And now the dark visions had returned. The thought came that they might be death’s reminder of his own mortality, the cold hand that could touch his shoulder at any time.
He dressed as the first smudge of light lifted over the hills. His body and his spirit ached and he scuffled his way along the empty street to the churchyard. The air had cooled, but even that gave him no pleasure. The day would wind out before him like an endless road, dusty and drear.
Nonetheless he worked hard, keeping his mind on the job to avoid the stupid mistakes of tiredness. By dinner all he wanted to do was eat and then snatch a few minutes of sleep in the open. He had taken one bite of the cheese when Brother Robert arrived, his face hopeful and his shoulder sagging under the weight of the desk, and John recalled his promise with a sigh.
It was the work of a few heartbeats, simply measuring and cutting the length of leather then fixing it in place with a pair of nails. The old man’s face broke into a smile as he placed it on his shoulder, giving a blessing and heartfelt thanks as he left. It was no more than a tiny act of charity, but it brightened his mood enough to feel the rest of the day might pass well.
He was drinking a last cup of ale before returning to the tower when someone appeared at his side, a squat, round fellow with a deep white scar along his cheek and the little finger missing from his left hand.
‘You were asking Thomas about Geoffrey,’ he said as he poured himself a cup.
‘Someone said he might know the name,’ John explained. He’d seen the man around the site, impossible to miss, but had paid him no mind, just one of many working on the building.
‘There were plenty of us breathed happier when Will turned him away.’ He took a drink and gazed upward at the pale sky. ‘Always late, arriving with some excuse or another, and if anything he did was wrong, it was always someone else’s fault.’
‘I’ve met the sort before,’ John sympathised.
‘Mondays he always arrived with a head like a hammer and you could never get much work out of him,’ the man recalled, shaking his head. ‘It never got much better during the week, either.’
‘How long did he last?’
‘Too long,’ the man answered sharply. ‘If I’d been in charge he wouldn’t have stayed a month. But Will finally had enough, paid him what he was owed and told him never to come back. We were stood there cheering.’
‘He threatened to kill Will?’
‘He did, right enough. All he got for his words was a kick up the arse and the sound of our laughter. It’s been a better place here since he left, too.’
‘Did he leave Chesterfield?’
‘So I heard.’ He paused. ‘It’s a funny thing, though. I was out having a drink with some of them last week and I thought I saw him walking past the alehouse. Not seen hide nor hair of him since, mind. It’s just that …’ He shrugged.
‘You think he might have come back?’
‘What do I know?’ the man replied with a rueful sigh. ‘I was so deep into a bellyful of ale by then that I could have imagined him. Paid for it the next morning, too.’
‘What did this Geoffrey look like?’
‘Hair as red as his temper and ugly as a bishop’s sin,’ he laughed. ‘None of the lasses here would go anywhere near him, for all he boasted of his successes. They’d more sense.’
John slung the satchel over his shoulder. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘James,’ the other man replied.
‘If you see him again, James, you should tell the coroner.’
‘Nay, lad, I’ll not be doing that,’ the man answered firmly. ‘I stay as far away from the likes of him as I can. I’ll tell you and you can pass the word, if you like.’
‘I’ll do that. God go with you.’
The heat of the afternoon gathered thick as a pool in the tower room. He tried to keep his thoughts firmly on the work, to concentrate, but they fought him, desperate to drift loose. He yawned, feeling a drowsiness that covered him like a blanket, blinking to bring everything back into focus. The chisel slipped in his sweaty palm and sliced open a cut on his finger.
Usually he was aware of everything around him, alert to all the accidents that could so easily happen. But the weather and the lack of sleep had dulled his mind so that when one of the labourers dropped the end of a beam he couldn’t move back quickly enough.
It came down hard on his left arm, pinning it against the floor. He heard the quick, sickening snap of bone. For the briefest moment he felt nothing, then the pain coursed through his body and he screamed.
CHAPTER SIX
They lifted the timber off him carefully, easing it away as gently as a baby. Someone was sent running for the bone-setter. John lay, teeth clenched hard, gaze fixed on his left forearm. It was useless now, the break obvious under the swollen skin. He tried to move and a wave of agony flooded through him, leaving him nauseous. A labourer brought ale, pouring it slowly through his lips. He swallowed gratefully, draining one cup, then another, turning his head away from the limb.
The bone-setter was an old man, his long hair all grey, his cote a pale, peaceful blue. He had a calm, soothing face and large hands that moved with surprising lightness over the arm. After he finished his examination he smiled at John.
‘It’s a clean break. Once it’s healed it’ll be as strong as ever.’
He felt the relief. Without two good arms his skill would be gone. He watched curiously as the man delved into the deep bag he carried, bringing out two piece of thick bark, its roughness all smoothed down, a roll of cleaned linen, a bowl and a stone jar.
‘Are you ready?’ the man asked, and John nodded. It was a single moment of pain, not as intense as the break, but the sharpness made him cry out. ‘Keep still,’ the man ordered, fitting the bark around the forearm and cutting it to shape with the knife from his belt, adjusting and altering it until he judged the fit exact. He nodded to himself, then poured some of the liquid from the jar into a bowl. John wrinkled his nose at the rancid smell of animal fat and other things he couldn’t identify.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Watch,’ the bone-setter said quietly, his voice soothing, as he unrolled the linen and passed it through the liquid before wrapping it around the bark. ‘It’ll dry and harden to keep the splint in place.’ He worked deftly, trained fingers pulling at the cloth until he’d covered the whole forearm and he nodded to himself in satisfaction. ‘You’ll need to keep this on for six weeks.’
John shook his head. ‘I can’t work with this on,’ he protested.
The bone-setter sighed. ‘If you don’t keep it on you’ll never use that arm properly again, I can promise you that,’ he said firmly. ‘Tell me carpenter, which is the better bargain?’
John gave in with poor grace, angry at himself for his carelessness and stupidity. As soon as the mixture had dried and stiffened the cloth, the bone-setter drew a larger piece of linen from his bag and fashioned it into a sling.
‘Keep your arm in that during the day,’ he ordered. ‘Don’t try to use that arm and it’ll mend without any problem.’
John reluctantly nodded and gave his thanks before climbing to his feet. Awkwardly, with just his good right hand, he paid the man then packed his tools into the satchel and rested the strap on his shoulder. The arm ached dully, a slow throb that pulsed through his body.
He trudged through the yard, seeking out Joseph the master carpenter. The man was in the corner, berating two men sawing at a log.
‘I heard,’ he said, his face still dark. ‘A clean break?’
‘That’s what he told me.’
The master frowned. ‘So now I’m a man short. How long?’
‘Six weeks.’
Joseph ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘I can’t keep a job for you. If there’s something when you’ve healed I’ll have you back.’
John nodded his understanding; it was what he’d expected. He’d have to take his chances. If there was nothing he’d move on elsewhere. There
would always be another road with another job at the end of it.
He walked back slowly to the house on Knifesmithgate. There was no hurry about anything for a while. His skin was already beginning to itch under the bark splint, an irritation he couldn’t reach. All it did was increase his fury at himself. He knew better, he should never have let his attention waver.
He’d seen enough broken limbs, and worse, to understand how dangerous any site could be. And now he was paying the price for his own stupidity. For the next six weeks he’d be useless.
He lifted the latch on the door and entered, leaving the satchel of tools in his room then pouring a mug of ale in the buttery. Every action was going to take longer and need more thought, he realised.
He drank slowly then went out into the garden. A light breeze had stirred from the north and the soft air began to cool his temper. In his heart he knew he’d been lucky. If the beam had fallen the other way it could have crushed his head and they’d be putting him in the ground.
He set the cup aside and bent over to pluck a few weeds around Martha’s plants. With each glance he noticed more and knelt, the dry earth harsh against the thin fabric of his old hose. Methodically he moved along the row, pinching the weeds between the fingers of his right hand and easing them out of the ground. It was a way to pass the hours, and there were enough of them lying ahead of him.
He was still working when he heard the footsteps. He stood quickly, wiping the dirt from his good hand on his hose.
Martha gave him a wan smile.
‘There was talk in the shops that someone had been hurt. I prayed to God it wasn’t you,’ Martha said.
‘He didn’t hear you this time,’ he answered, raising the sling.
‘Will it mend properly?’
‘With His good grace,’ he said with a nod.
‘How long will it take?’
‘Six weeks.’
Martha opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘If you don’t have the money …’ she began, then blurted out, ‘I won’t charge you for your board.’
He bowed and patted his purse.
‘You’re a generous, Christian woman, but I have coins here. I can last six weeks. All I need are things to fill my time.’ He thought of the days stretching bleakly away.
‘You’ve made a good start here,’ she said, nodding at the pulled weeds wilting on the ground. ‘There’s plenty more, if you’ve a mind.’
‘I might.’
‘I won’t complain. Just be sure you stay out of the alehouses.’
‘That’s never really been my way,’ he answered with a grin. ‘A pretty girl’s a different thing, though.’
‘I saw Katherine looking at you in church. The gossips said you carried her washing back from the river, too.’ Her words were part tease, part question, and he grinned.
‘The gossips will make something out of nothing.’
‘She’s pretty enough for any man.’
‘For any man who’s courting,’ he countered.
A smile played across Martha’s mouth. ‘Every man’s ripe for courting if the girl’s right and she sets her eye on him. You’d better watch out for her.’
He shook his head in bemusement. ‘She’ll find little joy with me, then.’
‘We’ll see, John, we’ll see,’ she told him, her voice light and full of good humour. ‘Katherine can be a determined lass; she might have you wed before the year’s out.’
‘No one’s managed it yet.’
‘There’s always a first.’
They passed the last hours of the day in gentle banter. She heated pottage in the cookhouse and they ate outside, sitting on a bench in the garden as evening fell. The sounds of the town died away, and he saw a nightjar soar and dive while the low breeze softly shook the leaves on the trees. The shock of the fracture had passed, and the sleepless night had caught up with him. He stood awkwardly and yawned.
‘I’m away to my bed,’ he said. ‘I wish you God’s peace in the night.’
‘And to you John.’
He removed the sling in slow, difficult movements, and washed as best he could. The cast restricted his movements, leaving him shifting around until he found a comfortable place in the bed. Then sleep came, deep and blissful.
• • •
By habit he woke before dawn, his mind already alert and urging him out of bed. Dressing was a long, awkward chore of balancing and pulling. He glanced longingly at the satchel in the corner. In all the time since his father taught him how to handle the tools he’d never gone a single week without using them, let alone six. He sighed, easing his arm into its sling.
He raised the latch softly, careful to make no noise that would wake Martha, and walked lazily down the street. His feet impelled him to St Mary’s, where he shared a mug of ale with some of the other men. They joked about his arm, but he saw the relief in their eyes that the injury was his, not theirs. As they drifted off to their work he returned to the town. The streets were busy as servants shopped for their mistresses, eagerly talking to each other, a few looking him full in the face with challenging smiles that brought his sly wink in return.
He strolled through the tiny streets of the Shambles, watching a butcher expertly slice a beast apart, tossing the guts out into the street for a waiting pack of dogs, then another bring a cleaver down briskly, his cut clean and sure, showing the meat for a goodwife’s inspection.
In the square, traders were setting up their trestles for the market, the space already bustling with people. He saw the coroner emerge from a grand house on the High Street, with Brother Robert just behind him. It was a rich man’s dwelling, with three storeys jettied out one above the other, the limewash fresh and bright in the early sunshine, the timbers cut clean and straight. Without thinking, he quickened his pace until he reached them.
‘Does the strap help, Brother?’
The monk turned with a smile that became shock as he saw the sling.
‘God be praised, it does. But what happened to you?’
‘My own fault,’ John admitted.
‘I wish you well of the healing,’ de Harville said. He patted his left leg. ‘I broke this once. With God’s grace and a good bone-setter I was fine.’
‘I’ll pray for you,’ Brother Robert promised.
‘Have you learned anything more about Will’s death?’ John asked the coroner. The man shook his head and frowned.
‘I can’t find sign of this Geoffrey. People remembered him, but no one’s seen him since spring. Your friend must have conjured him up when he was drunk.’
‘What now then?’
‘I don’t know,’ de Harville said brusquely. The light caught his hair, showing it almost white, a contrast to the deep blue of his cote and hose. ‘We’re off to attend a farmer dead in his field at Newbold. I bid you good day.’ He swept away.
‘Pay him no mind,’ Brother Robert whispered. ‘He argued with his wife last night. He knows he can never win with her. Then he drinks and it always leaves him in a foul mood.’ He hefted the strap. ‘I thank you again. God be with you.’ He hurried after his master as fast as his old legs could carry him.
John stopped at a cookshop and bought a pie, leaning against a wall to eat it, the meat deliciously hot in his mouth.
‘I heard you’d broken your arm. Does it hurt?’ He looked up to see Walter standing there with Katherine.
‘It did when it happened,’ he answered with an easy smile. ‘Now it just aches a little and itches.’ He bowed his head and added, ‘Good day, Mistress,’ gratified to see a blush rise from her neck into her face.
‘I’m sorry for your distress,’ she said. ‘May God give you ease.’
‘I’m sure He will.’
‘How did it happen John?’ Walter asked intently. ‘Mark didn’t come back, did he?’
‘No, nothing like that’ he assured the boy. ‘Don’t worry yourself, he won’t be after me again. It was an accident a
t work, pure and simple. I was to blame.’
‘How long before you’ll be back at work?’ Katherine wondered.
‘Six weeks,’ he told her with a sigh. ‘That’s if there’s still a job for me there.’
‘Surely they’ll have something for a skilled carpenter,’ she said, and for a moment he imagined he heard a hopeful note in her voice.
He shrugged. ‘They need to do as much as they can before winter. They’ll want to start the spire by then if they can.’
‘They need craftsmen,’ she said confidently.
‘Aye, Mistress, but they need them now.’ He lifted his arm. ‘There’s not the time to wait until I’m whole again.’
‘What are you going to do, John?’ Walter asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he told the boy, glancing at his sister and catching her watching him, her eyes full of some deep thought he didn’t understand. ‘For now I’ll walk home with you, though, if you don’t mind the company.’
‘We’d welcome it,’ she said, and he fell in beside them. ‘You should walk beyond the town, Master,’ she suggested. ‘People say it’s very restorative for the soul.’
‘Perhaps I will.’
‘Walter knows all the country hereabouts, don’t you, Walter?’
‘I do,’ the lad agreed with a quick nod of his head.
‘He’d be an excellent guide,’ Katherine suggested.
‘Then we should do that tomorrow,’ John agreed. ‘I’d enjoy that.’
They halted at the corner of Saltergate.
‘Walter, could you go on without me? I need to speak with Master John.’
The boy looked at them with guileless eyes.
‘Of course. Tomorrow, John?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, and watched the boy loping away before turning to the girl. ‘You’ll have the gossips flapping their ears to hear us,’ he began before seeing the serious look on her face. ‘What is it, Mistress? Have I offended you in some way?’
‘You know Walter’s hardly spoken of anything else since he saw you make Mark run.’
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