‘Then all I’m doing is leaving my house to my family.’ There was nothing he could say except accept defeat graciously. Martha might be old but she could still gently outwit him. ‘Promise me one thing, John.’
‘What?’ he asked cautiously.
‘That you’ll leave this business of the dead men alone. You don’t know how scared Katherine is.’
But he did. The fear was there in her eyes and on her face every time she looked at him. He knew.
‘All the gold in England couldn’t tempt me back there,’ he said, and she patted his hand. A mother’s gesture. Somewhere off in the treetops an early magpie chattered busily.
‘I miss Robert,’ Martha said.
‘You were the one who wanted him to go.’ But he understood what she meant. He’d been the last piece of her childhood here, the one who’d known her back in those days when she was young, without cares or aches. With that severed she must feel lost. She needed him, Katherine, the children, more than ever. ‘And you were right. Being at the abbey will bring him peace.’
‘The coroner won’t give up, will he?’ she asked.
‘No.’
She sighed. ‘He was always a wilful man. This could get him killed.’
‘He believes in justice,’ John said.
‘May God keep him safe.’ She turned her gaze on him. ‘And you, too.’
• • •
First light had arrived and the sun had risen when he returned to the churchyard. A bailiff guarded the body, a nervous young man who kept his sword drawn and peered around every few moments.
John drew back the sheet covering Alfred. There was no peace on his face, just the pain he must have felt before he died. Five wounds in all, two deep, then the one to his chest that took his life. He’d fought hard before it was over.
The blood had dried to a dark rust colour on his sword blade. From the amount, he must have done some damage. His murderer would need bandages, something to help him heal. Squatting, John tried to pick out blood on the dirt, a trail he might be able to follow.
This time he saw it, flecks here and there leading across the churchyard. He could follow it for a few yards, then nothing. John scoured the area. A pace, parting the grass, kneeling and staring. Finally he found it again, near the barren corner with the open grave for the plague victims. Heavier now, larger drops. But after the wall it vanished, and impossible to follow on the other side. The killer had escaped but he was badly hurt.
The coroner was sitting in the church porch, his guard close by.
‘Well?’ He raised his head as John entered.
‘The murderer can’t have gone too far. He was losing blood. What did the people living close by have to say?’
‘It seems that Alfred must have seen someone when he was on his rounds. A mother was up tending her baby. She heard him give a challenge, then the sound of fighting.’
‘Did she see anything?’
De Harville shook his head. ‘Too scared to look.’
‘Did anyone peer out of their shutters?’
‘Most of them slept through it, Carpenter.’
‘Whoever he was, he’s lost blood. He’s badly wounded. From the look of it he’ll need some help. He must have somewhere quite close.’
‘Then perhaps we’ll find him.’ The coroner had a glint of hope in his eyes. ‘I could use your help.’
‘I’ve already given it, Master. As much as I can offer. Bringing him to justice is for the hue and cry.’ He glanced at the guard. ‘And the bailiffs.’
• • •
An hour later he was carving a rose for the table while Alan secured the planks for the top. John sat on his heels and assessed the work he’d done. Country carving, he decided. Rough, fair, but no better than that. No style and precious little skill. It would have no place in a church or a grand house in a city. A true craftsman would have dismissed it as worthless. For here, though, it might suffice, especially after polishing.
Show me, Alan signed with his fingers.
‘You need someone better than me to teach this.’
It’s beautiful, the boy insisted.
John laughed. ‘Come on with your flattery, then. Pass me that other piece of wood. Don’t expect much, though.’
• • •
The job was close enough to have dinner in their homes. A break from work that required so much concentration.
He’d barely started eating the bean and bacon pottage when a fist began knocking on the door. Wearily he walked across and opened it. The captain of the bailiffs. His face was bruised but he was smiling.
‘Coroner de Harville wants you to come to the jail.’
‘I’m eating, then I have more work to do.’
‘It’s important. That’s what he says, Master.’ He grinned. ‘We found the churl who killed Alfred. In a bad way but he still put up a fight.’
‘Good. Why does he want me there?’
‘It’s not my business to question him, Master. Or yours,’ he added as a warning.
John sighed. ‘I’ll be there soon if it’s so important.’
• • •
It was the middle of the day but torches hung on the wall of the jail. The cell lay underground, dank and dark, only a small barred window for daylight. The man lay where he’d been tossed on the straw. One arm looked useless, dried blood caked around a deep cut. He cradled it with his other hand. Blood had dried around his mouth; even injured, he hadn’t come easily.
De Harville stood over the man, a look of contempt on his face.
‘Does he look familiar, Carpenter?’
‘No.’ He was a stranger, a big man with a dark, heavy beard. His clothes were patched with dirt, but the surcote looked to be good quality, and the leather of his boots still had a rich glow under the dust. ‘Where did you find him?’
‘He was hiding in the reeds on the far side of the river. He wasn’t happy to see the bailiffs when they discovered him.’
‘Is he one of the men who took you?’ John asked.
‘I was blindfolded. The same as you, Carpenter. I’d need to hear his voice, but he doesn’t want to speak.’ He kicked the prisoner in the belly. No words, just a grunt. ‘Do you think we can make him talk?’
They could. They would. But he didn’t want to be here to watch it happen. De Harville would stay. It would help rid him of the humiliation of being taken captive.
‘I’m certain you can.’ He turned and climbed the stairs back to daylight.
• • •
Throughout the afternoon he couldn’t push the man’s face from his mind. He knew the coroner needed information. And that the man he was questioning was trained to take pain and punishment. But he had no desire to witness that battle.
His skills seemed to desert him as he tried to carve. Each move felt awkward and wrong. Better to leave it and do something else. Alan looked at him questioningly. John smiled and shook his head. Instead he helped with the joints, making sure all the edges were clean and smooth as they fitted together.
The boy did excellent work. When John checked it, he found it hard to believe the lad was only eight years old. There were men making their living as carpenters who weren’t as skilful or as thorough. Yes, he still had plenty to learn, but he’d do that quickly enough. He grinned and tousled Alan’s hair.
Tomorrow he’d return to the carving, once his mind was clear again. It would never satisfy a critical eye but it might pass.
‘Come on,’ he said finally. ‘Let’s clean the tools. There’s nothing more we can do today.’
• • •
‘What did the bailiff want?’ Katherine asked. She was supervising the girls as they span wool. It wasn’t necessary; they knew full well how to do the job.
‘They found the man who probably killed Alfred.’
She crossed herself at the name of the dead man.
‘Did you see him?’
‘Yes. They intended to make him talk. I left.’
She reached across and t
ook his hand, squeezing it tight. ‘Do you think they’ll succeed?’
‘I imagine so,’ he answered. He didn’t want to think about it. ‘I’ll go and wake Martha.’
The old woman had started to sleep through the afternoon. She claimed that the summer heat wearied her but he saw through the words. It was age. Bit by bit she was preparing to leave the world.
At first she didn’t want to stir and he felt the panic rise in his throat. Then, slowly, she opened her eyes.
‘Was I resting long?’
‘An hour,’ he told her. A lie, of course; it was closer to two. But what did that matter to her?
Without her cap, he could see how thin and wispy her hair had become. It barely covered her skull. But there was still warmth in her smile and a fierce intelligence inside.
‘Why did they come for you at dinner? What’s happened?’
He told her, seeing her listen intently.
‘What will happen to him?’
‘I don’t know.’ Another lie. If he talked, the man would likely die. If he didn’t, they’d kill him as they tried to make him speak. Either way he’d become one more corpse for the graveyard.
He helped her sit up. She weighed next to nothing, like a bird in his hands. How much longer would they have her with them, he wondered? Pray God a while yet.
‘Any more cases of plague today?’ she asked. He didn’t know. With everything else happening, he’d never even asked.
No new cases, Katherine assured him with relief; word would have passed around town on the wind. Before bed, she nursed Juliana, holding the child against her breast as they talked. His mother must have done that for him, John thought. Sometimes he believed he could see her face in his mind. But the image would only stay still for a moment, not even long enough to take in all her features. A tender smile, he felt that, and warm dark eyes. But he could never make out the shape of her chin or the colour of her hair. Then, as quickly as it came, it would dissolve like shredding mist, leaving an ache, an awful loss, in the pit of his stomach.
His father, though: he remembered the rough, callused hand that held him so tenderly. The way the man had such patience as he taught him to work wood after seeing that his son had the gift of it. The miles they walked together, hand in hand, going to jobs around Leeds. The village was far smaller than Chesterfield, not enough work in the place to keep a carpenter busy. Sometimes they’d spend half a day walking to a job, work until dark, and then his father would hoist John on to his shoulder for the slow tramp home, and the boy would fall asleep to the reassuring slap of the old leather satchel against his father’s hip.
‘You’re miles away,’ Katherine said.
‘Just remembering things,’ he answered, and started to tell her. But the words grew tangled with his feelings and he faltered.
‘They’re looking down at you from heaven,’ she assured him. ‘They’re together and they can watch over you. They’ve done a good job so far, haven’t they?’ She grinned. ‘You have me, you have Juliana.’
He nodded. His throat felt tight, he didn’t want to speak out loud. Please God, let it all last, he thought. Let me live long enough to see my daughter grow. Spare us, spare us all. From plague and from men.
• • •
He knew the knock on the door would come, but he didn’t know when. He was about to blow out the tallow candle in the solar and settle down to his sleep. The flame guttered and spat, and then he heard it.
‘John,’ Katherine said. The word was a warning.
‘I have to see who’s there,’ he told her, although he already knew. It was either a bailiff or the coroner.
De Harville stood there, his hood raised against the soft rain that was falling. His face looked gaunt, as if it had been chiselled from stone, not made of flesh.
‘Come in, Master, please.’
Always show Christian hospitality. That was what the Church taught.
‘Ale?’ he asked when they were seated at the table, but the man shook his head.
‘He’s dead, Carpenter.’
But Alfred’s killer was bound to die sooner rather than later; the bailiffs would make sure of revenge for murdering one of their own.
‘How did it happen?’
‘He tried to escape.’ De Harville raised an eyebrow. ‘I was there, Carpenter, I saw it. He shouldn’t have had any strength left, not after all we’d done.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘But he did. He charged at my men. They didn’t have any choice.’
‘You have justice for Alfred, then. What did he tell you?’
‘Not enough.’ Wearily, the coroner ran a hand through his fair hair until it stood on end, as pointed as a cock’s comb. ‘Nowhere near enough.’
‘What did he say?’ John kept his voice low. There was no reason to keep the whole house awake.
‘His name was Matthew. Fairly well-born – you could hear it in his voice. Schooled in war; he made sure we knew that, and his companions would come for us unless we let him go.’ De Harville snorted. ‘Defiant until he died, I’ll grant him that. But what did it buy him beyond an early grave?’
‘Why was he here? Who was he working for? Did you discover that?’
‘No. It didn’t matter what we did, he wouldn’t tell us. He stood the pain well. He wouldn’t break.’
‘So you don’t know anything more.’ It all seemed like a waste.
‘A little. Two of them came. He was one of those who took me. Took you, too. And we did force him to admit they know someone here.’
‘Who?’
The coroner gave a dark, sad smile. ‘You think I didn’t try to find out? He refused to say. He died without betraying anyone.’
Maybe Matthew took what little honour he possessed to the grave, but for what? He had met death unshriven, no state of grace. Damned. If he thought that a fair bargain, then he’d deserve what he found.
‘You know a little more, at least. But what good does it do you, Master?’
‘It tells me how many to look for,’ de Harville replied. ‘And that I need to be suspicious of everyone in Chesterfield.’ He clenched his fists. ‘If I could find out who they have here, I could discover some truth.’
‘Did Matthew say why they killed Father Crispin and the others?’
‘A debt. That was all he’d say. A debt of blood.’
It had proved to be a debt greater than his own life. That was a strong obligation.
‘I need your help to find the man in town who’s helping them, Carpenter.’
John shook his head. ‘I can’t, Master. I’ve made my vow.’
‘He has.’ They turned at the voice. Katherine, standing at the top of the stairs that led to the solar. She’d pulled a dress over her shift. Her hair flowed free and dark on to her shoulders. ‘He made his vow to me.’
‘And I made my own vow, Mistress,’ the coroner said. ‘To find these men. I gave my oath to the King.’
‘No one here wants to stop you from that, sir. God and the saints know we all wish you well in it. But my husband is a carpenter, and I love him for that.’ There was no tremor in her voice, only strength, belief. Love, he thought. She was fighting for what she needed. ‘You use him, Master.’ From the corner of his eyes, John saw the coroner open his mouth to speak, but she continued. ‘He’s done as you asked in the past. He came out to find you when your wife begged. He’s been a good servant to you. Like Brother Robert.’
She let that hang like an accusation.
‘Is that what you believe, Carpenter?’
‘It is.’
‘I see.’ De Harville stood slowly and gave a small bow to Katherine. ‘Forgive me for disturbing your night, Mistress. And Master Carpenter, I wish you well.’
The latch clicked into place behind him and John locked the door.
‘Is that the end of it?’ Katherine asked quietly. ‘Are we free of him?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s hope so. You were very eloquent.’
‘I spoke my mind. Nothing more.’ She wrapp
ed her arms around her body as if she was cold. ‘I’ve never liked him, ever since I was a girl. He’s always been so arrogant. No one’s ever stood up to him.’
‘You did.’
‘Because I love you.’
In bed he held her close. For a few minutes she kept shivering, small shudders rippling through her body. Finally she calmed and fell asleep. He lay awake longer, wondering what would happen now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The day dawned dry and clear, with a bright sun to burn the dampness from the ground. Walking across the market square to collect Alan, he felt lighter, happier, a weight gone from his life. And it had. Thanks to his wife, he’d made a true break from the coroner’s service.
He carved with pleasure and for once, with some faint skill. Once he’d completed the rough design, he stopped to show the boy how to apply polish to the wood, let it dry and then sand it down smooth again. Why? Alan asked.
‘Because we want to give it a beautiful surface,’ he answered. ‘A hard surface that will last. That’s what they’re paying for. Besides,’ John added with a wink, ‘if the table looks good, they might not notice how badly I carve.’
At day’s end he felt happy and fulfilled. They’d done a fine day’s work. And tomorrow more of the same.
Walking home he noticed Gilbert the shoemaker hurrying along.
‘Good morrow, God’s blessing.’
‘Nothing good about it.’ The man paused, looking around as if people might be searching for him. ‘My neighbour has the plague now.’ He scurried away.
All his exhilaration vanished. It was almost full summer now, and still the plague would neither bloom nor vanish. It nipped at the edges of them, taking people here and there. Katherine’s mouth fell as he told her, and Dame Martha crossed herself.
‘Edric lives next door to him,’ the old woman said. ‘With his wife and five children.’
‘But his youngest is only a baby,’ Katherine said as she shook her head.
Only June and already the large graves overflowed with the dead. The first, in the empty corner of the churchyard, had been filled in and another, even bigger, dug close by. However much they prayed, whatever they did, everyone in town knew what might happen and made their preparations. The gravediggers would stay busy this year.
The Holywell Dead Page 12