Those that speak against the Cragg Vale Coiners will be lambs to the abattoir cleaver, said Isaac Hartley.
Aye, said David Hartley. It’ll be their fresh necks that will feel the rope-burn or nick of the blade if the lawman comes knocking up at Bell House. Not mine.
Secrets, said William Hartley. We need to know those that can keep them, and those whose tongues turn loose as soon as they’re slaked with the ale.
There’ll be no more fire-side sweating for us three, said David Hartley.
No?
No. I have a man in mind for the clipping of coins. And when this man is striking, these boys of ours can’t be spending. No. This valley is too narrow for these things to go unnoticed but we’ll be on our way to glory so long we work it all rightly.
There are a few we can trust, said William Hartley. For years you were away, our David, but Isaac and me know the way things lie.
On your heads be it then.
Tom Spencer is one of them, said Isaac Hartley.
Yes. Thomas Spencer is one of us, agreed William Hartley. His blood runs close and he is good with the numbers also. Learned. His memory it has no holes. We can use a good man like him.
He paused to whistle and shout geeit again, and the terrier picked up the rabbit and trotted back between the tufts of whin and furze that dotted the field. It dropped it at their feet. Isaac Hartley picked the creature up by its hind legs and checked its eyes and teeth.
A good coney is that, he said. Good health.
John Wilcox too, said William Hartley. John Wilcox has always done us well. He speaks ill of no man – and that is a good sign. Already he has earned more coin than the others. James Jagger too we have known since birth.
Not I, said David Hartley.
James Jagger is true valley though, agreed Isaac Hartley. No two tracks about that. I agree with our William. He would kill a man that whispered a cross word about you. Loyal blood, is Jim Jagger.
Good then, said David Hartley. Thomas Clayton we know will do what is asked of him also. David Greenwood has shown himself to be a man with nutmegs of stone.
Nathan Horsfall is a worker.
William Hartley said this.
His face I do not like, said David Hartley.
His heart is good though.
And his face you do not have to see, said Isaac Hartley.
Fine.
Jonas Eastwood has brought us his share of bits and florins said the youngest brother, his red hair slick against his faintly freckle-flecked brow. He has good connections over in Fax. His father-in-law is sympathetic. He asks for nothing but our protection.
Protection from who? said David Hartley.
From them that bother him.
Then they’ll bother him no more. Who else can we trust?
Jonas Eastwood I trust also, said Isaac Hartley. And his brother too. Wiley like foxes are the Eastwoods.
I heard tell that Ben Sutcliffe has laid with all the bints from Field to Fax, said David Hartley.
What of it?
Does he not have a family to feed?
A wife and four sprats. One of them is tapped.
Well then, said David Hartley. The man that presses coins to the palms of fustilugged whores when his children are wearing rags cannot be a man of honour, no matter which side of the law he cares to step.
He’s a worker, is Ben.
Then set him working. But he will never know the true nature of this business and he will never dine at my table. Never again will he be invited.
Now, said David Hartley. About this new clipping man I have in mind.
The wherefores and the howabouts of the serky stansums of how this magikal man of metal did fynd his way to us is a story unto itself Jaykob Tillysun it was who first raised his name to I after he did see this man from Bradford make a dog fly Yes yes I know wor yor thinkin Kinge Dayvid has been at the barrel of jaylers stingo or his mind has gone kittle after too menny days sat starrin at the worls of a sell so cold that the ice wetness does seep throo them and form ice shoggles on his cruckedd neb But no what I tell you Jaycub Tillysun did see with his owern peepers and Jaycub Tillison is one of the Kinges most trussed men One of the few left hoos werd is his bond and can still be taykin so And so when Jaycub Tilltson tells you that this alkemiss did rayse a sleepin dug three foot off the grownd weethowt wires or ropes or mirras or smoke then you be knowing that this be a man of speyshul magical powers A good fellow to hayve on your side because there’s only the few who can muster majick.
At a harvest drinke up it was in the thwayte of Tryangul not but five myles from Bell Hole as the rayven goes when sum fellows Jaykob Tillyon inclooted did calle upon this majikal man to do wor it was he was allreddy nown for And so after some purswayshin and the promis of a haff duzzeen nyps of the finest harves fyment this alkemyist who only ever appeered when the werk it was dun and ther was nothink left to do but for the drinken and the eaten and the fucken of the valleys frootful vynes did corl up on the boys to put down their fidduls and tayke thur teeth out thur lassys titts for a moment and he did pray syluns and nod to the mangy dog – Boggit was its name – that was coiled up asleep in a skep that one of the wiffees yoosed for the sorting and carrying of her yarn borls And then he did mutta some werds the lykes of wich Jaykup Tillisen or no man there to bare witnes to had herd befor And with his eyes clowsed and fingers spread he did summin that wicker skep and the sleepin dug to ryse up like a dorn mussrom Up it cayme off the growd Both baskit and dug And up it cept cumin And that shut off any laffta or the slocken slurps of the greedee baylers and reepers who were neck deep in ale already for it had been a long season I tell yoo Becors to see a floatin sleepin dug is to see the work of god or the divil or hoo nose what And any man like that I can use Any man like that must be a wizzid or an alchemisst or just sumone youd sooner have on your side as not.
And thats how we cayme a cross the man wort tuck us from too bit clippers to werld infoamy.
The Alchemist wore a hood and carried with him a blanket roll strapped across his back.
David Hartley watched him as he moved across the moor at a steady pace, a dark triangle like an unlit beacon awaiting the touch of a taper’s flame. From this distance he appeared more of a man of the cloisters than the dark arts.
As he approached, he saw that the hooded figure wore a thin beard on his cheeks and chin.
They nodded in greeting and then David Hartley led him to an out building. In it there was a fire burning and he said wait here. A moment later he returned with Isaac Hartley and William Hartley and their father William Hartley the elder.
This here is the man they say is the best at the melting, he said. He’ll be doing our share now. No more burned fingers for us boys – what do you say to that, father?
William Hartley nodded and then spoke.
There’s been bits of me dropping off and drying up for years my lad, and I’ll surely be glad to keep my fingers for a little longer yet.
His sons smiled at this.
They call this man The Alchemist, said David Hartley.
And how are we to trust him, our David? asked Isaac Hartley.
Because this man knows that we’ll put him neck-deep in the moor alive and then after that we’ll take his wife and his children and his children’s children and all the children that will ever bear his family name if he so much as squeaks in the wrong direction. He comes from Bradford but if he proves himself you’ll be seeing more of him. Much more.
The Alchemist looked from one man to the other and then unhitched his heavy parcel and squatted down to roll it out on the floor before them.
The blanket held a set of clipping scissors and files. There were bellows and two small three-cornered smelting pots. Crucibles. There were rags and rubbing oil too. There was a knife and a cosh. Tongs and shears.
That’s a better kit than ours, said
William Hartley.
And he’s going to show us how he uses it, said David Hartley.
The Alchemist squatted and began to assemble his effects.
Across two inverted V frames he placed a blackened metal cross piece that hung above the dying flames and then he raked the heap of burning logs and tapped at them until they flaked into fragments. He broke the fire down into a neat flat bed of silent heat and then raked it once more.
You’ll need fresh logs, said William Hartley. I’ll fetch em.
Without taking his eyes from the fire The Alchemist raised a hand to halt the youngest brother. In the dark room the glow from the shards and cinders cast his skin in a sallow hue; he was a thin man. Taciturn, and with few teeth set in his mealy gums, his cheeks appeared to have sunken pathetically inwards in sympathy. That and the wispy beard made his age indeterminate. A decade either side of forty would still not necessarily be an accurate reading. He remained hooded.
The three-cornered crucible he hung low from the crossbow and then he re-shaped the bed of burning ash once again. He squared it off at the sides. Shortened it. Intensified its hazed glare in the direction of the pot.
The Alchemist took the bellows and cleared his throat and then he pumped them. Twice. Two short bursts. The stiff gusts of stale air brought the bed of fire alive. It pulsed with a new flameless intensity and his boots scraped across the dirt floor as he shifted around the fire pit, working the bellows again so that the briquettes of burning wood chocks raged.
The three-cornered pot appeared to tighten and groan. Inscribed in its side was a sigil, a crude rendering of what looked like a lightening fork. David Hartley noticed it.
What’s that? he said.
The Alchemist followed his eyes.
That?
Yes. That. On the pot. What’s it meant to be?
That, said The Alchemist. That represents the bladed branches of the stag.
His voice was dry in his mouth. His voice was fire-cracked and heat-worn.
Why, said David Hartley. Why?
Because the stag is the life force of the moors just as fire is the life of forging. I thought you’d know that.
I do know that, said David Hartley. I do know that.
Only then did The Alchemist look at the brothers and their father, and the glances that passed between them. In the latter he saw an aged man who had lived for six long decades of turf-digging and loom-mending, of flint-slitting and rock-breaking and pond-dredging and rabbit-trapping and slate-fixing, all with nothing to show for it but twisted fingers and a locked left knee, a squint and a crooked spine. He saw that the old man’s dark eyes seemed to hold the seeds of fire too, and that his chin was pointed and one temple scarred with a white mess of flesh healed into a tight pattern like the fossilised form of flowering lichen across a wet valley rock. The mashed markings of a true coin smelter.
The Alchemist extended an arm. He held out a palm, requested alms.
David Hartley produced a pouch and poured half of it into the hand of The Alchemist who took the shears and clipped each coin in turn until he had a small pile of slivers.
With neat movements he circled the fire and roddled the coals and pumped the bellows.
The remaining coins he deftly stacked in a tower on the floor.
With his poker he tapped the pot and the four men leaned in to see that the guinea shards were changing shape. Softening and collapsing. They were gaining a liquid sheen.
The Alchemist signalled for the men to step back as he unwrapped another cloth and set down beside him a selection of moulds and dies of different sizes. He carefully arranged them. He touched them once. He touched them twice, then with tongs he lifted the pot from the fire and poured its contents into four of the moulds. The pot he set aside.
Still squatting and stock still, The Alchemist muttered words to himself. The Hartleys could not determine what he was saying. His whispered words ran into one another. Strange incantations. He uttered a song without a melody. An inaudible spell for the casting of the metal. A twisting of the tongue.
Then in a sudden burst of movement The Alchemist snatched up a spelter stamp in one hand and hammer in the other. The stamp he pressed down onto the first mould and he twirled the hammer once and then twice over the back of his hand in a conjurer’s display of showmanship before swinging it and bringing it down hard on the head of the stamp. He struck again and again, the shrill judder of metal on metal reverberating.
The stamp he cast aside before seizing the next one – this slightly larger – and swinging and striking in quick succession. Four times he did this, one after another; the stone space echoing with the hammer’s call.
Then he laid his tools aside. There were beads of sweat on his brow now. They looked black. As black as the dew that settles on the coomb of a coalman’s shovelled remnants.
The Alchemist turned the moulds upside down and tapped the bottom of each so that their contents fell into a bowl of water that steamed with each newly-forged coin. Then he spoke. He said: the white hot hiss is a vicious liquid kiss from the lady of the fire who is softer than silver and swifter than light.
What’s that? said Isaac Hartley. What’s he saying?
The mottled dirty water he threw onto the hot coals and these too hissed and steamed and spat tiny gobbets of dead and dying embers in a cloud of smothering muffled smoke that had all the men but The Alchemist, who seemed impervious to it, hacking and rubbing at their eyes.
He rattled the bowl and swirled its contents then flicked the newly-forged and stamped coins into his hand. From a pocket he produced a rag and a small snuff box of dark daubing into which he dipped a blackened digit and dabbed some of its contents onto each coin. With an economical flourish he buffed each disc.
He slowly stood and handed a coin in turn to young William Hartley and Isaac Hartley and the old man William Hartley the elder. At David Hartley he paused and held the coin aloft between thumb and forefinger and in the half-light it seemed to turn and spin of its own accord and he said come, come press a coin into my palm and I’ll return you two like a curse reversed on a gypsy’s tongue.
David Hartley took the coin.
He touched it. He studied it. It still held within it the warmth of the fire. He examined it further.
He said: this work is good.
The Alchemist said nothing.
Here, he’s milled the rim, said William Hartley, and David Hartley studied the tiny writing that ran around the side of the coin.
Do you know what these words say? asked The Alchemist.
No, I do not said, David Hartley. They are not in any language that any right-minded man round these parts would know even if they were book learners.
That’s because these words is Latin, said The Alchemist. Decus Et Tutamen. They say: An Ornament and a Safeguard. A hundred years or more this coin has carried these words and I’d wager it’ll carry them for a hundred more.
What’s all this Latin for?
Latin is the language that the crown favours, said William Hartley Sr. It’s what they speak across foreign waters and it makes the king think he’s better than common folk.
I’m not no fucking common folk, said David Hartley. I’m a king too; a king that’s more respected amongst his own folk than these betterny-bodies who think their shit smells as sweet as pollen. And I’m a king that doesn’t need no fucking foreign tongue from across no foreign waters to make him feel big about himself, nor a crown upon his napper. All I wear is the sky above me, and the only throne this man needs is that which sits above the shitting pit.
The detail is good, brother, said William Hartley. See the laurel upon my guinea. See the drapery on the neck. See the lions. This work is beyond even the best Coiner’s capabilities.
This work is nothing, said The Alchemist. This I can do a thousand-fold.
Then a fold it is I have
for you.
A fold?
Aye. Sheep fold. Away from here. Over the top dip. You’ll use it.
The Alchemist looked at David Hartley blankly as the eldest brother spoke.
Once a week or two weeks or whenever it is that the valley has given up enough grubby coins to make it worth your while you will come and you will go to that fold where there is a roof and a pit and you will clip and smelt until the pile is doubled.
Still The Alchemist said nothing.
You will be watched and you will be protected, continued David Hartley. Looked after. There will be lads as lookouts checking the moor for nosey blow-ins and any man that wants to bring us down.
They will watch you too said Isaac Hartley.
Why? said The Alchemist.
Isaac Hartley smirked.
Because the man who trusts others is the first to fall. We trust no fuckers, magic man or otherways.
Isaac Hartley cast aside his coin and said: good work counts for nothing if you cannot be trusted.
Can you be trusted? said David Hartley.
I ask myself the same question of you, said The Alchemist.
At this William Hartley snorted.
Shall I knock this man sparko, our David?
Let him speak.
Can I trust you to give this man – meaning me – his share and to keep him from Jack Ketch’s rope? said the Alchemist.
You’ll get your share, said David Hartley. Don’t you worry about that. You’ll get your share and more if you do right by us. But who is Jack Ketch?
Jack Ketch is the name of the hangman, said The Alchemist. Jack Ketch is the name of all men who do all the hanging. One name to fit all; just like his noose.
Your neck’s protection I cannot guarantee any more than mine own, said David Hartley. But your name and whereabouts will go no further than these stone walls and no stranger will molest you to or from the moor. Do you trust me? Do you trust the Hartleys?
The Alchemist hesitated.
They say I should fear the Hartleys, he said.
Oh, you should. You should fear the Hartleys like you fear the reaper’s scythe. Your tongue I’ll take between these tongs and twist until your spells can be spoken no more if you durst betray a Hartley. I’ll ask you once more: do you trust me?
The Gallows Pole Page 5