The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  ‘He’s making more of it then it was.’

  She shook her head and pursed her mouth. ‘I’ve lived here all my life. He’s not the only one in Chesterfield who’s scared of Mark. You heard what happened to my brother?’

  ‘Martha told me.’

  ‘Walter says you’re his friend.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Words are easy, Master John,’ she told him hesitantly. ‘Deeds are harder. If you’re going to be a friend to him, make sure you’re a true one. Please.’

  ‘I gave him my word, Mistress,’ he replied seriously. ‘I don’t go back on that.’

  Katherine’s face softened. ‘The boys his age don’t want to know him. Other folk just ignore him or take advantage of him. He needs someone. He’d value your friendship, truly.’

  ‘He has it.’

  She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly playful. ‘You’d have my appreciation, too.’

  ‘Now how can I refuse that?’ he offered gallantly.

  ‘There’s not an ounce of malice in him, Master John. He wouldn’t hurt anyone. Please, don’t let him down.’

  ‘I don’t make my promises lightly,’ he replied. ‘And I’d rather you called me John.’

  She smiled broadly. ‘John it will be then, but if I do that you’ll have to call me Katherine.’

  ‘With pleasure,’ he agreed quickly, ‘no matter what the gossips think.’

  She started to giggle then stopped abruptly, as if she realised how childish it made her seem, and started again.

  ‘I should go home,’ she said, dashing off quickly. He lingered long enough to see her glance over her shoulder at him.

  He’d turned to go back to Knifesmithgate, wondering what to make of the girl and whether Martha could be right about her, when out of the corner of his eye he spied a flash of red hair as a man rushed along the street.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  John hurried after the man, trying to keep him in sight. He ducked between people, muttering his apologies, squeezing between a pair of women bowed under the weight of their baskets. All he could see was the man’s back, the shoulders broad and rounded, and the bright shock of red hair. Just as he believed he was gaining ground, that he might reach him soon, the man turned the corner and vanished.

  He ran, trying to keep his left arm pressed close to his body. But by the time he had made his way to the turning, there was nothing to see. He went down the street, into the Shambles, peering into the shops and the small alleys that led through to the ruined tumbledown houses of the poor. Breathing hard, he cast around, asking the butchers and goodwives if they’d seen the man, but none had noticed him.

  For a small moment he almost believed he’d imagined him. But he knew he hadn’t. He’ been real, he’d been here.

  • • •

  After ten minutes he gave up. It was hopeless. The man had vanished. He walked around once more, but there was nothing. With a long sigh he moved down the alley and out into the market square.

  Trading had begun and he shuffled along the rows, hemmed in by the crowds. There were more varieties of fish than he’d ever seen in his life, bolts of cloth lovingly stacked and skilfully displayed to show off their bright colours, barrels of apples plucked fresh from the tree, pots made from tin and iron, sacks of wool, bundles of sweet-smelling rushes and piles of tanned hides ready to be worked. Even in York he’d never seen a market this large. At the far side of the square men paraded horses for sale, huge animals that seemed too big for any man to sit upon. Elsewhere one man sold nothing but nails, and John cast a practiced eye on them, some good, some already afflicted with rust.

  After a few minutes of walking around he felt overwhelmed by everything, all the sights and sounds, and his hunger was rising again. The baker had his shutters wide, the smell of fresh-baked bread filling the air. He bought gingerbread so thick with honey, saffron and cinnamon that it seemed to melt in his mouth as he bit into it. A cup of ale washed it down readily; refreshed, he returned to the market, watching a man cleverly turning wood on a small lathe he powered with his feet. John watched, assessing the construction of the tool and wondering whether to build one himself. It would take less than a day, once he had use of his arm again.

  ‘You’re lost in thought, my friend.’ The words made him start, pulled from his reverie. He turned to see Brother Robert looking abashed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘I’m only dreaming,’ John told him wistfully. ‘Is it always as busy as this?’

  The monk nodded. ‘It’ll be worse in a few weeks when the harvest is in and men bring their corn to sell.’

  ‘It’s a wonder.’

  ‘It is,’ the monk agreed. ‘One of man’s wonders, anyway,’ he added wryly.

  ‘Where’s your master?’

  ‘He went back to his bed after we returned from Newbold.’ Robert tried to keep hide his amusement, but his face was too open to conceal anything. ‘He ended up drinking deep in the wine last night and now he says his guts are churning and his head hurts. He fears he might have caught some rheum.’

  ‘I daresay it’ll pass soon.’

  ‘Aye, no doubt,’ the monk laughed.

  ‘I saw a man with red hair a few minutes ago,’ John said. ‘He disappeared into one of those small streets off the Shambles.’

  ‘There are plenty of other men with hair that colour in Chesterfield,’ Robert reminded him.

  ‘I know.’ He’d considered that after losing sight of the man. There’d been no reason he could give name to, no cause, but the man with the red hair had seemed like a person with something to hide.

  ‘If you spot him again come to us immediately.’

  ‘I will. So tell me, what brings you to the market Brother?’

  ‘Nothing more than idle curiosity,’ Robert admitted with a soft laugh. ‘I’d go to the church, but there’s no peace with all the workmen around. So here’s as good as anywhere. I can be amazed by all the things man thinks he needs. What is that, anyway?’ He nodded at the lathe. ‘It looks like magic.’

  John explained how it worked, taking pleasure in the monk’s easy company and his astonishment at the way the tool had been fashioned and the things it could do. They began to walk between the trestles, pointing things out to each other as even more people arrived to browse and buy.

  He spotted Martha, fingering a length of linen and talking with the seller, haggling down the price, and as they talked he gently guided the monk towards her.

  ‘Dame Martha,’ he cried, feigning surprise, when they were close enough for her to hear. She turned at the sound of her name, smiling to see them and letting the linen fall to the trestle.

  ‘Good day, John,’ she said. ‘And Brother, a pleasure to see you. God keeps you well, I hope?’

  ‘He does, Dame, praise Him for that.’ Robert bowed graciously but looked tongue-tied, his eyes darting around as if he was seeking an escape.

  ‘Your master’s treating you well?’

  ‘As ever.’

  ‘He’s not here today?’

  ‘He’s unwell.’ The monk glanced at John, his eyes giving a warning to say nothing.

  Martha laughed brightly. ‘He supped too much last night, you mean? I remember him when he was a young man, he loved his wine then, too.’

  Robert said nothing, his eyes on the ground.

  ‘You didn’t want the linen?’ John asked.

  She waved it away dismissively.

  ‘I have linen, I have coverlets; I have everything I need until I die.’ She grinned. ‘There’s more fun in the chase and the capture, anyway.’ She stopped to run her hand over a bolt of fine wool dyed a deep green. ‘Although I might buy something if it takes my fancy enough.’ She glanced at Robert. ‘What do you think of it, Brother? Would it suit me, do you think?’

  ‘I’m sure it would, Dame Martha,’ he replied, then said, ‘I should return and see if my master’s any better. I bid you both God’s good grace today.’ He moved through the crowd as qui
ckly as his legs could carry him.

  ‘He’s scared of you,’ John observed.

  She chuckled. ‘Back when we were young, before the church called him, we were sweethearts for a time.’ Her eyes twinkled at the memory. ‘We swore our love, everyone thought we’d marry. Then God found him, and I met my husband. Perhaps we’ve both had better lives because of it.’ She shook her head. ‘That’s why he avoids me, for all the feelings about the past I stir in him. It makes him uncomfortable.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ John apologised. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive. If he has regrets, that’s his business. My life’s been happy enough.’ She took the basket from her arm and placed it in his good hand. ‘Since you’re here, you can accompany me and carry everything home.’

  ‘You said you weren’t going to buy anything,’ he reminded her.

  ‘John,’ she said, shaking her head and giving a small, chiming laugh. ‘What a woman says and what she does are two different things. If you haven’t learned that yet, perhaps it’s time you did.’

  He strolled with her, keeping alert, his eyes watching, looking for another glimpse of the red-headed man. They wandered for an hour, Martha loving his delight at the variety of goods, treating him to a pastry that tasted like roses when he bit into it, and buying a few small items before they ambled home.

  ‘Perhaps there’s some good from that arm, after all,’ she said. ‘You’d have been working otherwise and not seen the market.’

  ‘Aye,’ he said doubtfully. He’d enjoyed all the marvels but he’d have rather been at his trade. It hadn’t even been a full day yet and already he missed it sorely.

  In the afternoon he rested while Martha brewed a fresh batch of ale, the heat of the day lulling him into sleep. It was a luxury he’d never had the chance to enjoy before, and he stretched out under the sheet. He woke as the shadows lengthened, stretching slowly and feeling oddly content.

  For all he’d said before, he thought to spend the evening in an alehouse. There was one on Soutergate where he’d been told the carpenters gathered after work; a few hours in their company might refresh him.

  By the time he passed the churchyard most of the men had already collected their wages and gone. He joined the line for his money, what little there was of it, the coins jingling merrily into his purse, before he made his way along the path.

  The master carpenter stood in the corner, his hand resting on one of eight long, thick tree trunks that lay on the ground. He was deep in conversation with the two men John had seen the other day. They were richly dressed folk, one in hose of deep burgundy that fitted close to his legs, the other in a black cote and a thin yellow surcote. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but their faces were filled with anger, and Joseph nodded his head obediently as they spoke.

  John didn’t envy him. He had no taste for the responsibilities of that job, the need to please so many, to keep everyone in line. He was much happier using his hands, doing what he loved.

  It was the end of the working week and the place was busy, with no room to sit on any of the benches. He ordered his drink, sipping as he looked around for familiar faces. A voice from the corner caught his ear, and he joined Stephen and James, the fellow with the scar who’d told him more about red-headed Geoffrey. Their eyes shone and they gulped down the ale as if making up for lost time.

  ‘How’s the arm?’ Stephen asked.

  John shrugged. ‘A nuisance.’

  ‘The master took on someone new today to replace you. He has his tools, but I swear he hasn’t the faintest idea how to use them.’

  ‘Who’s up in the tower room now?’

  ‘I am,’ James replied. ‘It’s hot work up there.’

  ‘Better keep your wits about you or you’ll end up like me,’ John warned him with a grimace.

  ‘If I don’t die from the engineer trying to work me so hard. He doesn’t seem to understand a good joint takes time.’

  ‘Just go at your own pace. He’ll shut up after a while.’

  They talked and complained, laughed and drank. He didn’t even try to keep pace with them, although they hardly seemed to notice. Others came and went but the three of them remained, Stephen and James keeping the serving girl busy, trying to slide a hand down her bodice or up her skirt each time she passed. She played their game, slapping them away, but there was a promise in her eyes for one of them later.

  Finally he’d had enough, ready to stop before the muzziness filled his mind. He used the jakes out in the back and returned to finish the mug. Before he left, he asked James, ‘That Geoffrey, was his hair wild?’

  ‘I doubt he ever owned a comb.’ The man laughed at his own wit, his voice thick with drink, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

  ‘Was he short with rounded shoulders?’

  ‘Aye, that sounds like him,’ James said, suddenly curious. ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought I saw him, today, near the Shambles.’

  ‘Were you drunk?’

  John shook his head. ‘I tried to follow him but he vanished.’

  ‘Happen you imagined it, same as I did.’

  ‘He was real enough. No matter, anyway.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m off to my bed.’

  ‘There was someone he knew in town,’ James recalled slowly. ‘I remember him boasting about her. I didn’t believe it, he lied so much.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Maybe he was telling the truth for once.’

  ‘Did she have a name?’

  ‘He probably said it, but if you’d ever listened to him you’d have learned to ignore most things that came out of his mouth, too. She worked in an alehouse. That’s something I didn’t forget.’ He laughed, showing the few teeth he had left.

  It wasn’t much, but it was a start he thought, as he strolled along the empty street. Maybe he’d find the man yet. He kept his hand on the knife hilt, ears pricked for sounds, but all he heard were the distant howls of cats preparing to fight. As he lay down he could taste the drink in his mouth and the slight giddiness of pleasure in his head.

  • • •

  Sunday came bright and sweet, with the first faint tang of autumn in the air. He brushed the dust and the dirt from his hose and his cote as thoroughly as he could, understanding how much he’d taken two good arms for granted, then rubbed a faint shine on to his boots.

  He escorted Martha to church, once again leaving her with the widows and goodwives before joining the men in the back corner. Towards the front he could see de Harville, standing tall and proud in his best clothes next to a small, dark-haired woman.

  Walter gave him a small wave and Katherine smiled before the service commenced. The priest droned through the mass in a low voice, his words vanishing before they reached John’s ears.

  He waited outside, standing away from the gentle folk of the town who greeted each other on the porch. The coroner noticed him and gave a small nod of recognition as he passed, then Walter was there, eager and excited, his sister at his side.

  ‘Are you ready, John?’

  ‘I’m yours to command for the day,’ he said with a bow.

  ‘Come back to our house first,’ Katherine told him. ‘I have something for you.’ He discovered she’d packed bread and cheese in a sack for them. As they left, he turned and saw her watching them with pleasure in her eyes.

  Walter led him along tracks and through woods, walking as if the landscape was imprinted on his heart. He stopped at the bottom of a gulley where trees grew on both sides to make an arch.

  ‘Some people think that’s a road to where the fey folk live,’ he said, repeating it like an everyday fact.

  ‘Do you believe them?’ John asked and the boy shook his head in disappointment.

  ‘I walked up it once and all it did was take me to the top of the hill.’

  They ate their dinner in a wood close to Whittington, looking down over the quilt of strips in the fields, some ripe with grain, others dark brown where the crops had already been harvested, a few covered and fallow wi
th the green of grass.

  ‘Have you ever killed a man, John?’ Walter asked. The question came from nowhere and took him by surprise.

  ‘Me?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not a soldier, I’m a carpenter.’

  ‘But the other night …’ the boy frowned, struggling to frame his thought. ‘You looked like you could have killed him.’

  John lay back and stared up at the clear blue sky.

  ‘I didn’t want to hurt him,’ he explained. ‘There’s no pleasure in that. It doesn’t make you a man; it doesn’t make you any stronger.’

  ‘Soldiers kill,’ Walter insisted.

  ‘When you’re in a battle you don’t have any choice,’ John pointed out. ‘Either you kill or someone else kills you. There are better things to do with your life.’

  ‘Folk say you can come home rich from war.’

  ‘And the ones who say that are the ones who want you to fight for them. You’re more likely to die or come back wounded and useless. The only ones who return rich are the ones who had money when they left. There’s no glory in dying.’ He saw the lad’s face fall a little. ‘Why, had you thought of being a solider?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re better off in Chesterfield, believe me.’

  They roamed through the afternoon. The boy seemed to take joy in his company, although he couldn’t understand why. They walked an hour or more without words, stopping to sit and rest where they would, Walter sometimes pointing out one feature or another, the flat top of Higger Tor in the distance or the steep cliff of Curbar Edge.

  Evening was close by the time they reached town, and Katherine was quick to answer the door when her brother knocked. She ushered the boy in and John hung back, not sure of an invitation. She turned to him, cocking her head, and said, ‘Won’t you come on in? There’s ale, and there’s supper too, if you’ve a mind to share it with us.’

  He followed her into the small hall where two girls of about ten played in the corner and a woman sat silent in a high-backed chair, not even sparing him a glance. A spinning wheel and distaff had been pushed against the wall.

  ‘Sit there John,’ Katherine told him, clearing room on a bench and passing him a mug of ale. He drank gratefully, his throat dry from the long day. She sat on a joint stool, gathered her skirts primly around her ankles and looked up at him. ‘I hope Walter wasn’t too much trouble for you.’