Read Online The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Jecks
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weather being cold before disappearing into his little room.
‘Don’t mind him,’ said the old beggar.
‘A man who gives me a stool can be as grim-faced as he wishes. Anyway, his presence detracts from our prettiness, friend,’ Nicholas muttered with a chuckle.
‘Ha ha! You speak the truth there! He’s always a miserable-looking sod. Still, he’s spent time as a soldier in the King’s host before he came here, so he appreciates bold fighters like me. I daresay he’s readying a brazier to warm us both even now. Friend, I am called John Coppe. The porter there, he’s Janekyn Beyvyn.’
‘I am Friar Nicholas. How did you win your injuries? You say you were a fighter?’
‘Pirates. Used to be a sailor, and the bastards caught me and my ship. A big, brawny bugger with an axe took off my leg and then swung at my face.’ Coppe shrugged. ‘But I’m alive, and apart from the looks some women give me, life’s not so bad. What of you?’
Nicholas’s gaze passed down towards the Cathedral Close. ‘Many years ago, I was attacked in there and left for dead.’
The porter had returned, and he set a brazier before them. Returning to his shed, he brought out a pot filled with spiced wine, and set it on top. Passing them cups, he ladled wine into each. ‘You were hurt in here?’
‘Yes. I was with some companions when our master was attacked, and I won these wounds.’
‘You were with the Chaunter?’ the porter exclaimed.
‘Aye. My name is Nicholas. I think I was the only man to survive that attack.’
John Coppe looked up at him, then over at the porter. ‘I’ve never heard of this before, Jan. How long ago was this?’
‘Before my time,’ Janekyn said with a sniff. He held out his hands to the brazier.
‘You are a local man, then?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Yes. So’s Coppe here.’
‘I understand, good Porter. I’ll go and find another place to sit,’ Nicholas said, and rose.
‘No, Friar Nicholas, wait,’ Coppe said. He looked from one to the other with dismay. ‘What’s the matter with you two?’
Nicholas glanced at the porter. ‘You tell him, Master Janekyn.’
He shouldered his pack again and set off away from the Fissand Gate and off up the road towards the High Street. There at the top he stopped. He reached into his pack and brought out his wooden bowl, holding it out to passers-by. When he had some coins, he bought a little loaf from a baker’s in Cook Row, then slowly continued on his way towards the old Friary.
Henry reached home in a muck sweat. He thrust the door wide, and then slammed it shut, resting against it while he stood panting, close to puking, his eyes squeezed tight shut.
That can’t have been Nicholas! Sweet Jesus, but he had left Exeter so long ago … and yet could there be two men in the kingdom with that fearful wound slashing down the side of his face and destroying the eye? It was unlikely. Good Christ! To think that the man was here. It was terrible!
He was shaky on his legs. Forcing himself upright, he stumbled along the passage and into his hall. He wasn’t proud that his first feeling was one of relief that his wife was not in the room already, and when his bottler appeared, making sure that this wasn’t some stranger from the street essaying a little investigation of a wealthy man’s house, he barked out for some wine, and forget watering it today. He had need of some sustenance.
However, it was not the bottler who brought the wine, buthis wife. She walked in with a set face, and when she spoke, she was decidedly shrewish.
‘So you want more, do you? From your breath and the look of you, I should have thought you’d had plenty, Husband! You look as though you might empty your stomach all over the reeds at any moment.’
‘Woman, be still for five seconds!’ Henry snapped. He was in no mood for a confrontation and yet, when he felt her gently pressing a cup into his hand again, he looked up and realised what he must do.
‘Mabilla, my love,
‘Don’t mind him,’ said the old beggar.
‘A man who gives me a stool can be as grim-faced as he wishes. Anyway, his presence detracts from our prettiness, friend,’ Nicholas muttered with a chuckle.
‘Ha ha! You speak the truth there! He’s always a miserable-looking sod. Still, he’s spent time as a soldier in the King’s host before he came here, so he appreciates bold fighters like me. I daresay he’s readying a brazier to warm us both even now. Friend, I am called John Coppe. The porter there, he’s Janekyn Beyvyn.’
‘I am Friar Nicholas. How did you win your injuries? You say you were a fighter?’
‘Pirates. Used to be a sailor, and the bastards caught me and my ship. A big, brawny bugger with an axe took off my leg and then swung at my face.’ Coppe shrugged. ‘But I’m alive, and apart from the looks some women give me, life’s not so bad. What of you?’
Nicholas’s gaze passed down towards the Cathedral Close. ‘Many years ago, I was attacked in there and left for dead.’
The porter had returned, and he set a brazier before them. Returning to his shed, he brought out a pot filled with spiced wine, and set it on top. Passing them cups, he ladled wine into each. ‘You were hurt in here?’
‘Yes. I was with some companions when our master was attacked, and I won these wounds.’
‘You were with the Chaunter?’ the porter exclaimed.
‘Aye. My name is Nicholas. I think I was the only man to survive that attack.’
John Coppe looked up at him, then over at the porter. ‘I’ve never heard of this before, Jan. How long ago was this?’
‘Before my time,’ Janekyn said with a sniff. He held out his hands to the brazier.
‘You are a local man, then?’ Nicholas asked.
‘Yes. So’s Coppe here.’
‘I understand, good Porter. I’ll go and find another place to sit,’ Nicholas said, and rose.
‘No, Friar Nicholas, wait,’ Coppe said. He looked from one to the other with dismay. ‘What’s the matter with you two?’
Nicholas glanced at the porter. ‘You tell him, Master Janekyn.’
He shouldered his pack again and set off away from the Fissand Gate and off up the road towards the High Street. There at the top he stopped. He reached into his pack and brought out his wooden bowl, holding it out to passers-by. When he had some coins, he bought a little loaf from a baker’s in Cook Row, then slowly continued on his way towards the old Friary.
Henry reached home in a muck sweat. He thrust the door wide, and then slammed it shut, resting against it while he stood panting, close to puking, his eyes squeezed tight shut.
That can’t have been Nicholas! Sweet Jesus, but he had left Exeter so long ago … and yet could there be two men in the kingdom with that fearful wound slashing down the side of his face and destroying the eye? It was unlikely. Good Christ! To think that the man was here. It was terrible!
He was shaky on his legs. Forcing himself upright, he stumbled along the passage and into his hall. He wasn’t proud that his first feeling was one of relief that his wife was not in the room already, and when his bottler appeared, making sure that this wasn’t some stranger from the street essaying a little investigation of a wealthy man’s house, he barked out for some wine, and forget watering it today. He had need of some sustenance.
However, it was not the bottler who brought the wine, buthis wife. She walked in with a set face, and when she spoke, she was decidedly shrewish.
‘So you want more, do you? From your breath and the look of you, I should have thought you’d had plenty, Husband! You look as though you might empty your stomach all over the reeds at any moment.’
‘Woman, be still for five seconds!’ Henry snapped. He was in no mood for a confrontation and yet, when he felt her gently pressing a cup into his hand again, he looked up and realised what he must do.
‘Mabilla, my love,
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