the Cathedral and take part in the service after the shocks of that morning.
The way that the rock had moved had brought home to Matthew just how immense was the weight of stone used to build this great place. He glanced up nervously at the walls and ceiling as he knelt, thinking how easy it would be for one of the massive blocks to tumble down and leave him as a splash of crimson on the tiled floor. It was a sickening thought. God could do it with a snap of His fingers, if He so wished, and there was nothing that a man could do to prevent Him.
He offered up a prayer of his own for the spirit of Saul. Matthew was a conscientious canon, and it was his task to pray for the souls of all those living or dead.
Service over, he walked through to the frater and sat with his bowl of pottage and hunk of bread. While the voice of the reader droned over all, he stared down at his food.
The rock had gone so quickly, he had hardly registered its progress. He’d noticed Thomas’s distraction, of course, and had tried to see what the mason was staring at so intently, but he’d had to lean over to peer around Thomas, and couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. And then the rock fell, and it didn’t seem so important any more.
That noise would forever reverberate in his ears, like the machines of hell preparing for the final battle between good and evil; and he was sure he’d heard a short scream, like that of a petrified quarry before the fox’s jaws clamped and life was extinguished. Only a few moments before, Matthew had seen Saul hard at work below, happily shaping a block and gauging whether it would slot into its neighbour. The next moment, he was dead.
Matthew sighed. There was a slight twinge in his shoulder, but that was normal. Whenever the weather began to change, that old pain came back to pester him.
‘Matthew?’
‘Treasurer. Please, take a seat.’
Stephen nodded and took his place beside Matthew on the bench. ‘Is it your shoulder?’
Matthew nodded. He had gained this wound on the night that the Chaunter, Walter de Lecchelade, had been assassinated. Matthew was a member of his familia, living under Walter’s roof, and he had been struck down by the murderous devils who killed his master. Fortunately, he was unconscious from early on in the fight. Others hadn’t been so lucky. In fact, only he and one other survived the defence of their master: Matthew with a broken head that took months to mend, and Nicholas, a man marked with hideous wounds to remind him of the honourable attempt to protect Chaunter Walter.
‘It is always bad when the weather changes,’ he said simply.
‘If you wish, I can arrange for a period of retreat. Perhaps you should go and build up your strength — visit one of our possessions and rest for a while? Colebrook has a pleasing church and there is a large Seyney House there.’
‘It is kind of you, Treasurer, but I shall be fine. My work keeps me occupied, and that is sufficient for me.’
He could feel the Treasurer’s eyes upon him, and heard the gentleness in Stephen’s voice as he said, ‘God bless you, Matthew. You must be cautious, though. You mustn’t ruin yourself in the cause.’
Matthew smiled. ‘But the cause is just: to build God’s greatest House here in Exeter — that is enough for any man, surely? I would be pleased if I could only see the work ended in my lifetime.’
Stephen nodded, but his face was marked with a little sadness. ‘Ah, I should like that too — but I fear we are too old to hope for it, Matthew. The building work was started more than forty years ago, and it’ll be another forty-odd before we are finished. You and I shall both be long in our graves by then.’
‘But at least we can go to our graves knowing what a legacy we have left,’ Matthew said.
‘That is true,’ Stephen said, but the clerk was surprised to see a furtive expression appear on his face.
Matthew left him soon afterwards, going out into the cloisters, then returning to the building site. He walked to the smudge of blood on the ground near the wall and stared down at it, shaking his head slowly from side to side. They must find a new mason to replace Saul, he told himself with a frown. There was another twinge in his shoulder, and he instinctively glanced back at the Charnel Chapel, the spot where he had gained the wound.
The sun passed behind a cloud, and as the Close plunged into greyness, Matthew’s attention was transfixed by the grim mausoleum and he felt a flood of revulsion at the sight. That place was terrible — a remembrance of an abomination. Thank God there had been no more serious rifts among the members of the Chapter since then. Pray to God there never would be.
In the High Street, Nicholas found himself standing near one of the larger gates to the Cathedral Close. He eased his roll and bag from his shoulder and glanced about him hopefully. When he had lived here before, it was the main entrance into the Cathedral’s precinct, because it was so wide and gave straight on to the western doors. A man could wander along this street unsuspecting, and then suddenly find himself in the main Cathedral yard, with that broad expanse of turf leading to the magnificent edifice.
Today, though, he wasn’t here to marvel, but to see whether he could win some alms. In the Cathedral there was a Clerk of Bread who supervised the production and distribution of the loaves for the canons, vicars, annuellars, choristers and workmen, but all his food would be long gone by now and the clerk probably dozing after his hectic morning. Up at midnight for Matins, then the other services, and as soon as they were done, he must rush to his ovens and begin breadmaking for the new day. As soon as the loaves were baked and had cooled a little, they’d be sent to all those who had a right to them; by lunchtime, most of them would already be consumed. He’d be dead on his feet by noon. If only Nicholas had arrived here earlier, he might have been able to plead a loaf, but not now.