The Holywell Dead

by Chris Nickson

  But there was nothing he could recall. Would he have even noticed, though? The things John considered important all happened closer to home. The work of kings and nobles meant nothing; they were as distant as the moon, with their own orbits and laws. Caught up in his own world, he might never have noticed something.

  ‘What happened five years ago? What was so important?’

  ‘Politics, killings, small battles. It could have been almost anything. I thought about that as I rode home. So much and so little.’ He shrugged. ‘Guy had been gone for over a week when we found his body. He could already have been down here.’

  ‘He hadn’t been dead that long,’ John said. ‘No more than the night before.’

  ‘Then fashion me an answer, Carpenter. Find me a killer.’

  • • •

  ‘John?’

  Martha hobbled out into the garden, leaning on her stick. She lowered herself slowly on to the bench and let out a tired sigh. Over dinner he’d told them about Guy. The girls kept whispering to each other, paying no attention. Katherine fussed with Juliana; the heat prickled the child and left her fractious and quick to cry.

  ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

  She settled, stretched out her legs and smiled.

  ‘I should sit out here more often. The warmth feels good on my bones. Where were you five years ago?’

  ‘I was in York.’ She knew that; he’d told her his tale often enough.

  ‘Do you remember the things happening on the border with Scotland then?’

  There were always skirmishes up there in the wild country. Raids from both sides. People died, cattle were stolen. It was how they lived, a world apart. He paid it no attention. They were secure in York, with its soldiers and thick walls; the place was well defended. No Scot would be foolhardy enough to attack it.

  ‘No. Why, do you know something?’

  The old woman shook her head. ‘How would we ever know much down here? All we ever got was gossip from the travellers. But I recall some leader being killed around then. I don’t know why, but it stuck in my mind.’

  He felt the beating in his heart quicken. ‘Do you remember when? Or who?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t even tell you who said it. Still, it must have been important for someone to mention it.’

  ‘I’ll ask de Harville. Maybe he could find out. Or Brother Robert.’

  Martha gave her gentle smile and the wrinkled face lit up. ‘He’s the reason I came out here, John. You need to talk to the coroner about him. Robert’s dying.’

  ‘But—’ he began, then stopped. The monk was ill; that was obvious. How old was he? How old was Martha, come to that? They were of an age. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Talk to de Harville. Persuade him to let Robert go back to the abbey. He’s been away from it for too long. Send him back so he can die in peace.’

  ‘I already tried. He wouldn’t listen.’

  She reached out, placing a tiny, bony hand over his wrist. ‘Try again, John. Please, for me.’

  ‘He said it was too dangerous to travel with plague all around.’

  ‘Calke isn’t that far. A carter would take him. I’d be happy to pay.’

  She had money. How much, he didn’t know, but she’d never struggled.

  ‘I’ll ask.’

  ‘I’d be grateful.’ She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘There’s something else.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I went to see the lawyer yesterday.’

  He knew who she meant. There was only one in Chesterfield; not enough business in the town to support more.

  ‘Is there a problem? Can we help?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that. I decided to change my will.’ He opened his mouth to speak but she held up a finger. ‘Hear me out first. There’s money for my children and grandchildren, not that I ever see any of them. But I’ve prayed on it. I’m leaving my house to you. To Katherine, too.’

  ‘You can’t.’ At first he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

  ‘John,’ she told him gently. ‘It’s my house. My property that my husband left to me. I can do what I want with it.’

  ‘But...’ he began.

  ‘Hush. It’s for all of you. The girls and Walter; Juliana, too.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He couldn’t even have imagined anything like this. A satchel of tools had seemed like a big enough gift when he’d inherited it from his father. This... it defied thought.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ she said. ‘It’s already settled.’

  ‘You’re not going to die for a long time yet.’

  ‘I’ll go when the Lord decides.’ Her voice was steady. ‘With the plague here, who knows when that will be? It helped me make up my mind.’ She began to push herself up from the bench. He rose to help her.

  ‘Thank you.’ The words seemed too small and inadequate.

  ‘You’re my family,’ she said.

  • • •

  Katherine cried, then went to Martha’s room and sat with the old woman for a long time. She was in tears again when she came out, but this time they were different, a mix of joy and sorrow.

  ‘She thinks she might die soon,’ was all she would say. In the bed she held John very close.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It was a morning of drenching rain, arriving in heavy squalls, drops bouncing up from the road. They made a sullen parade to church, skirting the puddles, the long grass in the graveyard soaking boots and hose. The farmers might need it but it did little good elsewhere, John thought.

  The curate from Clay Cross said mass, and a service for those who’d died since his last visit. He intoned their names, and everyone bowed their heads, remembering, praying that they wouldn’t be next.

  By the time he finished, all that remained in the air was a misting drizzle. The heat was beginning to rise, steam coming off the earth as if the ground was cooking. Katherine and the girls left, Walter prowled away somewhere, and Martha sat in the porch with the other goodwives, exchanging the gossip they didn’t have time to tell before prayers began.

  De Harville was squatting at the lych gate, talking to his son. The boy held his mother’s hand tightly, the nurse fretting behind her. The coroner stood and ruffled the boy’s hair, watching as the others moved away.

  ‘Carpenter. I wanted to see you.’

  ‘Master?’

  ‘Have you had any new thoughts about Crispin and Guy?’

  ‘Dame Martha believed there might have been an incident up on the Scots border around five years ago. She didn’t know what it was, though.’

  The coroner frowned. ‘Walk home with me. Maybe Robert can recall it.’

  De Harville had said the name. It was time to broach the topic again. ‘You should let him go back to the abbey. He’s not well. He could rest there.’

  ‘He rests in good comfort at my house.’ There was the first small flare of temper. ‘He’s well-fed, a better bed than he’d find in any monk’s cell. And I told you before, not while there’s plague around. He’s a frail man.’

  That was all the more reason to let him go. ‘Have you asked him, Master?’

  ‘Why would I need to do that? I’ve known him most of my life.’

  ‘It would be a kindness.’

  De Harville strode ahead, leaving bootprints in the mud. The door to the house hung open. He was already in the hall, pouring a goblet of wine. The monk sat in the corner, a cushion under his old bones.

  ‘Five years ago,’ the coroner said to Robert. ‘Up on the border. Do you remember anything important?’

  The brother gazed at him with rheumy eyes and remained quiet for a long time.

  ‘Wasn’t there something about a lord who was killed?’ he said eventually.

  The coroner paced the floor, drinking, staring out of the glazed window, thinking. Suddenly he turned.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I can remember it now. But wasn’t it only whispers? Something about an earl. The King had sent him to hamme
r down on the raiders. Let me see.’ He walked more, thinking and talking. ‘If I recall it properly, the story was that he’d ridden his horse down to a river to water it and he was surprised by a group of men. By the time they began to look for him, the killers had gone and all they found was his body.’

  An earl. A very powerful man indeed.

  ‘Crispin and Guy were Englishmen,’ John said.

  ‘Who better to kill an earl who’s causing trouble at court and blame it on the Scots?’ the coroner asked.

  ‘But we don’t know if any of this is true, do we?’ It made for a good tale. For anything more...

  ‘It would fit,’ de Harville said, as if it was now fixed in his mind.

  John looked over at Robert. The monk’s face showed no expression. This was a flight of fancy, a stretch of the imagination with not a single shred of proof.

  ‘What do you think, Brother?’

  ‘I don’t know, John.’ His voice had all the weariness of age. ‘I’ve learned that men can do more terrible things than I’ve ever dreamed about.’

  ‘If it’s true—’ He paused. ‘If it’s true, it could be someone taking revenge.’

  ‘Well done, Carpenter.’

  He ignored the jibe. ‘But why would they do it here?’ If there’d even been an assassination, it had happened far to the north.

  ‘Crispin was here,’ the coroner answered. ‘Guy wasn’t far away. Two bodies killed the same way, left close to the same town. That sends a message.’

  It certainly did that. A brutal one that seemed to ignore all the people who lived here, as if they didn’t matter, and their lives weren’t worth consideration.

  And if de Harville’s idea was true, looking into the deaths meant they were meddling with people who were too powerful and deadly for comfort.

  ‘If you’re right, Master, you know we’ll never bring the killers to justice.’

  ‘Perhaps we won’t,’ the coroner admitted, ‘but at least we’ll know the truth of it.’

  It was the truth that could kill them. He wanted no part of it.

  John turned to the monk again. ‘Brother, you don’t look well.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ Robert answered with a faint smile. ‘But even when I sleep, these days I never feel much peace from it.’

  ‘You should be back in the abbey.’ He could feel the coroner’s dark glance as he spoke.

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘There’s plague everywhere,’ de Harville said.

  ‘What’s the worst it can do, Master? Kill me?’ Robert told him quietly.

  ‘Then go. If that’s all your loyalty means, leave.’ He clattered the wine cup down on the table. Liquid spilled over and formed a small puddle on the wood. He stalked out of the room.

  ‘Thank you, John.’ The monk spoke into the silence. ‘It’s time.’

  ‘Just say farewell to Dame Martha before you go.’

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  • • •

  Monday morning brought a warm breeze out of the west, enough to flap at the linen of his old shirt. He set out for Cutthorpe with Alan at his side. Four miles in each direction, a strain for the lad, but he’d manage without complaint. That was his way. No new cases of plague in Chesterfield. Like everyone else, he wanted to believe it had passed, just brushed by them and moved on, but deep in his soul he knew it wasn’t true. Life wouldn’t be that kind.

  They had to replace the rotted boards on a cow byre, to make it ready for the autumn. His heart sank when he saw the place. It was going to need far more work than he thought. One entire wall and half of another was gone. The thatch on the roof needed to be replaced, too, but that would be work for someone else.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked Alan after they’d inspected the place. The boy’s fingers moved quickly.

  ‘You’re probably right,’ John agreed with a laugh. Better to tear the whole place down and start over. ‘But I don’t think they want to hear that.’

  They spent half a day simply sizing up the job, taking measurements and estimating everything they’d need. Too many of the rotten boards simply couldn’t be salvaged. After they’d eaten they began to tear out all the bad wood.

  He stopped before twilight; better not to walk home in the darkness. Part of the byre was as stripped as a skeleton, only the bones of the frame remaining. In the morning they’d start to add new flesh.

  By the time they reached the spire, he was exhausted. Glancing down, Alan was almost asleep on his feet, slogging along. He’d just escorted the boy home, thoughts of his own house on Saltergate in his head, when one of the bailiffs called his name.

  ‘The coroner’s been looking all over for you. Your wife said you were off somewhere at work.’

  ‘What does he want?’

  The man shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘He doesn’t tell me. But you know what he’s like; I’d get over there to see him now if I were you.’

  John sighed. All he desired was to be at home, to settle with his family for the night. Not more talk and ideas. No chasing murderers they’d never find.

  ‘Any more cases today?’

  The bailiff lowered his head. ‘One. A little girl. You know Richard, the baker’s helper?’

  ‘I do.’ Richard was a big, bluff man. Simple, but a happy, eager worker.

  ‘His youngest.’

  John crossed himself. May the good Lord save them all.

  • • •

  De Harville was working on manor accounts. He owned three of them now, all small; none would ever make him the rich man he wanted to be. Brother Robert sat on the bench, a quill in his twisted fingers, grimacing as he wrote.

  ‘Carpenter. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that Robert is going back to Calke Abbey in two days.’

  ‘Thank you, Master.’ He looked at the monk; the old man’s eyes were smiling.

  ‘I saw Hugh the Carter in town today. Have you talked to him?’

  ‘I’ve been working. I’ll speak to him in the morning.’

  ‘What about William? The merchant. And the salter?’

  ‘The last I heard, they were still on their travels.’

  ‘Make sure you question them both. I want some answers.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  • • •

  Hugh was out in his yard not long after first light, feeding the horse and inspecting its shoes. The cart stood off to one side, empty. The sides were beginning to pull away from the frame.

  ‘God be with you,’ John said.

  ‘And you,’ the carter answered warily. ‘Can I help you, Master?’

  ‘I was passing. I saw this—’ he tapped the wood ‘—and wanted to tell you. The sides need tightening against the posts.’

  ‘I know. I just returned yesterday. If I’m ever home for a few days, I’ll rebuild it.’

  ‘It’s no more than a couple of hours’ work.’

  Hugh snorted. ‘If you have the skill.’

  ‘I do. I’m a carpenter.’

  ‘Oh aye? How much to do it, then?’

  ‘Three pence. Me and the lad who works with me. We can have it finished before dinner. I live in town. Ask anyone about my work.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve seen you. I’m Hugh.’ He extended his hand.

  ‘John.’ They shook. Three pennies.

  He collected Alan and explained the work.

  ‘The byre can wait a few hours. It’s quick money, easy enough.’

  • • •

  Hugh stayed outside as they worked, sometimes watching, sometimes tending his horse.

  ‘I hear you came from Lincoln,’ John said, making it seem like idle conversation. ‘It’s a big place, from all they say.’

  ‘Big enough. A castle and a cathedral. The whole place is so full of priests and soldiers there’s no room for ordinary folk.’

  ‘Our priest was from there, the one who was killed. Did you know him at all?’

  The carter laughed. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? The likes of them aren’t ever
going to notice people like me. I’d never even heard of him until we moved here.’

  John laughed. ‘I used to live in York. It was the same up there, all the clergy go round with their noses high in the air.’ He paused to work in a screw while Alan pushed the board tight. ‘Were you here when Crispin died?’

  ‘I was, and when they found the body.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘That was you, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was,’ John admitted. ‘What made you move to Chesterfield? Surely there’d be more work for you in Lincoln.’

  ‘More work there, true enough, and too many people chasing it to be able to make a proper living. I’d been through here a few times and saw there was only one carter.’ He shrugged. ‘I weighed my chances and talked to my wife. So far it seems like a good decision. I’ve been busy enough since I arrived. If it wasn’t for this plague everywhere I’d be doing very well now.’

  ‘Doesn’t it scare you?’

  Hugh shrugged. ‘God’s will. It’s not for me to understand. I just do what I can for my family and pray.’

  ‘How far do you travel?’

  ‘Wherever they want things delivered. I’m taking a cartload of peat from Hathersage to Calke Abbey tomorrow. Setting off to pick it up as soon you’re done.’

  ‘Another few minutes and we’ll be done.’

  Hugh was no assassin. He felt it in his bones. He was a straightforward man, a hard worker who was simply trying to survive, the same as everyone else. They talked a little more, then John tested all the joints for strength, nodding as he finished.

  ‘That’s as good as it’ll ever be,’ he said. ‘It’ll see you a few more years. And that seat won’t bounce around any more.’

  The carter nodded his thanks and counted out the money from his scrip. John passed one to Alan; the boy had earned it.

  ‘Worth it if it holds together.’

  ‘It will, I promise you that.’

  • • •

  As they walked away Alan’s fingers moved with silent questions. Why did they do that instead of going out and working on the byre? Did John know him?