• • •
‘He’s a stubborn man,’ John said as his family sat at the table to eat. Juliana was already sleeping, peace and contentment on her face. ‘He’ll keep gnawing away at it until he finds an answer. The trouble is, it could be a dangerous one.’
‘He’ll keep using you, too,’ Katherine told him. ‘That’s how he works.’
‘He was always like that.’ Dame Martha held the bread awkwardly. Her hands were twisted with age; grasping anything was difficult for her. ‘He’s headstrong. Even when he was a boy. He always wanted his own way. I remember his father had to whip him often.’
‘Not often enough.’ Katherine’s voice was tart.
‘Did you tell him about the men, John?’ Walter asked, then explained for the others.
‘No.’ He hadn’t seen the sense in it. The pair passing through Chesterfield seemed nothing and the coroner had been in no mood to listen. He’d found no more on the richer men who’d visited the month before.
‘He’ll say what he wants soon enough,’ Katherine said. ‘I’m sure it will involve you, husband.’
‘Yes.’ It wasn’t as if they had no other worries. In the shank of the afternoon word had spread that the son of Richard the butcher had the pestilence. It had finally travelled up the hill from the river, all the way to the Shambles. Now nobody in Chesterfield could feel safe.
• • •
In the morning he walked out to Whittington again with Alan. For once, the boy’s fingers were still and he looked thoughtful. In the field he set silently to work on the gate, picking up where he’d left off the day before.
Slow and steady, but John could see that the boy’s heart wasn’t in it. He wasn’t surprised; fear and work never sat well together, and fear was strong in the town now. Alan was far too young to have experienced the desperation that existed when the Great Pestilence arrived all those years before. He’d never seen the world collapse. Pray God he’d never experience it.
John worked with him, trying to make the simple tasks fill his mind. But too many thoughts jostled for room in his head. Of death and of mysterious priests and strange men on horseback.
He knew what de Harville would want. The man would send him to Castleton. Just a single night away, not all the days to Lincoln and back. The coroner would push and cajole and order until John couldn’t refuse. But he’d wait until that happened. Let the man come to him; he wasn’t about to offer. At least Martha had been well; they watched her carefully. No repeats of her short spell away from the world, nothing even close. Yet that meant he had no argument against going.
By the middle of the afternoon the gate was hung, strong and sturdy. It swung freely and fastened stoutly. The steward was pleased, gladly passing over the coins as Alan carefully cleaned the tools, rubbing until he was satisfied, sharpening the edge of a chisel with the whetstone.
It was coming time that the boy had tools of his own and those didn’t come cheap. John’s had belonged to his father, all the man had to leave behind, the only gift he had to give to his son.
But tools were a matter for another time, he decided as they strolled. In the morning they’d start on the next job. It was just in Brampton, not much more than a mile from home.
The spire on the church guided them back into Chesterfield. It stood tall, the oak tiles glowing in the sun, a beacon to everyone around. And only its own weight kept it firm on the tower, almost like a miracle. There were some nights when the fierce winds blew that he’d felt certain it must topple. Yet it remained, high and proud and visible for miles.
• • •
‘Any more?’ It was the first question as he slipped the satchel from his shoulder.
‘Two,’ Katherine told him. Her eyes were still red from crying. ‘One of them is Margaret’s baby.’
Isabella. She’d been born just a few months after Juliana. The mothers had become good friends. Another one from the Shambles.
He looked at his daughter. She was playing with the girls, innocent and oblivious. The best way. If only he could still be like that his world would be a simpler place.
John held his wife tenderly. A few survived the pestilence. Miracles happened. But they were very, very few, and no one knew why or how they were spared. The young and the old, the weak, they usually died quickly. The first signs became the death sentence.
He couldn’t take away Katherine’s fear. How could he when his own lurked, black and deep in the pit of his stomach? All he could do was hope, and pray to a God he wasn’t certain existed.
CHAPTER FOUR
Far fewer had come to the Saturday market. John stood by the top of the square and watched as people moved slowly around from stall to stall. Normally it filled the square, packed each week with traders and people from the town and the villages all around. Today it felt empty.
Too many frightened people, both buyers and sellers. Where did people decide that the balance tipped between profit and danger, he wondered?
‘John?’ Walter asked. It was their routine; each Saturday morning they came here together. This time, though, the lad looked fretful. Normally he was eager to plunge into the crowd, to discover everything on offer. ‘What’s going to happen to us all?’
‘I wish I knew,’ he answered. ‘Everything is out of our hands. Come on, we might as well see what’s for sale.’
They slipped through the stalls. Usually the smith from Apperknowle was here with the good iron nails that John favoured. But today he hadn’t come. Those trading were mostly the ones who couldn’t afford to stay away.
John circled around the market but there was nothing on sale to interest him. Walter was talking to a youth near his own age. There was no sense in staying, no pleasure to be had. He was close to the High Street when he heard the coroner call his name. For two days he’d heard nothing at all from the man. The message to go to Castleton had never arrived.
‘Master?’
De Harville was wearing green hose and a dark leather jerkin. A sword hung in its scabbard from his belt, and his boots were polished to a high gloss.
‘I want to talk to you after church tomorrow.’ He surveyed the square. ‘I’m surprised we have this many.’
‘The fear may pass in time.’
‘In time.’ De Harville nodded glumly. ‘But who knows how long that will be? Or how many will survive? Look to your own, Carpenter. In times like this it’s all we can do.’
• • •
The service ran late. With no priest, they had to wait for a curate from Clay Cross to arrive and hurry through the prayers.
‘I need to stay,’ John said to Katherine as they came out into the sunshine. ‘De Harville wants to talk.’ He bent and kissed his daughter’s head. Her hair was so soft under his lips and she smiled at the touch.
‘Why?’
‘I suspect he wants me to go to Castleton.’
‘John,’ she began, then gave him a bitter look and shook her head before calling the girls and stalking off. He caught a movement from the corner of his eye. The coroner, with Brother Robert hobbling awkwardly behind him.
‘You need to keep your wife under better control, Carpenter. That woman has a temper on her.’
He bit his tongue and said nothing.
‘Has Dame Martha had any more problems?’ de Harville asked.
‘No.’ The honest reply was the only one he could give.
‘Then tomorrow I want you to go to Castleton. Talk to the reeve and whoever else you can find. You can walk there in a day and be back here on Tuesday.’
‘And if I say no? With the plague around, no one will welcome travellers.’
‘You’ll go, Carpenter.’ De Harville paused. ‘I know you, you’re a man who likes answers to his problems.’
John nodded and walked away. It was a pity; the coroner was right.
• • •
He lifted his daughter, rubbed noses with her, then saw her toddle off giggling as he hefted a small pack on to his back. Katherine held him at arm�
��s length, searching his face for something, then pulled him close and kissed him. At the far end of the hall, Dame Martha waved.
‘Be careful, John,’ his wife whispered. ‘Please, always be careful.’
‘I will.’
The journey was slow and wearying. The sun arced hot overhead, with barely a cloud in the sky, as if the weather was atoning for the dampness of early spring. He followed a cart track across the moors and between the old, strange rocks down to Hathersage, breaking the journey at an inn there with bread, cheese and ale.
The village lay at the bottom of the valley, with a straight, even walk ahead of him, a stream making its merry music close by. He stopped often, cooling himself with handfuls of water over his head.
Then, finally, John could see the pale stones of Peveril Castle in the distance. It stood at the peak of the hill, high above the village, commanding the view for miles along the valley. God help anyone who wanted to take that, he decided; it looked impregnable. How had they managed to haul all the materials up there?
Castleton itself was no more than a hamlet of small, dark houses strung along the side of the road, always with the sense of the castle looming above them. The church stood by a bend, small, built from cut stone. In the far distance the track rose to disappear between two steep, jagged hills. On the third side there were fields, men bent at their work, then the landscape lifted abruptly. This was wild country, open and unforgiving. It was no place for any man in a bad winter.
John spotted an alehouse by the stream, marked by a green branch hanging over the lintel. Inside, it was cool, with deep shadows falling in the corners. The woman who came with his drink eyed him warily.
‘Are you going far?’ She had no welcome in her voice. But in times like these who wouldn’t be suspicious of strangers?
‘I’m looking for the reeve.’
She was older, with plump forearms, grey hair caught under a stained wimple, her face pink and perspiring in the heat.
‘What do you need him for?’
‘A few questions.’ He drank and smiled. ‘That’s a good brew, mistress.’
‘Don’t try to flatter me.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Chesterfield.’
‘I heard they have the plague there.’
John dipped his head, acknowledging the truth, and she crossed herself. She was old enough to remember the Great Pestilence; she probably lost family to it.
‘Then drink up, Master, please, and be on your way. He lives in the last house, just past the end of the village.’
She watched until he left, closing the door behind him with a sharp click of the latch.
On the way John picked a handful of wild parsley and chewed the leaves to sweeten his breath. The reeve’s house stood apart from the others. No bigger, but a little more solid. Well-kept, even some flowers growing under the window and a large garden behind the building.
The man who answered his knock was small and squat, as solid a figure as John had ever seen, with thick arms and powerful shoulders. A dark beard covered most of his face, and pale eyes stared up at him.
‘God be with you, stranger. How can I help you?’
‘I’m John the Carpenter from Chesterfield. I do some work for the coroner there. He sent me down to ask about Father Crispin who used to be the priest here. The alewife said you’re the reeve.’
For a long moment the man didn’t reply.
‘You’ve come to the right place. I’m the reeve. Elias.’ He didn’t extend his hand, but these days no one would; there could be death in a simple greeting. ‘The word is that you have plague there.’
‘It’s the truth,’ John admitted with a frown and a long sigh. ‘A few dead, a few more dying.’
Elias lowered his head and crossed himself. Peace for those who’d gone, protection for the living.
‘Crispin, you said? Has something happened to him?’
‘He was murdered.’
The reeve raised his eyebrows in disbelief and crossed himself once more. ‘Murdered? Sweet Jesu. What happened?’
John recounted it all as they walked down the lane to the church.
‘To leave him like that...’ Elias shook his head. ‘He served us well enough until he was sent to you. You can see for yourself, not many people live here.’ He pointed to a distant hill. ‘The people from Edale over there, they come for services and funerals. A few more from the farms in the hills.’
‘He did his job well?’
‘Well enough, I suppose. Kept himself to himself, though. Not like old Father Timothy. He’d always help in the fields, be there with his sickle every harvest, working with the rest of the village. We were sorry when he died. Crispin didn’t try to become one of us, if you understand.’
‘I do.’ It was exactly the way the priest had been in Chesterfield. There, but never part of the place. ‘Did you know much about him?’
‘He’d come from Lincoln, if that helps. He told me that much when he arrived, and he made it sound as if being here was a step down the ladder.’ He shrugged. ‘That didn’t make us warm to him.’
‘Has anyone else been here wanting to know about him?’ John asked, but the reeve shook his head.
‘Did he say anything about his past at all?’ John wondered.
‘Not that I ever heard. It’s a man’s own business, isn’t it?’
‘Did anyone here get to know him?’
The reeve played with his beard, tugging gently at the hairs.
‘There’s old Hilda,’ he said after a little while. ‘She’s a widow. Crispin would go and sit with her sometimes. But I’ve no idea if he ever told her much about his life.’
‘Could I speak to her? I’ve walked a fair way.’
‘You can try. I’ll warn you, though, most of the time she doesn’t talk that much. Had a palsy a few years ago and speaking isn’t easy for her. Sometimes she’ll be fine, but usually...’ he let the sentence drift away. ‘I’ll introduce you. She knows me, I’ve lived here all my life.’
‘It must be isolated here in winter,’ John commented.
‘We get by,’ Elias told him with a smile. ‘Always have, always will.’
• • •
Someone kept the small house tidy. Inside, the floor was swept clean, with new rushes on the dirt, and the shutters were open wide to let in the warmth and the light. Smoke rose from the cooking fire in the middle of the floor, and a pot bubbled lazily over the flames.
Hilda looked even older and more frail than Dame Martha. She sat on a high stool, hands cupped over a stick, watching them with careful eyes. When Elias spoke she nodded and turned her head to John. He squatted, close to her.
‘Mistress,’ he began, ‘the reeve says that Father Crispin used to spend time with you.’
‘He did.’ Her voice rasped and twisted harshly in her throat, but her face wore a sweet, gentle smile.
‘He’s dead, and I’m trying to find out about him.’
She breathed for a long time.
‘Mostly we just sat,’ she told him finally. ‘But he told me once he’d been a soldier.’
‘For the King?’ John asked.
She nodded. ‘Up on the Scottish border.’ Speaking seemed to tax her, but she continued. ‘He told me once that he did something bad. That’s why he became a priest. He said it was his penance.’
John could feel his heart beating faster. Finally, here was the meat on the bones of Crispin’s tale.
‘Did he say what he’d done, Mistress?’
‘He killed a powerful man and his sons wanted him dead.’
He hardly dared to ask: ‘Who was it, Mistress? Did he say?’
‘No. He said that much, but he didn’t want to tell me more. All I did was listen.’ She gave her smile again. ‘I listen well, people say.’
‘Did he say anything else about himself?’
‘He was born near York. I remember that. A grand house, he said. But nothing more.’
John squeezed h
er hand gently. ‘Thank you.’
‘Did that help?’ Elias asked once they were outside. He scratched his scalp. ‘That’s more than I ever learned about him.’
‘It did,’ John said. ‘I don’t know what it means yet, but it was worth the journey.’ He looked around. ‘Is there somewhere I can sleep tonight?’
‘Folk are usually generous around here. But with the plague in the air...’
He understood. People looking after their own families and keeping strangers from their door.
‘Of course.’ He smiled. ‘Thank you again.’
CHAPTER FIVE
He found a patch of bracken close to the river, well out of sight of the road. A few years had passed since he last slept outside. He’d become soft, John thought wryly, too used to the comforts of home and a bed with a loving wife in it. But the night felt balmy and sweet, the ferns made a soft pillow, and he was tired to his bones. Thoughts whirled in his head as he lay under his cloak, until the lulling sound of the water finally calmed them.
He woke while the light was only a faint glimmer on the eastern horizon, and stretched out the aches in his body. Cold, clear water to wake him then he was on his way. This was the best time to be on the road. The air was still fresh and the world felt new-made.
He broke his fast in Hathersage, following his nose to a baker’s shop, then eating as he climbed slowly up the long hill from the village, stopping to catch his breath and gaze back over the valley.
The last miles were the worst. No clouds in the sky to shade the sun. He was weary and his feet ached inside his boots. Finally, though, he could see the church steeple in the distance; the sense that home was close urged him on.
It was better to stop and make his report to the coroner first. John knew that once he was inside his own house he’d be too weary to leave again. De Harville had gone hawking for the day but Brother Robert sat in the hall, coming awake from a doze as John entered.
The monk listened closely to what John had learned. Between words the carpenter gulped at a mug of ale.
‘What do you think, Brother?’ he asked when he finished. ‘What do you make of Crispin?’
The Holywell Dead Page 4