‘This afternoon at the church.’
‘I’ll be there,’ he promised.
• • •
Martha rose as he entered the room, her face blossoming into a smile. A small lock of white hair peeked out from her wimple.
‘You went, didn’t you?’ The words rushed from her mouth. ‘I prayed God would turn you away from there.’
‘I went,’ he admitted. ‘But I had the company of the coroner and Brother Robert. He sends you his greetings.’
‘Does he now?’ She glanced at him curiously then chuckled lightly. ‘You’re trying to distract me. Did you talk to Mark?’
‘We did, and there was no violence,’ he assured her.
‘Did the coroner arrest him?’
‘He didn’t kill Will.’
‘Then who did?’ she asked. It was the question he’d been pondering as he strolled back to the house, and it was likely he would never be the one to find the answer. He knew nothing of Will, whether he had any enemies in the town, not even where he lived.
‘I don’t know. I’ll leave that to the coroner and the jury.’
She nodded gratefully.
‘There’s dinner left if you want some.’
He realised he had eaten nothing that morning and felt the hollowness in his belly.
‘I’d like that. Thank you.’
She bought two trenchers in from the cookhouse at the other end of the burgage plot, where a fire could heat food without danger to the home. It was the remains of the coney, with strong ginger added. He poured ale for them both and moved the bench to the table.
‘Where did you come here from, John Carpenter?’ Martha asked as they ate.
‘York,’ he told her, spearing a small piece of the meat with his knife.
‘York!’ she said in surprise. ‘I’ve heard so many tales of that place. Is it really as big as they say?’
‘As big as a county, and more churches than the eye can count. There’s everything a person could want in the city.’
‘I’d have loved to have seen it and prayed in the Minster,’ she sighed.
‘It’s a glorious place,’ he said, his voice soft as he saw it in his mind. ‘The light through the windows is so beautiful with all the colours in the glass. From the top of the towers you feel like you can reach out and touch the stars.’ He stopped, seeing the wonder on her face. ‘It’s not too late for you to visit.’
She tapped the back of his hand lightly. ‘Be off with you. God might have spared me this long, but He doesn’t want me to go traipsing halfway across the country at my age. How long were you there?’
‘Two years.’
‘Did you worship at the Minster?’
‘I worked on it,’ he said, watching as her eyes widened. ‘But I worshipped at St Saviour’s.’
‘If you loved the placed so much, why did you leave it?’ She cast a shrewd glance at him. ‘A girl?’
He felt himself redden but said nothing. Some secrets were best kept close.
‘I have to go to the church,’ he announced after finishing the meal. ‘They’re burying Will this afternoon. Someone should be there.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
‘No,’ he said, gratitude in his smile. ‘I knew him a little, I’ll go on my own.’
• • •
The grave had been dug, the dark earth mounded on either side of the hole. A pair of shirtless diggers leaned on their spades in the shade of an oak, passing a flagon of ale between them.
Someone had assembled a coffin, the boards planed smooth, the lid nailed down cleanly. John stood by it and made the sign of the cross. Precious few people had come, just three of the workmen, the engineer, and a woman who stood alone, off to the side, her head bowed; the widow, he guessed. She wore a dark gown, shapeless in the old style, and gathered at the waist with a girdle, a deep blue veil covering her hair.
The sun beat down hard on the churchyard as the priest intoned the service in his rough Latin, the words consumed by the heat in the air. Then he nodded to the diggers, who lowered the coffin into the grave.
John tossed a sod down onto the wood, crossed himself once more and found a place in the shadow of the church wall. The woman was the last in the line, letting the earth slip down through her fingers, lingering to gaze down. Finally she slipped away through the weekday market place and along the road to Holywell.
He walked behind her, coming up close before he said,
‘Mistress?’ She turned in alarm, pulled from her thoughts and her grief. He could see the tracks tears had made on her face and the redness that clouded her eyes. ‘I wanted to offer my sorrow.’
She tried to smile, but it was weak and wan, her heart lost from the effort.
‘Did you work with him?’ she asked.
‘Only for a day, but I liked him. He was your man?’
‘For ten years,’ she told him, her voice aching with sadness. ‘We moved down here when they hired him on at the church.’
‘The men seemed to respect him,’ he offered.
‘Aye,’ she sighed. ‘Folk liked Will. What’s your name, Master?’
‘John,’ he replied. ‘John the carpenter.’
She nodded. ‘He mentioned you on Friday. You’re the one with a talent with wood.’
‘That was just kindness on his part,’ he told her. ‘Did he come home after work on Saturday?’
A small brightness of memory lit her plump face. ‘Back for his supper, same as ever. Then he was out in the town for a drink, and that was the last I saw of him.’ The light in her eyes faded and the tears began again. She rubbed at them with her hand.
‘Might I escort you?’
‘God bless you and thank you, but I’d rather be alone.’
‘Of course.’ Before he turned to leave, he asked, ‘Do you know anyone who might have harmed him?’
‘No,’ she answered simply, ‘and I’ve thought hard enough these last hours.’
‘If there’s anything I can do at all, any task, send word to me at the church,’ he said.
‘I’ll do that. Good day to you now, John. God be with you.’
‘And with you, Mistress.’
He watched her slow, hopeless walk away from the town until the road turned and she was hidden from sight. Deep in thought, he took his time returning, pausing by the churchyard. The grave had already been filled in and all that remained of Will was a small hump of earth rising from the grass. Over by the wall the engineer was in deep conversation with another man dressed in the finery of a lordling or a merchant, worn with the casual grace of money and power. The engineer bowed low before the other man left, his face dark and thoughtful.
• • •
Down by Beetwell Street John saw a girl pausing for breath, a basket of washing heavy in her arms, water dripping down her old grey gown.
‘Might I help you Mistress?’ he asked impulsively. As she raised her head to answer, he saw it was Walter’s sister, the girl with the lively glance who’d noticed him in church and called him a rogue, if her brother was to be believed.
She lowered her eyes modestly as he spoke, but moved her head quickly from side to side to shake her dark hair loose.
‘Bless you for your thoughts, sir, but I’m just carrying this back from the river.’
‘Let me take it for you.’ Gently, he lifted it from her hands and was rewarded with a broad smile. He fell in beside her, matching her easy pace with his long legs.
‘You know my brother, Walter.’
‘I do,’ he told her. ‘I like the lad.’
‘He says you’re a good man.’
John grinned mischievously. ‘And he told me that you think me handsome, so perhaps neither of us should believe all we hear.’
She blushed, the colour rising quickly from her neck, and she turned away so he couldn’t see her expression.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t tease you.’
‘And I should learn to hold my tongue around hi
m, or all of Chesterfield will know what I’m thinking.’
‘I’ll keep your secret.’
‘I’ll box his ears when I see him.’ But she was smiling again, the start of a giggle on her lips.
‘One thing he didn’t tell me was your name.’
‘I’m Katherine,’ she answered, her voice suddenly shy again, as if her mood changed moment by moment with the wind. ‘And you’re John.’
‘I am. John the carpenter.’
‘Is it true what all the goodwives have been saying, that a man was murdered at the church?’
‘It is, and now he’s in his grave.’
‘Do they know who killed him?’ It was no question for a girl, perhaps, but still a natural one to ask.
‘I don’t think so.’
At the corner of Saltergate he stopped and held out the basket.
‘It wouldn’t be seemly for me to walk you to your door, Mistress Katherine. People would talk.’
She tossed her hair again, her eyes sharp and bright with delight. ‘The gossips will have seen us by now, Master John, have no fear of that. They’ll already be wagging their tongues and planning the betrothal.’ She offered a small, formal curtsey. ‘Thank you for your help, sir.’
He bowed.
‘God go with you, Mistress.’
He strode back to Knifesmithgate feeling lighter inside; the girl had given some brightness to a dark day.
CHAPTER FOUR
The morning came too quickly. He slept deeply, waking with a start before rushing to dress and cram bread and cheese into his satchel. By the time he reached the churchyard most of the men were already there, gathered in small, expectant groups.
Orders came with the dawn. With the other carpenters, he moved to a corner of the yard where an older man was waiting. He looked as if his best years were past, the sleek hardness gone from the long muscles in his arms and his belly bulging under his plain brown cote.
‘You all know what happened to your master,’ he said, his voice loud and carrying easily in the still dawn air. ‘He was a good man, and God will punish the one who killed him. Say your prayers for him. But I’m Joseph, and I’m the new master carpenter. I’ll expect you to work hard and earn your pay, and above all I’ll want you to do as I tell you.’ He glanced around the faces, looking for questions. ‘You remember what you were doing on Saturday, go back to that. You all lost a day’s pay yesterday so make up for that today.’ With a brisk clap of his hands, he dismissed them.
John had feared the stench of the tower room, but the stink of death had gone, only the bloodstain on the floor a reminder of what had happened. By the time the engineer arrived, his footsteps slow and tired on the stone stair, much of the blood had been scraped away, the last vestige of a life vanished into sawdust.
John and the other carpenter worked hard all morning, hearing the sound of the Tuesday market in the space beyond the yard. Beyond the engineer’s instructions there was little conversation. It was difficult labour, demanding fierce concentration and when the dinner bell rang he was glad of the break outside.
There was a small whisper of a breeze to cool his face as he sat under the tree and ate. A few of the men came by to ask about Will’s body, but for most it was already old news and he was grateful; he had no desire to keep seeing the body in his mind.
He took a long drink of ale, stood and stretched slowly.
‘You’re John?’
He turned to face Joseph, the man staring at him with an unreadable face, thin lips pursed, no expression in his brown eyes.
‘Yes, Master,’ he replied.
‘I’ve just been up looking at your work. It’s good.’
‘Thank you.’ He nodded briefly.
‘But you need to go faster. We lost a day yesterday and we need to make it up.’
‘We’re going as fast as we can,’ John protested. ‘That cross-bracing needs to be exact and secure.’
‘Aye,’ the master carpenter agreed. ‘I know that. You can do that and still work more quickly.’
‘I’ll try,’ John said meekly. It was easier to give in, to mouth the words and then go back to what he had always done. The job went as fast as it went. Rushing only meant mistakes and there could be none of that here, not when the weight of the spire would rest on this bracing.
‘You do that,’ the man ordered. ‘You were first finder, they told me.’
‘I was, and the coroner fined me for the honour,’ John answered wryly.
Joseph shook his head sadly. ‘They’ll always have their money from us every way they can. They don’t suspect you?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m still here, not in gaol.’
The master carpenter looked at him coldly. ‘Let’s hope it stays that way, then. I’ll not have any murderer working for me. You understand?’
‘Yes, Master.’
‘Right, get yourself back to work. The sooner you finish, the sooner we can start on the spire.’
He worked at the same, even pace as the day progressed. Everything needed to be exact, each measurement and angle precise, the ends of each beam carefully shaved to fit perfectly flush.
By the shank of the afternoon the heat in the room was wearing. He had taken off his shirt, but still the sweat ran freely, and he tied a rag around his head to keep it from his eyes. Even the engineer had removed his cote as he examined and checked each piece before giving his approval.
Finally the sun began to set. He wiped his tools with the oiled rag, running his eye over them for any damage or rust before putting them away. He took the stairs slowly, happy to have his freedom for a few hours. He loved his work, but a man needed his rest too. His muscles ached and his throat was dry from all the sawdust in the room.
He poured a mug from the barrel, downing it quickly, then another not quite as fast, as the evening air slowly cooled his skin. The darkness was rising in the east, the stars visible if he raised his head and looked.
Finally he pulled the shirt over his head, hung the satchel from his shoulder and took the path out of the churchyard. Most of the men had already left, just a few small groups scattered around, talking and laughing, off to the alehouse soon enough to drink away their pay, he thought.
The shadows were long in Knifesmithgate, just a few splinters of candlelight showing through chinks in the wooden shutters. Soon enough all would be dark and sensible folk asleep in their beds. He kept his hand close to his knife; there were always dangers in the night and it was better to be ready. But there were no quick footsteps behind him. No face appeared from nowhere to threaten him. He lifted the latch on the house and entered, a slow weariness coming on as he closed the door behind him.
He could hear Martha moving around slowly up in the solar as he took bread, cheese and ale from the buttery and settled in his room. He threw the shutter wide to draw in some air and looked out to the distance.
Who could have killed Will, he wondered. His widow said he had no enemies, but how much might she have known about his life? More than that, why had his life ended in the tower room? That was the strangest thing of all. If there’d been a fight after an argument when he was out drinking he would have died in an alehouse or out on the street where folk would have seen it happen.
There was no reason he could imagine for Will to be wandering round the church in the night, nothing he could have seen up there in the darkness. He tried to think it through, to find the answers to his questions, but it was impossible. It left his mind abuzz and frustrated. He didn’t know enough to understand anything.
He finished the last of the ale, considered another mug, then set down the cup, stripped to his braies and went to sleep.
• • •
He could smell the faint promise of rain as he rose. The farmers needed it. Coming down from York he’d seen the fear on their faces of a season dry as bone before the harvest. In the tower they’d need to keep an eye on the weather and a canvas close at hand.
The work seemed to flow from his fingers. Ever
y touch, every cut was sure and right. It was one of those perfect mornings that came so rarely. He always trusted his instinct with wood, but today the timber answered him faithfully. By dinner he felt happy, a satisfied smile on his face as he sat and ate.
He’d cut a piece from a loaf and a slice of cheese when Stephen sat on the ground beside him. The bandage had gone from his arm, leaving a livid red scab that was healing slowly.
‘What do you think of the new master?’ he asked, taking a bite from a cold pie.
John shrugged. ‘Hard to tell yet. He’ll want to push us for a while so we know who’s in charge. And I suppose he has his masters to please too.’ He’d given no more thought to the man after they’d spoken the day before.
‘He’s been on me three times already,’ Stephen complained. He counted them out on his fingers. ‘Found fault with a joint, then he said a cut wasn’t square, and complained about splinters on a surface I’d planed.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve half a mind to leave.’
John turned to look at him.
‘What would you do? There’s precious little else around here from what I can see.’
‘Move on.’ The man brightened, smiling to show brown, broken teeth. ‘There are plenty of other towns. It might be good to see somewhere new, I’ve been here since before last winter.’
‘Give him time,’ John advised, ‘he’ll calm down in a few days.’
‘Maybe,’ Stephen returned to his dinner.
‘Did you know Will?’
‘Not well,’ Stephen answered as he chewed. ‘He was off home to his woman once work was done. I drank with him a few times in town on a Saturday night.’
‘What was he like?’ John asked.
‘Pleasant enough.’ He reached dirty fingers into his mouth to pick out a lump of gristle. ‘Better company the more he supped.’
‘Did he ever get into any fights?’
‘Not that I saw.’
‘Was he a good master?’
‘He was as good as any I’ve worked under, I suppose,’ Stephen replied after some consideration. ‘Once he saw you knew what you were doing he’d leave you to get on with it. He would check on you, of course, but if you had his trust he’d let you be.’
The Crooked Spire Page 4