Saul died because of the ghost.
It was a clear morning, with only a few wisps of cloud
passing overhead, and Thomas had been whistling happily,
stripped to his waist, his long hair bedraggled with sweat.
As a mason, he preferred building work to demolition, but
in order to erect the new Cathedral, first they must throw down
this old one. Starting at the south-eastern corner of the wall of
the nave, Thomas and his men had climbed up the scaffolding
and were gradually levering loose the old rocks, attaching iron
bolts to them so that they could be lifted out by the cranes. It
was backbreaking work, with the Warden of the Fabric, Vicar
Matthew, often peering over their shoulders to ensure that the
stones were damaged as little as possible. He wanted them
reused.
Thomas was terrified that at any moment Matthew would
see through his thick, salt and pepper beard, his long hair, and
know him, but so far there had been no flicker of recognition.
Perhaps after forty years Matthew had forgotten him; perhaps
he paid little attention to a mere labourer.
To avoid meeting Matthew’s eye, Thomas turned to face the
Bishop’s Palace gate. That was when he spotted the brown-clad
figure of a friar, stooped and obviously weary, entering the Close.
From his high position, Thomas saw the ghost immediately. He
felt as though he might totter and fall, so great was the shock. There was a
leather bag and rolled blanket on the ghost’s
back; a thin, clawlike hand gripping the thong that bound them
together at his shoulder. Thomas recognised him immediately.
He had seen those features in his mares, especially at nights, so
often in the last forty years. Forty years – and in all that time he
hadn’t forgotten the man whom he had once been happy to call
his friend – his best friend.
Thomas was an experienced mason, and he should have
been concentrating. Afterwards, he knew that Saul’s death was
his fault, but at that moment he couldn’t drag his eyes from the
man down there in the Cathedral’s Close.
The poor, misshapen figure, clad in the garb of a Grey Friar,
looked as if he had been tortured and discarded, a living
warning to others. He dragged his left foot, his left arm was
obviously all but useless, and he walked bent low, like a man
who carried a heavy load. Only when he reached the little
chapel did he halt suddenly and look up in wonder. As well he
might, for the Charnel Chapel was quite new, built at the
instigation of Dean John before he was exiled from the
Cathedral. Thomas himself had been surprised to see it there,
built where the Chaunter’s house had stood.
The ghost stared at the chapel, his tonsured head set to one
side as though to hide the dreadful scars, and Thomas gave a
moan, retreating, trying to hide from that terrible gaze. Without
thinking, he released his rope, covering his face with his hands,
shutting out that hideous view, when he should have been
watching the crane.
Yes. It was the ghost. If it hadn’t been for the friar, Saul
wouldn’t have died.
Long afterwards, Thomas would still be struck with that
appalling guilt as he recalled the terrible event that followed.
At that moment, when the massive block shifted, he was incapable of thinking.
The rock was like a vast creature, its
movements thrilling through the twisted planking of the
scaffold, tremors clutching at his feet. When he glanced at it,
he saw the great lump start to slip, ponderous and terrible; and
although he grabbed the thick hempen rope, he knew he could
do nothing. His rope was positioned to pull the rock from side
to side, not keep it up. He sprang back, eyes fixed on it.
‘Wait! ’Ware the stone!’ he cried, but it was too late. As
he
opened his mouth, there was a sudden snap like a whip
cracking, then a roar, as though God Himself had torn apart the
ground beneath their feet. The rock plunged down, crashing
through the planking and tearing four-inch spars apart, ripping
them to splinters; and then the rope snaked through his hands
before he could release it, scouring the flesh from his palms,
and there was a gravelly noise like leather being torn as the
rock slid down the wall to the ground, striking it with an earth-shaking
roar. For a moment Thomas felt relief that no one was
hurt as he stared down at the billowing clouds of rock dust.
‘Christ Jesus!’ he moaned, his breath sobbing from his breast
as though he had run a mile carrying that rock on his back. The
damn thing was so huge, it was astonishing to think that it had
ever been lifted up here.
They were enormously high up. From here, he could see
over the houses that encircled the Close, over the new walls
erected in the last twenty years, over the High Street and
beyond, up the hill to the red stone castle directly north, west to
the great Priory of St Nicholas and south to the new Friary of
the Franciscans, opened only fifteen-odd years ago.
Some men looked terrified when they clambered up the
lashed poles to this giddy height. Thomas could remember the
first few times he’d been up scaffolding like this; he’d been
petrified too, but the view was the compensation. And men didn’t often
fall from here. It was too far up for people to forget
when they were new to the job, and when they were experienced
enough to forget the height, they were able to walk around with
balance and without fear. Thomas had only seen one lad fall
from a scaffold in the last forty years since he started out as a
mason.
Today, though, the view couldn’t keep his attention. He
stared down at the lump of masonry crumbled at the foot of the
Cathedral’s wall, but his eyes wouldn’t stay there. Gradually,
unwillingly, he felt himself forced to turn back until he was
gazing down again upon the Charnel Chapel, hoping against
hope that the ghost had gone.
It had. The brownish-grey-clad friar was nowhere to be seen.
Thomas thought, just for a moment, that he caught a flash of
grey up at the Fissand Gate, but it was gone in an instant, and
he could breathe more easily.
Relief flooded into his veins, and he rested a hand
unconsciously on a scaffold-pole at his side to support himself,
flinching from the pain in his raw palm. A group of men had
gathered about the rock below. Workmen would always gawp
at a fallen piece of masonry, he thought. No matter.
Vicar Matthew, the Chapter’s Warden of the Fabric who
spent so much time up here trying to save money, was only a
matter of feet away, and he stared at Thomas for a long moment
– so long that Thomas wondered whether he too had seen the
ghost of that novice, or still worse, recognised him from that
other time, that other life.
‘You let the stone fall,’ Matthew whispered.
Thomas shrugged. ‘Sometimes it’ll happen.’ There was a lot
of noise from below, and he wondered at that for the briefest of
seconds before a leaden feeling of dread entered his belly.
Down below he could see the Master Mason staring up at him, his mouth wide in
alarm. There was a semi-circle of
workers about the stone, and something else.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ Matthew hissed. ‘You have killed
him, Tom!’
And Thomas could only stare at him uncomprehendingly,
then down at the rock, with the fat red stain that now marked
the dirty ground beside it.
Friar Nicholas felt his right cheek. The tingling was there again.
It often came on like this when the weather was cooler or
damper, and here in Exeter in October it was rarely otherwise.
He left the new chapel and shouldered the small leather sack
containing all his possessions: a small bowl, a cup, some
material to wrap about his throat when the weather was at its
most inclement, and a spoon.
Here there was always noise, he supposed, standing at the
Fissand Gate and casting about him. The Cathedral might be in
the process of being rebuilt, but that didn’t stop men meeting
and discussing their business. There was more money spent
and snatched by greedy businessmen in that yard than in the
marketplace, he thought with contempt. Men all about, shouting
and calling, and the unchanging clamour of the damned
workmen. Fine, they needed the workers there to get the
Cathedral expanded, but he hated it. It hurt his ears. The din
was deafening, especially since he suffered from his affliction;
his hearing was unreliable, and when there were too many
noises at the same time, his head began to ache.
It was many a weary year since he had last been here. After
that evil night, he had been taken away to recover, and it was a
long time before he could stand and speak. By then, of course,
his master was gone, and he had no home at the Cathedral. Or
so he felt. It was as though his life had been ended, his family slain about
him. When Bishop Quivil visited him in the
infirmary, he could only agree with him that it would be more
expedient for all, were he to leave Exeter and find his peace in
another city. Bishop Quivil had been kindness itself, as he
should have been. After all, Nicholas had almost been killed
while trying to protect the Bishop’s own man.
It had been for the best. He didn’t regret the decision to
leave. When he was well enough, he had taken the cloth of the
Grey Friars, living first in London, then York, and now at last
he was returning to Exeter, to the city of his youth.
By God, it had changed, though! The Charnel Chapel had
given him a surprise when he caught sight of it. It was built on
the place where the Chaunter’s home had stood, just by the spot
where he had died and where Nick himself had won this
fearsome scar.
Recollecting, he had to close his eyes a moment: the boy’s
screaming figure running at him, Nicholas grabbing for his
dagger, then sweeping it across the fellow’s throat before he
could attack anyone, the gush of blood as he fell at Nicholas’s
feet, his eyes already clouding, his heels striking at the mud
with a staccato rhythm as he drowned in his own fluids – and
then the full onslaught of the ambush. Christ’s Pains, but it was
an evil night.
As he stood pondering the past, and what might have been,
a great shout went up, and shook his head to clear it. Irritably
he told himself that there was no need for that kind of noise. It
reminded him too much of that awful night.
Turning away, he began to limp off towards the High Street,
not seeing the men who threw down their tools and pelted over
the Cathedral’s Close to help remove the stone from the broken
body of Saul Mason.
***
Udo Germeyne could hear the roaring from the Cathedral as
he sat in his chair, but although he glanced up at the window
in his hall, he didn’t go and see what had caused the noise. He
had lost interest in everything since the accident. All his plans
had gone to pot, simply because he had tried to impress the
wench in a moment of foolishness.
This was the cost of love, he told himself. All he had wanted
was a little companionship, and instead he was here, a prisoner
in his own hall. Mein Gott, but this shoulder hurt!
Women. They were unreliable, weak creatures – but, no
matter. He could love, he was sure. A man of fifty – well,
five-and-fifty, then – a man like Udo craved companionship.
He had lived here in this strange country for many years,
ever since he’d come seeking a new life with a parcel or two
of skins and an enthusiast’s determination to make money.
And his enthusiasm had paid off. He was a successful
merchant.
Yes, he was no different from other men. He wanted a
woman he could call his own, a woman who would cleave to
him and make him whole. She would have a good life with
him, and when he died, she would have a marvellous dowry; he
would see to that. And by the time he died, he would leave a
woman who was mature, educated, and who knew her own
mind.
It had been some little while since he first had this idea, that
he would like to be married, but it had taken firm hold. Udo
was not a man who believed in prevarication. He made a
decision, and stuck to it. Udo was lonely, he had much to offer;
naturally he should hurry and find a wife. And so he did.
Ach! She would have to have been a fool not to recognise
how he felt! He had done all he could to demonstrate his interest
in her. Yes, Julia Potell must know that he loved her. At least, her father
Henry must, anyway – and he would surely have told
her.
Not that it could help Udo since that damned fall two days
ago. He winced as he tested his bruised arm. At least it was
improving since the physician’s visit. Ralph of Malmesbury
charged a small fortune for his treatment, but he was good.
Udo had seen Julia first in the market, when she was still a
foolish, gangling creature, all coltish and clumsy. He had
glanced at her, but there was nothing there to desire. Nothing
that could make him wish to take her to his bed.
Since then, he had seen the girl more regularly. Her parents
brought her to his church. Henry he knew moderately well. He
was a saddler, with a thriving business and a good head for
profit. Yes, a man whom Udo could admire. Strong in his
beliefs, and respected among the men of Exeter, Henry was a
useful potential father-in-law. His wife, Mabilla, was one of
those strong, quiet women whom Udo rather liked. She watched
and witnessed much, but saw no need to open her mouth and
chatter inanely all the while. With luck, her daughter Julia
would follow her in this quiet attitude. Although in middle age,
Mabilla was still handsome, and she had the carriage of a much
younger woman. A man would be proud to have her on his
arm.
But Julia. Julia!
God, but she was lovely. The gauche young maid had grown
into a beautiful young woman with the fair skin and hair of his
homeland. She had stopped tripping and stumbling; now she
glided like an angel. And her smile was the most seductive he
had ever seen.
He was besotted.
Which was why he had bought the damned thing from her
idiot father in an attempt to inveigle his way into the family. What better
method to get to know them than by purchasing a
saddle? He needed a new one anyway.
He had walked to Henry’s hall by way of Ham’s cookshop.
There he bought some of Ham’s finest little pastries and cakes.
Tarts filled with flavoured custards were the ideal way to win
the heart of a maid and her mother. It was little gifts like these
which made the difference between a failed negotiation and a
successful one. He entered the hall, he spoke at length to the
saddler, discussed the leathers and decorations, and agreed the
deal. Only then did he offer the basket of cakes for the saddler’s
wife and daughter with no further comment, merely a stiff nod,
and, ‘May I present these for your lady wife and your daughter
with my compliments?’ as he left the shop.
There. All done; all easy. They must wonder at his motives –
but not for long. A logical man like Henry would soon discern
the thinking behind the gift.
Two days ago a messenger had come from the saddler. Henry
had asked to see him and his horse to try out the new saddle,
and so Udo took his best rounsey over to Henry’s hall, binding
the reins to the ring in the wall before knocking.
The saddle was magnificent. Supple, soft, it felt like he was
sitting on a cushion. He mounted as soon as the horse was
grown accustomed to its weight, and tried it out, trotting up the
road, then turning and riding back a little faster.
‘How do he feel?’ Henry called after him in his thick Devon
accent as he passed the man’s hall again, but Udo didn’t speak.
To him, this was one of the most wonderful sensations in the
world, riding a good horse with a fine saddle beneath him. He
glanced about him, then gave a short twitch of his rein-end to
his rounsey’s rump, and cantered gently down the hill towards
the wall. Reining in at the bottom, he snapped his horse’s head
about and set off back up the hill towards Henry. And it was then that the devil
tempted him.
Udo was a good horseman. He knew that. There was hardly
a horse he hadn’t managed to bring to his command in a short
time, and this rounsey was one of the best pieces of horseflesh
in the city, so when he saw the object of his affections in the
window to the upper chamber of the hall, he spurred his mount
on, just like any churl who sought to impress his young woman.
He galloped up the hill, cobbles sparking where the flying
hooves caught them. Up, up, and then, as he drew level with
the hall, he wrenched the horse to a halt. There was a crack, a
ripping sound, and suddenly he wasn’t in the saddle any more.
Something had happened behind him – he couldn’t tell what,
but suddenly all support had gone – and then he felt himself
sliding sideways and backwards, over the horse’s backside. With
a final despairing wail, he toppled, and had just enough good
sense to throw out his arms and break his fall before his head
slammed onto the cobbles.
The pain was instantaneous. A thrust of agony shot from his
shoulder to his throat, and for an instant he thought he must be
about to die, but then mercifully it abated somewhat, and he
could pant cautiously, trying to keep his shoulder still.
‘Master! Are you all right?’
‘No thanks to you, verdammtes Idiot! Scheisse!’
‘Have you hurt your head?’ Henry asked with panic.
‘No, my shoulder. Call a physician, man! Your damned
saddle could have killed me,’ Udo roared, and then winced.
‘My God! This is terrible.’
‘I’ll call the best doctor . . . and of course I’ll pay for
him,’
Henry said miserably, bellowing for a servant.
‘You’ll pay for more than that!’ Udo swore.
So that was why he was here, broken in spirit and body in
his hall when he should have been out adding to his treasure. He had been tempted
by a maid; the temptation caused him to
buy a saddle; and the saddle caused him to dislocate his
shoulder.
The whole incident had cost him dearly.
When Prior Peter heard of the mason’s death, it served only to
lighten his mood a little.
Peter was not unkind. He had no feelings of hatred or anger
towards Saul. In fact, the man’s life or death were immaterial to
him. A mason was a necessary fellow, no doubt, and useful
when there were buildings which required his services, but any
misfortune which happened to strike that damned Chapter was
pleasing to Peter.
He heard of Saul’s death in the small open area south of St
Nicholas’s Priory. The gatekeeper had sent a novice for him,
and he inclined his head as he listened to the short lad. Peter
was a tall man, grey of hair but with startlingly black eyebrows.
His face was worn, and somewhat lugubrious, but there was a
steely glint in his eyes that spoke of his intelligence. As he
listened, the long fingers of his right hand tapped pensively on
the wrist of his left – a strange mannerism which some
whispered he had learned while in the Bishop’s gaol at the
Cathedral. Peter neither knew nor cared what others said: it
was merely a habit which he found comforting.
‘A man has been killed at the Cathedral? What of it?’ he
enquired coolly.
‘Prior, he was a mason, and the man here, he wants to find
the mason’s wife – to tell her he’s dead. Only no one knows
where he lives.’
‘He doesn’t live any more,’ Peter said, his attention going
to
the little gate which led onto the High Street. The gatekeeper
was there already, his hand resting on the door’s handle, and through
the open way Peter could see the panicky face of the
man sent to tell the wife that she was become a widow.
‘Tell him that I can’t help.’
The novice was quiet a moment, then, ‘May I ask the
Almoner, Prior? He may know her.’
Peter glanced down at him dismissively. ‘If you wish, yes.
Now leave me to consider.’
‘Yes, Prior,’ and he scampered away.
Peter continued walking around the open area. It had been
his custom to walk about the Priory from the first moment he
arrived here. Those years in the Bishop’s gaol – damn Quivil’s
memory! – had made him feel uncomfortable in small rooms
for any period. As soon as he was released, he had taken to
walking, morning and afternoon, out in the open. It mattered
not a whit whether it was raining, snowing, or the sun shining.
All he knew was that he had a compulsion to go outside and
breathe the clean air whenever he had an opportunity.
The boy had called him ‘Prior’. It was rather pleasant to be
so addressed, although ‘my lord Prior’ would have been better.
Alas, Peter wouldn’t ever be given that salutation.
All because of the evening so long ago when he had helped
his companions to attack and kill the Chaunter. It was a grievous
price he had paid since then. Some had been forced to suffer
still more, and he honoured them, but others had survived,
living out their years in comfort, without the penalties which
Peter had endured. Even now some were rich merchants in this
city, wallowing in their wealth like hogs in the mire. Repulsive
people!
Peter had been looking at a successful career when disaster
struck. He had thought that he would be able to move up the
ranks of authority within the Cathedral, perhaps one day
winning his own Bishopric, if he built enough support for himself along the
way. There was no chance of that now. Since
his punishment, when he had been thrown from the Cathedral’s
Chapter by those hypocritical dogs the canons, he had been
forced to renounce all possessions and income. He had been
made a monk, had taken the vows, and sent to moulder at
Battle Abbey, far from here. There he was expected to live a
life of penance for the murder.
Penance, indeed! The other members of the Chapter well
knew what was happening. It was the Bishop’s fault. Quivil
had created the hatred and mistrust that had led to the
Chaunter’s death, not Peter. Peter was simply one of those who
responded to Bishop Quivil’s idiocy by removing his ally.
It was fortunate that he had been able to return here. Battle
Abbey was a hideous place, and when he heard that there was
a post here at its daughter house in Exeter, he had pressed to be
allowed to return. He had been born here, he knew the area, he
knew the air; fortunately his Abbot was an amiable, generous-hearted
soul, who looked at the misery on Peter’s face and felt
compassion. He agreed, and Peter was given leave. He would
never have authority, but he was a good, reliable monk, and he
could live out his days in the monastery outside whose walls he
had played as a child.
And then the Abbot at Battle Abbey died. Prior Roger from
St Nicholas’s Priory was chosen to rule the Abbey, and when
he left Exeter, a new Prior was due to be selected. However, the
election was contested, and as there was no clear winner, Abbot
Roger asked Peter to caretake the role. So here he was in the
position of full power, without the possibility of keeping it.
All because of the malicious treatment he’d been given by
the Cathedral’s Chapter forty years ago, and their vindictive
Bishop – may he rot in hell!