Read Online The Chapel of Bones: (Knights Templar 18) by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Jecks
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there is something I have to tell you,’ he said, and as he started his tale, his voice broke at last, and for the first time in many years he wept; not for himself, but for all those men he had killed or helped to kill.
If there was one man who was more responsible than most for Henry’s grief and pain, it was Peter, and yet the temporary Prior of St Nicholas knew no happiness himself. If he had been certain of Henry’s feelings of remorse and guilt, it would have helped him overcome his own sense of simmering rage at the injustice done to him.
After the murder, Peter had returned to his room and sat on his bed. Even forty years later, he could remember that. He’d sat there for a long while, his body exhausted, two little scratches on an arm and his belly, but they really were just minor wounds. The Vicar of Heavitree had a worse wound – a knife-cut in his shoulder that could have been quite dangerous. He was advised to get it seen to at the earliest opportunity, when the others crowded around to take a look in the flickering light of a torch.
It was astonishing how easy the attack had been. They had massed there in the gloom before midnight, men arriving inones and twos. Peter had been at the bottom of what was now called the Fissand Gate, while the rest stood at the other entrances. Men were waiting at the Bear Gate, and more at the Erceneske Gate and St Petrock’s, just in case the man managed to escape the initial assault. To prevent their weakening, the Dean had seen to it that there were men among them to stiffen the feeblest resolve – the Vicar of Heavitree was at the Bear Gate, the Vicar of Ottery St Mary at the Erceneske, and William was with Peter at Fissand. They were all in their places soon after the bells tolled for the start of Matins, the blood thundering in their veins as they waited to execute this interloper, Chaunter Walter de Lecchelade.
There were many different reasons for the men to be there. Some wanted the simplest reward: money. Others were looking to the future, when that fool Quivil was dead and John of Exeter, their Dean, naturally took the post. John was the obvious choice, after all. He was clever, witty, and a local man; he understood the people in his parishes, and he was bright enough not to try to enforce damn stupid rules that wouldn’t be accepted. Unlike Quivil, with his lunatic schemes.
Peter shook his head. It was so long ago now, he couldn’t even remember the reasons that Quivil gave for wanting the Dean out of there. There must have been something – it can’t just have been the age-old complaint that he was holding several benefices in plurality. Not that it mattered. As far as Peter was concerned, although the Dean and Bishop were at loggerheads, it was clear to him that the Dean was in the right. While the Bishop refused to speak to John or even call him ‘Dean’, the Primate Archbishop Peccham scarcely spoke to the Bishop! Even when Quivil was elevated to the Bishopric, he refused to confer the rite of consecration, explaining that it was a mite inconvenient … that studied insult was never going to beforgotten or forgiven, but as far as Peter was concerned, the opinion of the Primate was all that mattered.
He could remember thinking that as he stood there that night, William beside him with his teeth shining in the torchlight, fiddling excitedly with the blade of his sword. Rather than the cold and the damp and the fact that they were there to slaughter a man who had interposed himself between two powerful factions in the Cathedral, Peter’s mind was fixed upon the glorious future he would enjoy. As soon as John of Exeter realised that Peter had been there and put in his own blow, Peter would be able to count on the Dean’s support for any promotions. The Vicars were fine, they could get the money and power that they craved, but the Dean had the ability to reward his own friends more liberally in the Cathedral.
And then there was the chink of light as
If there was one man who was more responsible than most for Henry’s grief and pain, it was Peter, and yet the temporary Prior of St Nicholas knew no happiness himself. If he had been certain of Henry’s feelings of remorse and guilt, it would have helped him overcome his own sense of simmering rage at the injustice done to him.
After the murder, Peter had returned to his room and sat on his bed. Even forty years later, he could remember that. He’d sat there for a long while, his body exhausted, two little scratches on an arm and his belly, but they really were just minor wounds. The Vicar of Heavitree had a worse wound – a knife-cut in his shoulder that could have been quite dangerous. He was advised to get it seen to at the earliest opportunity, when the others crowded around to take a look in the flickering light of a torch.
It was astonishing how easy the attack had been. They had massed there in the gloom before midnight, men arriving inones and twos. Peter had been at the bottom of what was now called the Fissand Gate, while the rest stood at the other entrances. Men were waiting at the Bear Gate, and more at the Erceneske Gate and St Petrock’s, just in case the man managed to escape the initial assault. To prevent their weakening, the Dean had seen to it that there were men among them to stiffen the feeblest resolve – the Vicar of Heavitree was at the Bear Gate, the Vicar of Ottery St Mary at the Erceneske, and William was with Peter at Fissand. They were all in their places soon after the bells tolled for the start of Matins, the blood thundering in their veins as they waited to execute this interloper, Chaunter Walter de Lecchelade.
There were many different reasons for the men to be there. Some wanted the simplest reward: money. Others were looking to the future, when that fool Quivil was dead and John of Exeter, their Dean, naturally took the post. John was the obvious choice, after all. He was clever, witty, and a local man; he understood the people in his parishes, and he was bright enough not to try to enforce damn stupid rules that wouldn’t be accepted. Unlike Quivil, with his lunatic schemes.
Peter shook his head. It was so long ago now, he couldn’t even remember the reasons that Quivil gave for wanting the Dean out of there. There must have been something – it can’t just have been the age-old complaint that he was holding several benefices in plurality. Not that it mattered. As far as Peter was concerned, although the Dean and Bishop were at loggerheads, it was clear to him that the Dean was in the right. While the Bishop refused to speak to John or even call him ‘Dean’, the Primate Archbishop Peccham scarcely spoke to the Bishop! Even when Quivil was elevated to the Bishopric, he refused to confer the rite of consecration, explaining that it was a mite inconvenient … that studied insult was never going to beforgotten or forgiven, but as far as Peter was concerned, the opinion of the Primate was all that mattered.
He could remember thinking that as he stood there that night, William beside him with his teeth shining in the torchlight, fiddling excitedly with the blade of his sword. Rather than the cold and the damp and the fact that they were there to slaughter a man who had interposed himself between two powerful factions in the Cathedral, Peter’s mind was fixed upon the glorious future he would enjoy. As soon as John of Exeter realised that Peter had been there and put in his own blow, Peter would be able to count on the Dean’s support for any promotions. The Vicars were fine, they could get the money and power that they craved, but the Dean had the ability to reward his own friends more liberally in the Cathedral.
And then there was the chink of light as
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