The Saltergate Psalter

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I think you’ve stopped me going down the wrong path.’

  ‘Good.’ He paused. ‘There was fresh gossip around yesterday. Your brother-in-law.’

  ‘He hasn’t woken yet.’

  ‘I’ll say a prayer for him.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Maybe God would listen; it couldn’t hurt.

  • • •

  The coroner was in the stable, supervising the groom as he tended to the horses.

  ‘News on the boy?’ he asked, raising his head from inspecting a fetlock.

  ‘Still the same.’

  De Harville crossed himself quickly. ‘Do you know who did it?’

  ‘Not yet. But I want to go and talk to Christian.’

  The coroner cocked his head. ‘Why? Do you think he’s responsible?’

  ‘It’s possible. I want to take two bailiffs with me.’

  ‘Not until the market’s done. I need them here to keep order. Keep your eyes open. Didn’t you tell me that Christian used to come to the Saturday market?’

  Of course. He’d forgotten that.

  ‘I’ll keep an eye open for him.’

  There’d be time for that later, once the market began. For now, though, he had business elsewhere.

  • • •

  The girls were busy spinning wool. Katherine was seat at the table, half-watching them as she broke her fast.

  ‘You were gone early.’

  ‘Just some thoughts,’ he told her. ‘How’s …?’

  ‘He’s still sleeping. Martha’s up there with him. Have you eaten?’

  ‘Hours ago,’ he said with a smile, squeezing her shoulder lightly as he passed and climbed the stairs.

  Martha raised her head at the footsteps. She was holding one of Walter’s hands, lips moving in silent prayer.

  ‘Have you found …?’ she began, but he shook his head. It seemed so strange, not real to see the boy there. He was always the one out and about with his errands to run and his messages to deliver. Not here with his eyes closed, lost somewhere between life and somewhere else, his spirit trying to find its way back.

  He stood for a moment, caught in the silence. Come home, he thought. We need you here. John reached down and patted the lad’s leg through the sheet. It jerked in response even thought his eyes remained closed.

  ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘Pray God it means he’ll surface soon. I’ve seen men do that before they come to,’ Martha said.

  He bounded down the stairs feeling hopeful, whispering in his wife’s ear and seeing her smile before he left. His heart was lifted. There’d been a reaction. Walter could feel. Maybe nothing else yet, but it would come, he was certain of that now.

  He scoured the market square, squeezing his way through the crowds. He kept one hand on his purse as he moved. But no sign of Christian.

  At the cookshop he bought a hot pie, forcing himself to eat slowly, then washed it down with a mug of ale from the tavern on Low Pavement.

  After an hour or more of looking he had to admit it: Christian wasn’t there. But he still lingered, just in case. Nothing. In frustration he marched back to the house.

  He found Katherine and the girls still sitting in hall. She was leading them in prayer. For a dark moment he believed that Walter had died and he felt breath being pulled from his body.

  Then Janette was up and running towards him.

  ‘Walter’s awake,’ she laughed. ‘Walter’s awake.’

  He looked and saw his wife wiping tears from her eyes. Tears of joy.

  ‘He woke just after you left.’ She was smiling, sniffling as she tried to stop crying. ‘He’s fine, John. He’s going to be fine.’

  Silently, he thanked God as he drew her close, her head resting on his shoulder.

  ‘Who’s with him now?’

  ‘Martha. She wanted to take Janette and Eleanor out, so they’d be away from the sickroom. He started to come to when he heard her voice.’

  A miracle, he thought. He held her until the shaking stopped.

  ‘I’ll go and see him. Does he remember anything?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was just so happy to have him back …’

  He understood.

  Martha had eased herself on to a low joint stool by Walter’s pallet. She sat, gazing tenderly at the boy. She put a finger to her lips to quiet him as he approached.

  ‘He’s sleeping again,’ she whispered. ‘But when he’s awake, he makes sense.’

  ‘Did he say anything about …?’

  ‘I don’t think he remembers. Give him time, John.’

  ‘Is he in pain?’

  She shook her head. ‘The wise woman left some herbs we can steep for him to drink.’ She looked at the boy. ‘It’s going to take him a long while to recover. Let him sleep as much as he can.’

  ‘I know.’ But at least he’d begun to mend. She reached out a hand and he helped her to her feet. Martha grimaced as she straightened her legs, then hid it again as she managed a step or two.

  ‘Timothy’s mistress,’ he began.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Do you know anything about her?’

  ‘It was years ago, John. More than half a century. I can’t remember any more than I told you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Is there anyone who might?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘After all this time? I doubt it. I don’t think any of us knew her name. I don’t even know where it all began.’

  He escorted her down the stairs, feeling her lean into him. Once again he was surprised at how frail her body had become, the weightlessness of her bones.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The afternoon sun felt too hot. Sweat ran down his backbone as he walked and each step was an effort. Halfway to Dronfield he’d rested in the shade for a few minutes, the two bailiffs complaining loudly at trudging through a summer’s day after a morning at the market.

  He ignored them, splashing his face with water from the stream until he was cooled again. In the village they followed the road uphill to the manor house. No Christian. Nobody had seen him since morning; no one knew where he’d gone or when he might return.

  A wasted journey.

  ‘Does he have any recent cuts on his hands or face?’ John asked the men who gave him the information. They shook their heads.

  ‘I saw him last night and he didn’t,’ one answered. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just a question,’ he replied with a smile.

  They were going back with nothing. First, though, a small rest. The least he could do was buy the bailiffs a jug of ale after dragging them out this way.

  Inside it was cool, some of the shutters closed against the day to leave the place shaded. While his companions wittered away, John wandered over to talk with the alewife.

  ‘I hadn’t thought to see you again,’ she told him. ‘I heard Christian sent you packing last time.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe he did.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve brought them?’ She nodded at the brawny bailiffs.

  ‘Do you blame me?’

  ‘Better to be safe when you’re against someone with a temper.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ He grinned and moved his mug around on the counter. ‘What do you know about Christian’s family?’

  She snorted. ‘His mother, as was. The father died years back. It was probably the best thing he could have done.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘He was a cuckold,’ the woman said. ‘Everyone knew it but him, poor soul.’

  ‘So Christian’s not his?’

  ‘She’s the only one who can tell you that. And she’s been in her grave these ten years.’

  ‘So whose bastard is Christian?’

  ‘Ah.’ Her eyes twinkled at the chance of gossip. ‘That’s what everyone asked when her belly started to grow. She’d been in someone’s bed that wasn’t her own, but she kept very quiet about it. Never a name, not even a hint.’

  ‘Why couldn’t it have been her husband?’ />
  She laughed.

  ‘His pizzle couldn’t get hard. Everyone knew that. Couldn’t satisfy a lass, never mind give her a child. That wife of his never let him forget it, either.’

  ‘You don’t look old enough to remember it.’

  ‘Get on with you, Master,’ she said but preened at the compliment. ‘I was just little when it happened, but the way people went on about it, it was impossible to forget.’

  ‘Is there someone who’d know more?’

  ‘Try Goodwife Joan,’ she suggested. ‘The last house as you leave the village towards Chesterfield. She’s the oldest around here. Can’t move much any more but she’s still sharp. Take her a jug of ale and she’ll talk.’

  • • •

  The house was dirty. Cobwebs in the corners and the rushes on the floor hadn’t been replaced in more than a year. He’d sent the bailiffs back to town when he stopped. For a minute he thought the alewife had played him for a fool. The hag looked ancient, a thick rheum on her eyes as she tried to peer at him. But with the first sip of drink she brightened.

  ‘Christian?’ she cackled. ‘Thinking she’d save his soul with a name like that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He was someone’s by-blow. Everyone here knew that.’

  ‘Do you know whose?’

  ‘Plenty of whispers at the time,’ she remembered with a sniff. ‘Not that she’d ever come out and admit it. Walked around like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. But we knew, we knew.’

  ‘Was there ever any talk of a rich man?’ he asked. ‘From Chesterfield?’

  ‘Plenty of mouths flapping,’ Joan told him. ‘Lots of rumours. Rich man, poor man.’ She turned her head and spat on the ancient, dry rushes covering the floor. ‘Seems to me someone said she’d been seduced. A man promising her things.’ She looked at him accusingly through the rheum. ‘The way men do. Then vanished as soon as she was with child. She was married, she couldn’t do anything except drag the child up.’

  ‘What about the name Timothy? Was he ever mentioned?’

  ‘Probably every name in Christendom at one time or another.’ She said. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve heard he had a mistress and nobody knew who she was.’

  ‘You’ll not find out from her, not unless she can speak from the grave.’ She gave another cackling laugh. ‘Probably in hell for her sins now.’

  He wasn’t going to learn any more here. The most he’d come away with was a suspicion and that didn’t help. Anyone could have been Christian’s father.

  ‘Thank you, Mistress,’ he said as he rose. ‘You’ve been generous with your memories.’

  ‘She told me something once. Years later, when the boy was ten or so,’ the woman recalled.

  ‘What was that?’ He stood by the door, one hand on the latch.

  ‘That she’d seen a book once.’ Joan shook her head.

  ‘What kind of book?’ he asked, holding his breath.

  ‘What does it matter? She couldn’t read. What use would she have for a book?’ She poured the last of the ale into a cracked mug. ‘She said it had jewels on the front. But she always liked to make things up.’

  ‘Who showed her the book? Did she tell you?’

  ‘Someone and no one, most like. She probably pulled the idea out of the air.’

  ‘Did she say anything more about it?’

  ‘Oh aye. The most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, she told me, with pictures and gold.’

  It could have been the psalter, John thought. All too easily. Books were rare enough outside churches. Only the rich could afford them.

  ‘What else?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’ She tapped her skull. ‘All in her head.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said again as he left.

  More than anything else he’d heard, the book pointed to Timothy. It all fitted. But he’d never know for certain. The man had been careful. He’d covered all the tracks he left.

  He sighed as he walked back to Chesterfield. No marks on Christian, if everyone was to be believed. That ruled him out as Walter’s attacker.

  But Timothy as Christian’s father? That was interesting. It offered up plenty of possibilities. There was even sense to it, a connection between him and the old man. And a reason for murder. Yet why would he wait so long for revenge on a father who’d cast him aside before he was born?

  Too many questions that would never be answered. Christian wasn’t going to tell him. Mysteries within mysteries and he was still none the wiser as he unlatched his front door on Saltergate.

  He could hear voices from the solar. Katherine, Martha, and the girls gathered around Walter’s bed. The lad had his eyes open but he looked stunned, surprised.

  ‘It’s good to see you back,’ John said to him, taking his wife’s hand and squeezing it lightly.

  ‘You found me. That’s what they’ve been telling me.’ The words struggled out in stammers.

  ‘And a right job it was getting you back here, too,’ he answered with a smile. ‘What happened to you, Walter?’

  ‘I don’t remember, John. My head’s empty there.’

  He understood. The boy couldn’t summon it up. He’d seen it before when men woke from an accident; they had no recollection of what had happened. Sometimes it returned. Often it didn’t, as if the mind was determined to forget the pain.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. We just have to make sure you’re well again.’

  ‘Listen to him,’ Katherine told her brother. Her eyes glistened with tears and she bit her lip. She ushered the girls back down the stairs.

  ‘Do you remember anything about the day it happened?’ John asked. Dame Martha gave him a sharp look for the question.

  ‘I went to work,’ Walter replied brightly. ‘I remember that.’ His face clouded and he shook his head. Nothing more.

  ‘Leave it, John,’ Martha said quietly and he nodded. He couldn’t force memory where there was none. ‘I’ll sit with him.’

  ‘What would we do without you?’

  She waved his words away into the air. ‘You’re family as much as any of my kin,’ she said, smoothing down the front of her apron and easing herself slowly down on to the joint stool. ‘Now go,’ she said. ‘Shoo.’

  Katherine was in the garden, supervising Janette and Eleanor as they weeded between the plants. The kitten dashed after each stalk they tossed, pouncing and making a game of it all.

  John squatted and looked at his wife. Her face was flushed with joy.

  ‘He’s going to be fine. It’ll take time, that’s all.’

  ‘I know.’ She gave a small, tight nod, as if she couldn’t trust herself to do more.

  ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  • • •

  At the inn the owner looked fretful when he entered.

  ‘Arthur of Warwick.’ John said and the man shook his head.

  ‘He hasn’t come back yet, Master.’

  He could feel a tingle at the back of his neck. ‘Send word to the coroner as soon as he returns.’ It was an order, not a request.

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  He found de Harville on a bench in the long garden behind his house. His wife was seated beside him, caught in the long shadows of evening. Her face was very pale, cheeks sunk, but she was carefully groomed, her veil a brilliant white, her gown simple but expensive.

  ‘Carpenter,’ the coroner said, but he was clearly annoyed at the disturbance. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I was just at the inn to see Arthur.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s not there. Hasn’t been all day.’

  ‘I see.’ De Harville frowned. ‘I’ll have the bailiffs scour the town for him. God help him if he’s left.’

  ‘If he went first thing this morning he could have covered plenty of ground.’ Halfway back to Lincoln and the safety of the bishop’s protection.

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ the coroner said brusquely. ‘What else?’

  ‘Walter’s awake.�
� He waited for a reaction. Nothing. ‘He’s going to need a few weeks to recover but he’ll be fine,’ John told him. The man didn’t even care. ‘He just doesn’t remember what happened.’

  ‘Pity. We could solve this. Tell me the rest after church tomorrow.’ He glanced at his wife with a look of concern.

  Dismissed like a servant. He strode away from the house angrily, across the market square, to the alehouse on Low Pavement. He needed some time before he went home. A chance to let the anger fall away.

  He drank the first mug quickly, trying to put everything out of his mind. Not that he managed it. Shards of this and that refused to leave. The way Walter looked, so helpless in his bed, face discoloured by bruises. The fact that Arthur was missing. All the questions about Christian. The other questions: who’d beaten Walter that way? Why had someone tried to set a fire by his kitchen? And who could have attacked him on the riverbank all that time ago?

  The second cup lasted longer. He felt himself slowly calming, the flush of anger leaving his face, his breath slowing. Never mind the coroner. There was plenty to be thankful for this day. Walter would be well. That was the most important thing. Always.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Walter spent the evening falling in and out of sleep. Tiredness would suddenly overwhelm him and he’d turn his head away, closing his eyes. John sat by the bed, taking his turn with the others.

  Wilhelmina, the wise woman, had come by to examine him, more than satisfied with his progress.

  ‘Time,’ she told them. ‘That’s all it takes now. His mind’s sound, none of his limbs are broken, and there’s no damage inside his body.’

  He heard the words with relief. A full recovery. Katherine was smiling, close to tears again, Martha’s arm around her shoulder.

  And now he sat patiently, waiting for the boy to surface again. Maybe when he woke this time something would have changed and he’d be able to recall it all. He was going to discover who’d done it and make them pay. The beating had been brutal. Only God’s mercy had stopped the damage being permanent.

  Walter started to slowly move his head from side to side. A dream, with his eyelids moving rapidly.

  Evening was slipping away. He went to the window and closed the shutters, watching in case the noise woke the boy. But sleep still held him fast. He’d spent another half-hour on the joint stool, watching and waiting, when a hand touched his shoulder.