‘Where are we?’
‘By the river. Where we found you.’
The man started to shake his head, as if it might help him remember. His face creased with pain. The cart drew nearer and John saw Walter sitting next to Hugh of Lincoln.
‘There were two men...’ de Harville began uncertainly. He sat upright. ‘My horse.’
‘Safe at home, Master, and waiting for you. We’ll get you back there.’
John helped the coroner stand. With assistance he pulled him into the back of the cart. They jostled and rolled as it bumped back along the track.
‘I can’t remember,’ he said bleakly.
‘You received a note to meet someone.’
‘Yes.’ The man smiled and reached for his scrip. ‘I have it in here.’
But it was gone. All his money, every other item was still there, only the note was missing. They’d been careful, John thought. Men who attended to every detail.
‘You must have met them where we found Richard the Salter’s body.’ He offered the prompt. De Harville smiled again as the image came into his head.
‘Yes, I did. A big man. I was asking him what he knew. He told me to stop looking or he’d kill me. The next thing I knew I must have been in the clearing. But I couldn’t see anything and I couldn’t shout.’ He raised a shaky hand to his mouth and traced its outline.
John recounted how they’d found him.
‘God was smiling on us,’ he finished. ‘You might have been anywhere.’
‘You always seem to have luck, don’t you, Carpenter?’ His voice was little more than a soft croak.
No more conversation today, John decided. By morning the coroner might have remembered more. It would all wait.
• • •
‘And was he thankful?’ Katherine asked as they sat at the table for supper.
‘In his own way. We left him in his bed with a flagon of ale beside him. He’ll feel better soon enough.’
‘And will he stop looking?’ she asked tartly.
‘You know he won’t,’ Dame Martha said quietly. ‘He’s not made that way. People saw him come back in a cart. He’s been humiliated and beaten. His honour won’t stand for that.’
‘Maybe it’ll teach him a lesson.’ Katherine reached for another ladleful of pottage. Sitting on her lap, Juliana’s intent gaze moved from adult to adult as they spoke.
‘Martha’s right,’ John said. ‘The only thing it will do is make him more determined.’
‘Then good luck to him. Just make sure you’re not dragged back into it, husband.’
‘I promise,’ he told her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
He’d go and see the coroner later in the day, John decided. First he had work to do, money to earn. Back to Cutthorpe with Alan at his side. The leather satchel of tools banged against his hip as he walked.
A final day at the byre, heating and applying the last of the pitch. The whole job had taken longer than he expected. Too long, really. But the result was worthwhile. Cattle would be snug in there during the cold weather. And he knew he’d done a solid job.
He was cleaning up as the steward arrived. The man walked around the building, inside and out, no expression showing on his face.
‘It’s smaller than it was before,’ he complained.
‘I explained why,’ John reminded him. ‘You agreed.’
It looked as if he was ready to labour the point. Then he shrugged and smiled.
‘You’ve done fair work, I’ll grant you that. The pair of you,’ he added, nodding at Alan. The boy beamed. ‘I might have more for you in the autumn.’
‘Send word, Master.’
‘If we’re any of us still alive.’ He crossed himself.
The news had been bad that morning. Three more cases, all in one family, just as they were starting to believe the worst had passed. This plague played with their hearts as well as their lives, giving them hope then tugging it away.
‘With God’s blessing,’ said John.
The steward counted out the money and walked back towards his house. Alan began to clean the tools, rubbing them over and over with the oily rag. Tomorrow a new job, something very different. But John was proud of what he’d created here. He’d taken a ruin and made it into something sturdy and worthwhile. With help. Alan’s suggestion had made the difference.
For once, it seemed to take no time to reach Chesterfield. He escorted Alan to his door and counted out the pennies the boy was owed. He knew he should go home and wash off the dirt of the day. Instead he crossed the market place to the coroner’s house.
The servant didn’t want to let him in. It was de Harville’s wife who insisted, leading him through to the hall.
‘I never thanked you yesterday,’ she said.
John shrugged; he never expected real gratitude from this family. ‘How is he?’
‘Cantankerous.’ She allowed herself a fleeting smile. ‘He’s resting. He wanted to rise this morning but I made him stay in bed.’
Anyone who could exert her will over the coroner had true power, he thought wryly.
‘No ill effects?’
‘No,’ she began. ‘The night mares rode, but he seems better today. The wise woman gave him some poppy juice. She said it will help him sleep. I’m grateful to you for bringing my husband back, Master.’
‘I found him, that’s all. I looked where you suggested. A lucky guess.’ He hesitated. ‘Next time they’ll kill him, Mistress. This was a warning. Persuade him to leave it go.’
‘I’ve tried. He won’t.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘I can command him in some things, but not that. If it’s stuck in his head, he’ll do it. Could you help him?’
‘My wife insists I don’t. I’m not as strong-headed as she is.’
‘Thank God for sensible women.’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘You’re a good man, John. Bless you.’
• • •
At home he sat in the garden with Katherine by his side. Juliana scrabbled in the dirt.
‘Will he really pursue them?’
‘I’m certain of it.’ John didn’t even need to consider his reply. ‘He has to. It’ll be a matter of pride for him now.’
‘Don’t do that,’ she told Juliana gently, as the child tried to scoop dirt into her mouth, waiting until the girl showed a wide grin and obeyed. ‘He’ll want you to help. You know that.’
‘He has the bailiffs for that. And he can write to the King. He holds the Crown’s office.’
‘He trusts you. You said his wife told you that.’
‘And I repaid it.’ He sipped at the ale, eyes following a butterfly on the wing from one flower to another. ‘I found him. That’s all. She asked if I’d help him find them and I said no. I’d told him these deaths weren’t worth my life.’
‘Maybe he’ll wake in the morning and think the same.’
He gave a sad smile. ‘You have more faith than I do. It might save him a lot of pain if he did. But you know what he’s like, he’s wilful. More than that, he’s been humiliated.’
‘Don’t let him drag you along with him. Please, John.’ She tightened her grip around his arm.
But he’d already made up his mind to keep clear of it all. These men were killers. Tangling with them again would be a death sentence. He’d been lucky once; fate would not be so kind a second time.
There’d been one more case of plague, an old man found dead in his home on the Unstone Road. No one had seen him for a few days. When someone called to visit it was too late; the black buboes under his arms and in his groin had burst, leaving the air heavy and stinking. At first none would touch him. Finally a woman came forward from Christian charity and wrapped him in a shroud for burial. He was already in the ground at the churchyard, under a thin covering of earth and lime in the long open grave.
• • •
‘A boat?’ John asked. ‘Why do you want a boat?’
Alan’s hands moved rapidly. To sail to the sea, of course. He had to laugh. The boy work
ed so hard, so often he appeared to be mature that it was easy to forget he was still a child, full of fancies and dreams.
‘I’ve never built a boat. I wouldn’t even know how to begin.’ Steam the wood for the hull and curve it, he supposed, the way coopers did with barrels. ‘Anyway, you need to save your money for tools.’
More swift movements of the boy’s hands.
‘No, they won’t be the same as mine. These are old, you know that.’ In time he’d need to replace them and lose the only link to his past. What would he become then? Someone weightless and drifting? Or would family and child give him a new history here?
They sweated all day long, starting to fashion a new table and bench for one of the wealthy houses on Knifesmithgate. It was delicate, exacting work, and the owner demanded carvings on each of the supports.
He left Alan to work on the frame, keeping a wary eye out as he sketched a rough design on the wood in charcoal. It would need someone better than him for a fine finish, but there was no one with that ability in Chesterfield. He’d done this work before, in York, but he knew how crude it appeared next to the masters’.
Gently, John ran his hands over the wood, feeling the way it spoke to him. Then he picked up the thin chisel and worked it in, moving it lightly along the grain, taking no more than a sliver at a time. When Alan stopped to eat, John continued. He had the feel of it now, not just in his head but in his hand, along his fingers. It was as if someone else was guiding him. The boy watched, eyes following every movement, assessing and judging it, working out how he might do it himself.
At day’s end John knew he’d made a good start. He cleaned the tools, sharpening the chisels ready for the morning, while Alan ran his fingertips over the carved surfaces.
‘How?’ he asked with his fingers. ‘How do you know what shapes to cut? How do you make them that way?’
‘Practice,’ he answered. ‘The wood tells you what it wants to be. You have to listen. Select the right piece, let it speak to you, then do what it says.’
It made little sense, but it was the only way he could describe it. There was craft, but above all there was patience. The boy had the skill, he just needed to learn how to use it.
He was walking back across the market square, lost in his thoughts, when he was suddenly aware of hooves. Two sets of them. He turned his head towards the sound, one hand reaching for his knife, feeling the panic rise. Had they come back for him?
‘Friend, not foe, Carpenter.’ The coroner reined in the roan. Behind him, one of the bailiffs tugged on the reins of his own horse, a spavined, unhealthy nag. At least de Harville had someone with him now; he’d learned that much.
‘You look well, Master.’
‘No lasting damage done,’ de Harville said, ‘except to my pride.’ He smiled ruefully. His sword hung in his scabbard, a dagger on the other side. He wore a quilted jerkin with a jacket of heavy leather on top, never mind that it was a warm day. Better to sweat and stay alive. The bailiff was fully armed, too.
‘Sometimes that can be the worst injury.’
‘Maybe so. My wife told me what you did. I hadn’t thanked you.’ He extended a hand and John took it, astonished. The two men shook.
‘And what now, Master? Are you still going after them?’
‘You ought to know me by now, Carpenter. What do you think?’
‘That you’ll hunt them.’
The man nodded. ‘It’s what I’ve been doing all day. But it’s like chasing spirits. They’ve gone and there’s nothing but air remaining.’
‘Perhaps they’re no longer in Chesterfield.’
‘No,’ the coroner replied. ‘The salter was dead days before they took me. If their business was complete, why were they still here?’
Was there someone else, another man on the list still walking around town? If so, who could it be?
‘If that’s what you believe, you shouldn’t be searching for them. Look for the man they’re going to kill.’
‘And who’s that?’ The coroner’s lips curled in a smile.
‘I’ve no idea, Master.’
De Harville smiled. ‘You could help me look, Carpenter.’
‘No. One warning was enough to keep me away.’
For a moment it looked as if de Harville was ready to say more. Anger flickered in his eyes and vanished again.
‘As you wish.’ He pulled on the horse’s reins to turn the animal. ‘As you wish.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
His hands ached from holding the chisel for so long. For work like this he really needed a proper set of carving tools. Curved and angled blades. But he didn’t possess them, didn’t even know where he’d find any. He’d have to manage with what he owned.
Pottage for his supper. Patiently, he fed Juliana spoonful after spoonful until the girl turned her head away. He wiped her mouth with a scrap of old linen and gave her a sip of well-watered ale from a cup.
His heart still swelled whenever he saw her. So lovely, so fragile. And on the other side of the table, Dame Martha. His oldest friend in Chesterfield. One at the start of life, the other close to its end.
His wife, her family. His family. How had he become so lucky? Pray God that the pestilence took none of them from him. No new cases that day, at least.
• • •
It was the dead of night when he heard the hammering on the door. At first he thought it was a dream, then it came again as he opened his eyes. He slipped down the stairs from the solar, knife in his hand, and drew back the latch.
One of the bailiffs. Unshaven, dirty, carrying his rusted sword in his hand.
‘Can you come, Master? Please. The coroner asked for you.’
‘What’s happened?’ As soon as he saw the man’s face, John’s head cleared of sleep. ‘Who?’
‘Alfred, Master.’
‘Give me a moment.’ He held the door wide. ‘There’s ale and a cup on the table.’
He could make out Katherine’s shape in the darkness, sitting up in the bed. Walter and the girls slept on; it would take more than a little noise to rouse them.
‘What is it?’ she hissed.
‘I don’t know. One of the bailiffs.’ He struggled into his hose, tying them at the waist, then slipping his tunic over his shirt, the leather jerkin on top.
‘Be careful.’
‘I will.’ He kissed her tenderly.
• • •
Torches had been stuck into the earth. Flames burned bright, casting shadows and illuminating a figure on the ground. De Harville stood, wrapped in his riding cloak, three bailiffs close by.
‘He’s dead, Carpenter.’
They were on the north side of the churchyard, by the site of the weekday market. John knelt. There were wounds on Alfred’s arms, one on the cheek, another on his body. From the blood pooled under him, that had been the killing blow.
He was still warm to the touch, as if he might be caught somewhere between the living and the dead. A sword lay near his right hand. In the flickering light John could see blood on the blade; Alfred had given a good fight.
‘Has anyone begun asking in the houses by here?’ He could see candles burning behind the shutters. People were curious; many would be terrified. ‘They must have heard something.’
‘Go,’ the coroner ordered the men. ‘Do what he says.’
He pulled out one of the brands, circling the corpse. If Alfred had wounded someone, there might be a trail of blood to show where he’d gone. But it was hopeless. Too dark now to pick anything out on the ground. They’d have to wait for morning.
John stood. De Harville was waiting. The light picked out the deep furrows in his face. One of the bailiffs remained, the biggest man, a hand on his sword hilt, constantly looking around for any danger.
‘It could have been a drunk. He might have broken up a fight. I can’t tell from this.’
‘No. Alfred was a good swordsman.’
‘Someone else was better,’ John said emptily.
‘It could
have been someone who was well-trained.’
It was pointless even to imagine until they knew more. John looked down at the body. Alfred was no more than a handful of years older than himself. Big, powerful, but with a ready grin, willing to laugh at any joke. Married, he remembered, two children. Who’d look after them now?
There was nothing to be done here until it was light. Better to cover the body and send someone to tell his widow. But that was the coroner’s job. He could hear men assembling by the church porch, the hue and cry. Not that they’d manage to find anything during the night. They’d blunder around, the way they always did, then claim four pence and ale for their searching.
‘I’ll come back at dawn,’ John said. ‘For an hour. Then I have work to do.’
For once, the coroner didn’t put up an argument. He merely nodded as if the words had been a fleeting distraction from his thoughts.
• • •
He sat at the table with a mug of ale. His mind was awake; he’d never get back to sleep. It wasn’t even worth trying for the short time he’d rest.
‘John.’ He hadn’t heard Dame Martha approach. Her grey hair was hidden under a cap, feet bare on the rushes. ‘What’s happened?’
He told her and watched as she closed her eyes, mouth moving in a silent prayer.
‘Poor, poor man. Do you know who did it?’
He shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t even want to think about it. Dawn would arrive soon enough.
‘I wish you hadn’t changed your will,’ he said.
‘Why?’ She cocked her head.
‘Because...’ Because sometimes the responsibility of a family seemed to overwhelm him. He loved them all more than his own life, but how could he look after them? How could he protect them? He was just one man. To have more piled on top of that felt like a weight he couldn’t bear. ‘It’s too much. It’s too generous.’
She smiled under her cap, the lines on her face turning into deep creases. ‘You don’t think it was generous to offer me a home with you? To have Eleanor and Jeanette to teach and Juliana to love?’
‘It just seemed the natural thing to do.’ It was the only answer he could give. ‘We all care for you. You’re part of our family.’
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