That was true enough; the country was devilled with outlaws. ‘He took his family on the last trip, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, Master. He thought they’d be safer over there with so much plague around.’
‘Where in Cheshire were they going?’ John asked.
‘I don’t know, Master,’ the girl answered. ‘I’m sorry. He didn’t say and I never felt it was my place to ask.’
‘Of course. Thank you.’
• • •
The sacks of salt in the warehouse gave the building a strange, clean smell, as if everything had been freshly washed. John poked in the corners and felt along the rafters. Nothing. Back in the house, he climbed up to the solar.
De Harville had forced the lock on Richard’s chest and pulled out the contents. Clothes, good boots, a few rolls of vellum. A sword belt hung from a nail on the wall, the weapon still heavy in its scabbard. By itself that didn’t mean much. The salter would have needed that on his journeys to keep himself safe. The leather on the hilt was worn; he must have owned it for many years. John drew it out. The blade shone, engraved with delicate scrollwork. The edge was exquisitely sharp. It was better than most men could afford. Maybe his business had done well. Or perhaps there was much more to the tale, layers hidden away in history.
‘Where are his wife and children?’ the coroner asked.
‘In Cheshire, he said. Away from the plague.’
De Harville snorted. ‘If plague’s here, it’s everywhere. I had a report of two more with it before I came out.’
‘Who, Master?’ John weighed the weapon in his hand.
‘A weaver and his wife out along the Newbold Road.’ He bent and dug out a pair of vellum scrolls from the chest. Slowly, he unrolled the first and began to read. ‘Well, well,’ he said finally.
‘What does it say?’
‘It thanks Richard of Chester for his service to the King and grants him a small pension.’ He paused. ‘And it’s dated five years ago.’ He left the proclamation fall. ‘Another one who was in the King’s service at that time. We’ve gone far beyond the point of coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘That sword could be a knight’s weapon.’
‘It might,’ the coroner agreed, and picked up the other scroll. ‘An indulgence to free him of his sins.’ He read more closely. ‘Not just bought from an ordinary pardoner, either. This is signed by the Bishop of Durham.’ The coroner raised an eyebrow. ‘That should give him less time in purgatory, God help him. His soul’s going to need it now. And that’s dated from five years ago, too.’
‘Why would he need the Bishop’s signature on it?’ He’d seen the pardoners who travelled the roads and sold their indulgences. All false faith and cheap words.
‘Because he knew important people and he’d done something very bad, Carpenter. Very bad indeed, and he wanted to be assured of his place in heaven.’
Three men killed in Chesterfield. Three men who’d all left the king’s service around the same time. Two of them living in the town. Why here, he wondered? What brought them to this place? And what had they done? He shuddered. Someone walking over his grave. But not yet, he hoped. Not for a long time yet.
‘What do we do, Master?’
‘We do our job. We find out who murdered them.’ De Harville’s face was grim. ‘Still, it makes me wonder. Did he really move his family because of plague, or was there another reason?’
‘Safety?’
‘It’s possible. But until we can find out where they are, we won’t know.’
‘They never told the servant where they were going.’
The coroner sighed. ‘What do you make of it all?’
‘We can be certain the three deaths are connected,’ John began. That was obvious, even to a blind man. ‘Whoever’s behind it all is close. He might have been here for a long time. He might be hiding out in the woods. But he’s clever and he’s trained. It probably relates to something that happened up on the Borders five years ago. And the killer likes to leave the bodies already shrouded.’ He looked up. ‘That’s what we know.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I don’t,’ John replied. ‘We have bodies, all murdered the same way. Apart from that, the only things we have are rumours on the air. All I’d be doing was guessing.’
‘Then guess for me, Carpenter.’ The coroner stroked his chin.
‘I think this is personal, not political,’ John said after a moment. ‘A relative of whoever was killed five years ago, perhaps. The dead men were involved, or whoever’s behind this believes they were. Perhaps the winds have shifted in London and that’s why all these things are happening now. A family that fell out of favour is back in the King’s good graces again, so they feel they have the freedom to do this. It would explain why no one seems too eager for answers.’
De Harville nodded slowly. ‘You might be right. But this happened here. I have my duty to solve it until I’m told otherwise.’
‘Yes, Master.’ What else could he say?
‘Keep asking questions around the town.’
• • •
John walked back to the place where the body had been found. It had been taken away and all the long grass under the trees had been trampled down. The dirt on the path was too dry and packed to show any hoof prints.
He wandered, searching, lost in his own thoughts. There was nothing to see here, nothing he’d missed earlier. Simply a place where a body had been left. He moved deeper into the copse, half-looking but not really seeing anything. He thought he heard a noise and started to turn.
And then... blackness.
CHAPTER TEN
John struggled awake, opening his eyes. Nothing. The world was dark. He blinked. Still only blackness. Then he felt something against his eyelashes. A blindfold. He tried to move his arms but it was impossible. His wrists were bound. Ankles, too.
His head pounded. Someone must have hit him hard. He hadn’t been aware, hadn’t felt anyone around...
‘He’s back with us.’ A deep voice, one he didn’t know. ‘Shall we just slit his throat now?’
‘No.’ Another man.
Something touched his neck. Something sharp, with just enough pressure to start a trickle of warm blood on his skin.
‘I hope you’re listening. I’m going to say this once, and it’s the only warning you’ll ever receive. Do you understand?’
John tried to nod and felt pain shoot through his skull. His mouth was dry. Fear ran through him.
‘You’ll have nothing more to do with this investigation,’ the voice continued. ‘I don’t care what you tell that coroner of yours. Lie through your teeth if you have to. But if you keep on, you’ll be one more dead man on the list.’ Another prick against his throat, another few warm drops of blood on his flesh. ‘And one more makes no difference to us. The only difference is we won’t be paid a penny for you.’
‘Yes,’ John croaked.
‘Consider yourself lucky. Killing you would be easy.’
He heard feet moving away through the grass and waited. But he didn’t feel the beat of hooves on the ground or hear the whinnying of an animal. They were on foot.
His head hurt as if someone had taken a hammer and his skull was the anvil. John tried to move his wrists, but the bonds had been carefully tied; turning and twisting his arms only made the rope chafe hard against his skin. The same at his ankles.
Standing was impossible. He was here until someone found him. Sooner or later they were bound to come looking.
But he was alive. By the grace of God, that felt like a miracle enough. His heart was thumping. He felt as if could hear his blood roaring in his ears. His head was on fire.
He’d been taken by a pair who knew exactly what they were doing. They could have left him for dead as easy as breathing.
Then why didn’t they? What stopped them? The voice had said it would make no difference.
Through the murk, his mind tried to make sense of it all.
They kne
w exactly who he was, what he did, who he was working for. Still, that wasn’t too difficult to discover in Chesterfield. He didn’t recognise either of the voices. He couldn’t even place the accents. The only thing certain was that they weren’t local.
So they must have an accomplice in the town, a man to pass them information. And somewhere a master who’d given the orders to kill and paid them well for the task.
As he worked it through, step by step, the shaking lessened and his breathing slowed. He felt safer now. They weren’t coming back. This was his rough warning: leave it alone or die.
He wanted water; his tongue felt too big for his mouth.
Without warning, something pushed down on him, rolling him on to his belly. John tried to resist, to fight back, but he was helpless.
They’d returned after all. Decided it was safer to kill him. This was the end.
The weight vanished. He could move his arms. His legs. John shuffled away, one hand tugging the blindfold from his eyes.
A figure squatted close by, wearing a habit, the cowl too low to make out the face.
‘Thank you.’ It was all John could say. His voice was as dry as rust and his heart felt it might burst from fear. He could barely breathe. ‘Did you see them?’
The figure raised an arm, pointing through the woods. The sleeve slipped back, Mottled, stippled flesh, the bones twisted, two of the fingers missing. One of the inmates from the lazar house.
‘Did you see what they looked like?’
‘No, Master.’ This voice he remembered: she’d been begging for alms at the gate of the leper colony.
‘Thank you again, Alison.’
The blood had dried on his throat. He rubbed his wrists where the rope had rubbed, then checked his body. His scrip was still there, his knife in its sheath; they’d been so confident that they hadn’t even bothered to disarm him. Slowly, he stood. His knees buckled for a moment, and he believed he’d fall. Then he was upright, breathing hard.
‘Let me help you,’ the woman offered.
‘I’ll be fine.’ He waved her away. ‘Water?’
She pointed to the stream on the other side of the willows. He hobbled over, drank deep and washed his face. Better, John decided; he felt a little stronger. He’d been lucky; God had smiled on him. ‘I asked the priest if anyone noticed anything last night. Did you see anyone?’
Deep in her cowl, Alison shook her head.
He still felt unsteady but that would pass. It was the shock. He held up a hand and saw how it shook. John took a few paces. He could walk well enough. And it was less than a mile to Chesterfield.
‘Thank you,’ he said once more.
• • •
‘What?’ De Harville’s voice exploded in the room. ‘Who were they?’
‘I never saw them. When I came to I had a blindfold over my eyes. But I didn’t know their voices at all.’ He drank from a mug of ale the serving girl had brought. Outside the sun shone bright like a mockery.
‘And what about the warning?’
He repeated it. He could hear the man’s voice, every tone and hard inflection. Even now, safe in the coroner’s house, it scared him.
‘What should we do about it, do you think, Carpenter?’ There was a sly edge to his words.
‘Do?’ John said in astonishment. ‘I’m going to do what he said. Do you truly think we’re going to find men like that, Master? They’re assassins. They’re soldiers. And they’re working for someone.’ Let the deaths go unpunished, he thought. All because someone did something far away. It wasn’t his business. It certainly wasn’t worth his life.
‘I’ll consider it.’ It was a dismissal and he was glad of it. John watched from the corners of his eyes as he walked back to Saltergate. He’d washed again in the buttery at de Harville’s house. The cuts looked like small pinpricks on his neck, nothing at all. Had that been the nalbinding needle, he wondered?
He had to tell his wife and he knew how she’d react.
• • •
She stood and walked out of the hall, climbed the steps to the solar without saying a word. He found her lying on the bed, turned towards the wall. He sat by her and took hold of her hand.
‘They won’t come after me again,’ he said.
‘Don’t lie to me, husband. You know they will if you keep on with this.’
‘I’m not going to do that. It’s over.’
‘How many times have you made that promise to me before and broken it?’ Her eyes were red and her cheeks damp with tears. He brushed them away with a fingertip. ‘It’s bad enough with death all around. I can’t take you bringing it to our door. To us.’ She took a breath. ‘There were two fresh cases of plague today. Did you know that?’
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘The coroner told me.’
‘The world’s falling apart, John. I feel like I’m drowning in death. I need something firm. A rock.’
‘I’m not going to die over these men. They weren’t anything to me.’
He left her there. Dame Martha was waiting in the hall for him.
‘Come into my room, John.’
She closed the door behind him.
‘I heard the two of you,’ Martha said. ‘She loves you, you know that.’
‘I love her, too,’ he began, but she spoke over his words.
‘And you’re giving her pain doing this for de Harville. She’s terrified, John. She’s scared for your daughter, she’s scared for all of us.’
‘I told her, this is the end of it. I’m not going to be killed because some lordling wants his revenge.’ He winced as pain shot through his head.
‘Let me take a look at that,’ Martha said. She pulled his hair away. ‘You took a hard hit. Just as well you have a thick skull.’ Her fingers felt gently around the lump. ‘At least the skin’s not broken. Just be careful, please.’
‘I will. I know they could have killed me if they’d wanted.’
‘Then praise God that they didn’t, John.’
‘I’m not going to give them any reason to try again.’
‘Make sure you don’t. You know Katherine: she’ll believe deeds, not words.’
He nodded; the old woman was right. He’d made the same vows before and shattered them. This time he had the wounds. This time he had real fear.
A wave of exhaustion rose up through his body. He felt as if he could barely stand.
‘I need my bed,’ John said. ‘It’s been a long day.’
• • •
He woke with the dawn. His head throbbed and the flesh was tender where he’d been hit. But he’d survived. The fear remained, slowly receding. But he knew it would stay, a small, hard lump inside. And that was exactly what the men wanted, for him to do nothing. Well, they’d won.
Dressed, with a few mouthfuls of bread and a swig of ale for his stomach, he put the satchel on his shoulder and kissed Katherine goodbye. She looked into his eyes, then smiled. Good, he thought as he walked down Saltergate, hoping she’d seen the truth on his face. No more hunting killers. God knew, there was already enough death on this earth. Without thinking, he crossed himself.
The boy was full of questions as they strode out to Cutthorpe. The news of the attack had grown in the telling until it became a tale where he’d been confronted by five men and fought his way out. John laughed; the truth was always dull.
‘The only thing we need to worry about now is finishing this cow byre. That’s going to take all our concentration.’
More than that; it was going to require ingenuity, he realised as they worked. The steward has said exactly how much he was willing to pay. Not a penny more. But it was barely enough for the work that needed doing. He’d argued the case, showed the man how much was rotted, but the steward remained adamant. Now, as John discovered, it would be impossible to mend this building as it stood. Not for that money.
Better to tear it down and start over, that was what Alan had said. Maybe he was right... John tested the frame. One post would need replacing, but all t
he other beams were fine. If he made the byre smaller, though, they’d need less wood. He wouldn’t reduce the size too much, perhaps a yard. If he did that, it would be stronger, and their wood might just cover everything.
He explained his idea to the boy, who listened and looked, judging the changes in his mind. After a moment’s thought he signed that it could work. He offered a few ideas and John smiled. Two of those would help; the others were impossible fancies.
But now they had a place to start properly, and do more than patch the byre. It would take longer, but the result would be so much better.
By the time they finished for the day John was sweating, stripped down to his hose and boots. He rubbed himself off with an old piece of linen before dressing again. They’d made real progress. And he’d steered his thoughts away from dead men and killers.
• • •
The days passed and the byre took shape. Today they’d nail up the final boards and hang the door. John had loved the challenge of it. It became easy enough once they’d achieved a rhythm in the cutting and shaping. Now the building should be strong enough to outlast them all, especially with pitch in the cracks on the base of the boards where they met the ground. By tomorrow it would be complete.
He sighed in satisfaction as they cleaned the tools. He inspected the blades of the chisels and the saw, making sure there was no pitting. But the workmanship was still fine; after all these years they held up well. How long ago had his father bought them, John wondered? How much did he pay for something as fine as this? So many questions he would love to have been able to ask. But that chance had vanished long ago. Maybe when they met again in heaven.
He strolled back to town, Alan by his side. The boy had grown used to the walk. With each job his skills improved. Not speaking would be a problem, of course it would. He’d get by, though; the lad was quick and resourceful.
And the wood sang to him, the way it did to John. Soon it would be time to teach him the basics of carving. He might have the touch for it; John didn’t. Maybe Alan would have the opportunity to work on fine churches, to really show what he could do. He glanced down at the top of the boy’s head. Who knew where life might lead him?
The Holywell Dead Page 9