The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) (40 page)

That night was the longest Simon had ever spent. The Dean gaped, and then ordered that his steward should rouse the Mayor’s household to ask who the best physician was in the city, and then bring him at once. Soon Ralph of Malmesbury was with them in Janekyn’s little room, and he at once set about his work.

While the physician studied Baldwin’s breast, Simon stood at his friend’s side. There was no great effusion of blood, which gave Simon some hope, but he knew that the danger which threatened Baldwin would only become clear when the arrow was removed and the wound could be studied more closely. Ralph opened a small vein to release some of Baldwin’s bad humours, and then started to work on the arrow itself. Baldwin maintained a steadfast patience, only showing his temper when the physician stood on his foot. ‘Do you not think I have enough damage done to me?’ he said weakly.

‘I am at least experienced in this kind of wound,’ the physician said. ‘Stop your bellyaching. Most surgeon barbers would pull the arrow through one way or the other. At least there are no barbs on this bastard, eh? If there were, a barber would bend them back and try to yank it through you again. Me, I think that’s daft. What’s the point?’ He took a pair of strong-bladed shears and rested them upon the arrow’s shaft. ‘Better to cut the arrowhead off like this. Are you strong?’

Baldwin gave a pale smile. ‘As strong as I can be.’

‘This may hurt,’ Ralph said, and he threw a look to Simon. Understanding, Simon put his arms on Baldwin’s shoulders and held him still as Ralph began to cut through the shaft, turning the arrow as he did so. ‘This will be uncomfortable, but by moving the arrow itself, I free it up ready to be withdrawn,’ he said. The process was slow, the shaft solid and difficult to cut. The grain was strong. Still, after some minutes, the shears were biting through the outer surface, and then sinking deeper and deeper. Although Baldwin grimaced, closing his eyes and grunting, he didn’t cry out. Simon could feel his muscles tense, but then he slowly relaxed, as if he was growing accustomed to this peculiar pain.

‘All done!’ Ralph declared suddenly.

He was about to throw the arrowhead onto the floor, when Simon said, ‘Put it on the table there. I shall want to look at it.’

Ralph glanced at him in surprise, looked at the bodkin in his hands, and shrugged. As though humouring the vill’s idiot, he placed it carefully on the table before turning back to the arrow shaft. He cleaned its length with a mixture that he produced from a small bottle, smearing it over the shaft with a finger that grew crimson from Baldwin’s blood, stoppered the bottle and rose. ‘I need to stand behind him.’

Simon stood before Baldwin, and the physician rotated the shaft in his hand gently. ‘This will hurt, I fear, but try to keep him still.’

Feeling the nausea in his throat, Simon took Baldwin’s shoulders and stared deep into his eyes. Baldwin was in great pain, that much was obvious from his wan features. Simon had never seen him look so colourless, and if that weren’t enough, the sight of Baldwin’s white knuckles on the stool’s seat was proof. Baldwin reached up as Simon took his shoulders, and
put both his hands on Simon’s forearms, gripping them tightly.

Ralph was watching almost absently as he turned the shaft slowly, and then he began to pull it out as though it was screwed, constantly turning it, while his gaze remained unfocused on a point over Simon’s shoulder. Simon saw the cut-off end slip backwards until there was only an inch or so protruding from about three inches beneath Baldwin’s collarbone, and then it was gone. The dreamy-eyed Ralph remained there for a few more moments, slowly rotating the shaft, his fingers slick with blood, until the remaining section came free, and he glanced down at his hands with apparent surprise. ‘Ah! All done.’

Simon felt Baldwin’s hands lose their fierce grip, and then the wounded man sank into a merciful faint.

Baldwin was installed in Janekyn’s bed, while the porter was removed to a room nearby to sleep on a bench. The Dean, who had come to see how things were going, tried to conceal a yawn.

‘My dear Bailiff, do – ah – forgive me. You must be a great deal more tired than I am,’ he said. ‘I shall order that another bed be brought in here for you.’

‘No, thank you,’ Simon said. He was turning the bodkin over and over in his hands, frowning. Some blood still adhered to it, and his hands were growing stained, but he didn’t care. ‘If I sleep, the attacker may come back for another attempt.’

‘You don’t think that this was launched by a member of the community here?’ the Dean asked.

‘I don’t know, but it’s certainly possible, and I won’t risk his life,’ Simon said. ‘The assassin could have been a foreigner who fled by the Bear Gate or the Palace Gate, but he may equally well be hiding here in the Cathedral’s Close somewhere,
and I won’t take any chances that he won’t try to murder Baldwin in his bed.’

‘I see.’

‘I was wondering where the arrow could have been launched from,’ Simon said. He walked to the door. From there he could see where he and Baldwin had hurled themselves to the ground. Behind them at that moment had been the Charnel Chapel, with the black mass of the Cathedral beyond. ‘It must have been either from the chapel or the Cathedral itself.’

He stared out. From here, the chapel blocked the whole of the Cathedral’s front. When they had been out in the Close, a bowman on the Cathedral’s walls would surely not have been able to see them – which meant the shot must have come from the chapel.

Simon was in two minds. He wanted to go to the chapel at once to test whether his theory was correct and the assassin had fired from there, but he knew that he would be better served to wait until daylight. Also, he feared leaving Baldwin in case he should need Simon – either because he had suffered a collapse, or because a killer tried again to dispatch him.

‘Dean, I shall remain here all night to protect Baldwin. Could you arrange for a pair of men whom you trust to come and help me? Not so slipshod as the three told to keep an eye on Thomas, either. I shall also want to send a messenger as soon as possible to Baldwin’s wife, to let her know about this attack.’

‘Naturally,’ the Dean said. He glanced back at Baldwin’s figure. ‘Bailiff, I cannot tell you how sorry I am, that this dreadful attack should have happened within my Close.’

‘Dean, I am sure that Baldwin wouldn’t blame you for one rogue, and I won’t either.’

‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’

‘I should like a large flask of wine, and first thing in the morning, please arrange for Thomas to be brought to me from the cells.’

‘Are you sure he is safe?’

‘I think the idea that there could be two murderers running about the Close is far-fetched,’ Simon said. ‘Someone tried to kill Baldwin
after
Thomas was installed in the gaol, and that means it’s unlikely he is the guilty party. Yes, I am happy to vouch for his safety.’

But who, he wondered as he again stared about him at the darkened Close, who will vouch for mine?

The night was a long and uncomfortable one for Simon. The Dean had been as good as his word, and sent two lay members of the Cathedral staff to stand at Baldwin’s side; they were strong-looking young men, both armed with swords and knives, one with a club as well, and they exuded a general attitude of competence.

‘You get some sleep, Bailiff. I can watch over him for you,’ said one, whose name apparently was David.

Simon took a seat on a stool, but wouldn’t sleep. He kept an eye on Baldwin, but most of the time he spent staring towards the doorway, wondering whether there would be another attack or not. It was hard to see how someone could hope to get past three men to kill Baldwin, but that was the least of his worries. What Simon wanted to know was, why should someone have decided to attack him in the first place? Was it because by some accident, Simon and Baldwin had come close to the truth of the matter?

And yet the bowman had only aimed at one of them – he had not fired a second arrow at Simon. Why not? Was it something Baldwin had learned which implicated the murderer,
or was it simply that Baldwin’s behaviour had upset the guilty man? Simon felt the possibilities flying about in his head all through the night, but when the first light started to brighten the cracks in the shutters at the windows, he was no nearer an answer.

But the answer itself could be damned. Just now Simon was aware of nothing but an overwhelming anger: he would find the would-be assassin, and make him pay. Simon vowed there and then to destroy the man who had made an attempt on Baldwin’s life.

He looked at his old friend. The knight lay breathing stertorously, a deathly pallor on his gaunt cheeks. Simon prayed that the wound healed cleanly, and did not become infected. The next few hours were crucial …

As the night wore on, Simon found his mind wandering. He recalled how he had first met Baldwin in the torchlit hall at Bickleigh Castle, how Baldwin’s face had shown such grim despair, and how over the last seven years that weary grief had eroded under the happy influence of his wife, the former Jeanne de Liddinstone. Recently he had seen how Baldwin’s problems with Jeanne had caused him a renewed pain, and Simon was scared just now that Baldwin might not last the night and see her again. It made him grip Baldwin’s hand and wring it, trying to force his friend to hold on, if only for as long as it would take Jeanne to arrive.

No messenger could leave until the city opened its gates, which would mean that she wouldn’t know of this misfortune until the middle of the morning at the earliest. If she were to mount her own horse, she might, just possibly, be at Exeter at noon, but a little after that was more likely.

Simon could have marched to the gaol and demanded Thomas immediately. He could have started to learn all the
mason knew, but to do so he would have to leave Baldwin with strangers to guard him, and that was not going to happen. Far better that he should wait until dawn. In daylight he would feel safer. All the murders so far had happened in the dark; during the day there were always too many people wandering about the Cathedral and in the Close for someone to be able to commit a crime of that nature with any hope of escape.

At full light, a man knocked at the door. It was the messenger who was to go to Jeanne, and Simon thought quickly. ‘Just tell her that Baldwin has been injured, that he is not dead, but sorely wounded, and that he loves her.’ He considered for a moment. A message like that would be sure to worry her … well, there was not much he could do about that. He didn’t want to worry her, but she needed to be aware that Baldwin was badly wounded. She should make the journey to Exeter to sit with him. Her presence would be a comfort to her husband. In the meantime, Simon wanted Baldwin’s last words to be taken to her as well. They might prove to be soothing.

Soon after the messenger had hurried outside and clambered aboard his horse, a fierce-looking beast with hooves the size of small barrel-bottoms, and hurtled off through Fissand Gate towards the West Gate of the city, Simon found himself confronted with a canon who carried a tray.

‘Bailiff. I was so sorry to hear of Sir Baldwin’s attack last night,’ Treasurer Stephen said. ‘I trust that a little food would help to support him? Please give him these
dowcettes
to improve his strength, and send him my best wishes.’

‘I thank you,’ Simon said, and set the tray on a table. Just now he was unsure whom to trust, and although the Treasurer was no doubt a safe, fair man, he wanted to ensure that no harm could come to Baldwin. That meant treating all food with
caution, keeping others away from Baldwin, and making sure that he was safe at all times.

The Treasurer saw how Simon eyed the food. ‘It is good – do you want me to eat some of it in front of you?’ he asked.

There was a plaintive tone to his voice which made Simon give an apologetic shake of his head. ‘I must be cautious. Until the physician returns, I shall not be giving him anything.’

Stephen opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the arrival of Thomas in the custody of a young layman. Simon did not notice how Stephen shot a glance at Thomas and winced, before looking away again, his face slightly paler.

‘How are you?’ Simon growled.

‘As well as a condemned man could be,’ Thomas replied caustically as Simon pulled out his dagger and cut the thongs that bound his hands. He stood flexing his arms for a moment. ‘The Bishop’s gaol is not so comfortable as a mason’s shed, although I daresay it’s better than some other prisons. Could I ask for some water to wash my hands? My palms are very painful still.’

‘My companion was attacked last night and almost killed,’ Simon said, motioning to the guard to fetch him a bucket. ‘I will find out who was responsible, and to do that I need to know everything you can tell me about the murder of the Chaunter and what has happened since you returned here.’

‘I’ve already told you all I can about the Chaunter’s death. I know nothing more.’

‘I know of Henry, Joel and William. Who else was involved?’

‘There were many of us – but not all are alive now.’

‘Well, who is, then?’ Simon said harshly.

Thomas gave him a long, considering look. ‘Very well.’ He reeled off a series of names. ‘As you can see, they are all
members of the city’s nobility. Those who were members of the Cathedral at the time have mostly gone.’

‘Which ones haven’t?’

‘There are only two, I think. Peter, the acting Prior of St Nicholas, and one other: the Treasurer here, Canon Stephen.’