The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  John nodded slowly, as if acknowledging the point. ‘What did you do with the pig after you killed it?’

  ‘I sold it to one of the butchers in the Shambles.’

  ‘He paid you well?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘Most people would have had the butcher do the killing.’

  Roger shrugged again and said nothing.

  ‘Do you remember which butcher?’

  ‘The first one I saw who offered me money.’ There was sweat on his forehead, and he flexed his fingers into fists before straightening them out again.

  ‘A pig brings good money,’ the coroner said. ‘You must have some left.’

  ‘I drank it all away, sir.’

  De Harville sat quietly for a minute, then ran a hand through his blonde hair and ordered, ‘Take him to the goal. He can go down to Derby to stand trial for murder.’

  ‘But I didn’t do it!’ the man shouted.

  The bailiffs took him by the arms and bundled him away.

  The coroner turned in his chair. ‘You agree with me, carpenter?’

  John nodded. ‘I’m sure of it. I’d just like to know why he did it.’

  De Harville shook his head. ‘I don’t understand you, carpenter. Isn’t the fact that he did it enough for you?’

  ‘No,’ he answered plainly.

  The coroner snorted. ‘Then go and see him at the gaol if it interests you so much. He’ll be there for a while yet.’

  ‘I will, with your permission, Master.’

  ‘You have it. What do you think, Robert? Is the man guilty?’

  ‘As like as not,’ the monk said. He turned his eyes to John. ‘That was a good question about his wife and baby. Where did you hear about that?’

  ‘Dame Martha.’

  ‘God’s blood,’ the coroner complained. ‘We might as well have all Chesterfield add what they know. But the brother’s right, you have a strange mind for a man who works with his hands.’

  ‘A man can have a skill and a mind.’

  De Harville nodded. ‘Tell that Walter he has a keen eye.’

  ‘I will, Master. He’ll be glad of the praise.’

  ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the other murder. There’s a fine line to tread and I need to walk it carefully.’

  John bowed, seeing Robert wink slyly at him, then left.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The sun was full raised, burning the thin haze from the ground. Looking down into the river valley he could see a ribbon of mist clinging stubbornly to the cold water; it too would be gone soon enough.

  And now he had little to fill his days. He’d visit Roger and learn what he could. But first he’d give the man some time in the gaol, a chance to ponder his own brief future among the rats and the dirt; that might make him more eager to talk.

  Without even thinking, he found himself at the church. The men were clustered in small groups in the yard, some of them drinking, others talking quietly, their faces dark and serious. He saw Stephen at the ale barrel and walked across to him.

  ‘Good day to you.’

  ‘Not such a good one here,’ the man replied.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘One of the labourers fell from the church roof.’

  John looked at the building, assessing the height; fifty feet, perhaps a little more, he guessed. ‘Is he dead?’

  Stephen shook his head.

  ‘No, by God’s blessing. But he hasn’t stirred or come to yet. They’ve sent for the apothecary.’ He spat on the ground. ‘I’m beginning to think there might be a curse on this place – first Will, then you, now this.’

  ‘There are always injuries, you know that.’ He glanced at the man’s arm, where the knife wound was now no more than a pale line against the sunburned skin. ‘They found the man who killed Mark.’

  Stephen grunted. ‘Did they pay him for a public service?’

  ‘He’ll go to trial in Derby and then he’ll hang.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘Did you receive a delivery of wood yet?’ John asked.

  ‘Wood?’ The man looked confused. ‘There’s a pile of it over the other side of the church.’

  The carts must have finally arrived, he thought. Not before time, too, if they were going to keep the men working.

  ‘Are they ready to start on the spire yet?’

  ‘Soon enough. The cross-bracing’s done. They’re just setting up the windlass in the tower room so they can haul up the material.’

  The knowledge made him wistful. The first time he’d seen a windlass used had been in York and he’d admired the ingenuity. Two men marched endlessly inside a large wooden wheel, going nowhere but achieving a great deal. Their steps turned the axle, winding a thick rope around the wood. The rope was tied around the material and as the men walked it rose up the outside of the building. It was a simple enough device but a beautiful idea, one that made work faster and easier.

  ‘Will you be working on the spire?’

  Stephen shrugged. ‘The master carpenter hasn’t said yet. I hope I’m not,’ he confessed. ‘There’ll be more men hurt and dying up there, you can lay a wager on that.’

  ‘Maybe.’ It would be dangerous, he knew that, putting up the spire piece by piece. The men would be up high, out in the air with nothing to hold them in place.

  ‘The new master doesn’t say much at all, really,’ Stephen continued. ‘Spends all his time with the rich folk who come around. About the only time he talks to any of us is to complain about what we do.’ He turned his head and spat. ‘But he does that often enough, mind.’ He nodded over at the path. ‘Looks like the apothecary’s arrived.’

  John turned to see a self-important man with a long, dark robe over his cote striding over the flags. A servant followed, carrying a large bag of the man’s potions and unguents.

  ‘You’ll be back at work soon enough.’

  ‘Better be,’ Stephen grumbled. ‘You know how it goes; they’ll cut our wages for the time lost. When I started here this was a good place to be. We all laughed. Look at them now.’

  ‘It’s always like that when someone’s hurt,’ John reminded him. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Aye,’ the man admitted with a sigh, ‘but there’s little joy here now. You’re better away from it.’

  ‘I just hope I can return.’ He explained what had happened with the new fall, seeing the man wince at his description.

  ‘God’s help with your healing,’ Stephen said finally. ‘I’m going to the jakes and get rid of some of this ale.’ He walked away, already tugging at the rope that held up his hose.

  • • •

  John returned to the house and lay down on his bed. He wanted to rest, but sleep was no friend to him today. He struggled to find a position that left his arm comfortable and closed his eyes. Yet his thoughts wouldn’t slow down, turning around and around, pictures and ideas that spun through his mind.

  Finally he rose again, put his left arm back in its sling and went back outside. The goodwives and the servants were out at their shopping, tongues clacking in conversation and gossip. He considered going to the alehouse on Low Pavement but dismissed it; all he would be doing there would be passing another hour.

  He heard someone whistle and glanced up. Katherine was approaching, a young man behind her leering and saying something that made her walk faster, trying hard to leave him behind, her face close to tears. But this one was persistent, refusing to be shrugged off so easily.

  John stepped into her path. ‘Good day, Mistress,’ he said.

  At first her eyes were panicked, then relieved, swallowing hard to try and appear calm. ‘Good day, Master John.’

  The man hung back a few yards, suddenly less sure, his glance flickering between the pair.

  ‘Is he bothering you?’

  ‘Not as much as he’d like to,’ she answered, regaining her courage, the colour coming back to her face.

  He stared at the man. There were still youthful spots on his cheeks, an
gry little boils that stood out vividly on his skin. He was thin, his clothes an ill fit, old and badly worn. The youth seemed unsure what to do, whether to challenge or run, balanced on the balls of his feet.

  ‘Are those your manners?’ John asked him loudly. ‘To insult a girl on the streets?’

  ‘What business is it of yours?’ He could hear a tremor of fear under the lad’s bravado. ‘I was just talking to her.’

  ‘It didn’t look as if she wanted to talk to you.’ He took a threatening pace towards the youth.

  ‘John,’ Katherine began, steel in her voice. ‘Escort me home, please.’

  ‘She needs someone with more than one arm,’ the lad said in parting.

  He took the basket she was carrying and held it in his good hand.

  ‘I’d have been fine,’ she chided him. ‘If you ignore them they give up.’

  He had expected her gratitude, not her anger. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her.

  ‘I know you meant well.’ She smiled briefly but there was still fire behind her eyes. ‘And I thank you for that. But leave it be, please.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised.

  ‘They’re all harmless unless they’ve got ale in them. Pay them no mind.’ She shook her head as if to clear it. ‘Walter said they arrested a man for Mark’s murder.’

  ‘He’s guilty. He’ll be going to Derby to hang. It’s thanks to your brother, too.’

  ‘He told me what he saw.’ She stopped at the corner of Saltergate and looked up at him. ‘I know you were doing the right thing, John,’ she said kindly, ‘but incidents like that happen often, and there’s not always a good man there. Women have to learn to look after themselves. I should go before the gossips faint with excitement.’ She took the basket from him, bobbing a small curtsey. ‘Come and visit again soon, Master.’

  He walked away slowly, unsure how badly she had reprimanded him. She had been curt and then honeyed; frowns and then smiles. He didn’t understand her any more than he’d been able to make sense of any woman he had ever met. Perhaps he should have gone to the alehouse instead.

  • • •

  The days passed quietly. On Saturday he wandered the market place with Martha, stopping at each stall to examine the merchandise – the softly worked leather of the glover, a taste of cheese fresh from the farm. He enjoyed the wonders of the place, its vastness, with everything under the sun on sale.

  His arm ached at times, but he prayed each morning and evening that it might heal well. He passed the Shambles every day, hearing the frenzied lowing of beasts on Packer’s Row as the knife took their lives, and looking into the streets for a glimpse of Geoffrey. To his knowledge the bailiffs hadn’t taken him.

  Sunday he paraded to the church with Martha. The first timbers of the spire protruded above the walls of the tower, rising like spindly fingers towards the heavens.

  ‘It’ll look beautiful when it’s finished,’ she said, awe in her voice. ‘A present to the Lord.’

  She was right, he knew that, but he saw it differently. In his mind’s eye he saw it rising, foot by foot and heard the sounds of hammers and the curses of the men as they worked. He still found it almost impossible to believe that just the weight of the spire could keep it firmly in place, that God would keep it safe from the strong breath of the wind. Above all, he wished to be up there, working on it himself.

  After the service he stood outside, with his head craned back to stare at the tower. It would progress slowly, that was obvious, but there was a beginning and that was the talk of the congregation, men pointing it out to the goodwives and children, telling them how splendid it would look, as if it would be completed in a week.

  ‘Do you like it John?’ Walter asked. He hadn’t seen the boy in a few days, too wrapped in his own thoughts to seek him out.

  ‘Good day,’ he said. ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The lad frowned. ‘How tall will it be?’

  ‘More than two hundred feet to the top. You’ll be able to see it for miles.’

  The boy smiled. ‘Would you like to walk today?’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed suddenly. ‘I’d like that.’ He raised the sling. ‘But I’d better be careful.’ After a while he said, ‘The coroner praised you for your sharp eye in spotting Roger.’

  ‘Did he?’ Walter smiled and stood a little taller.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Katherine part from a group of young women and come over to join them. ‘Mistress,’ he said, bowing his head.

  ‘Master John. Are you admiring it?’

  ‘John says people will be able to see the spire from all over,’ Walter told her.

  She looked at him.

  ‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘From everywhere in this part of the county.’

  ‘When will it be done, do you think?’ she wondered.

  ‘Maybe a full year,’ he answered after some thought. ‘There’s not much more they can do this year or winter will destroy all their work.’

  ‘Will you walk with us?’ she asked.

  ‘Gladly,’ he agreed.

  ‘Walter, will you see to mother and the girls, please?’ Katherine asked. ‘Just bring them along slowly.’

  The boy dashed off.

  ‘I was short with you the other day,’ she apologised as they fell into step. He gave a nod to the coroner and Brother Robert as they passed, de Harville turning to watch the girl. ‘I didn’t mean to be.’

  ‘Please, don’t think anything about it,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light. He had come back to the incident often in his thoughts, wondering what else he could have done.

  ‘I was upset,’ she explained. ‘People forget how words can hurt; I’ve seen it so often with Walter. I’m the one who hears him crying in the night after people have insulted him. They think he doesn’t notice, but he takes everything to heart.’

  ‘I’ll go walking with him this afternoon.’

  ‘Would you?’ She brightened, her eyes dancing. ‘He was hoping so, but he hadn’t seen you. He was scared you didn’t like him anymore.’ She shook her head at the memory. ‘I told him you had a loyal heart.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  They took the dusty road out towards Newbold. He kept a slow, even pace, although he knew that Walter was eager to go faster. But the memory of his fall was too fresh, the consequences too awful, to risk anything else.

  The sun was beginning to take on the lemon paleness of autumn, and there was a delicious freshness in the breeze. Soon enough there’d be rain, the roads muddy and heavy, and days like this would be few and far between.

  ‘John?’ Walter said, dragging him from his thoughts. ‘What will happen when the spire’s finished?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘What will you do?’

  He understood now. It would be easy to give a reassuring answer, but the lad deserved the truth. ‘I’ll go where there’s work. That’s what carpenters do. It’s what any craftsman does. There’s always work somewhere if you’re good at your trade.’

  ‘So I won’t see you anymore?’

  ‘No.’ He gave a gentle smile. ‘Other people will come. New friends.’

  ‘But I like you.’

  ‘You’re forgetting something,’ he pointed out. ‘Until the bone-setter takes off the cast I won’t know if I can still be a carpenter. I might have damaged my arm too much.’

  ‘Would you stay here then?’ Walter asked hopefully.

  John kicked at a stone and sent it skittering off into the grass. ‘I don’t know yet,’ he said finally.

  ‘We like you here. Me, Katherine, Martha – even the coroner likes you.’

  ‘I think he finds me useful when he needs me,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Anyway, what would I do if I stayed and couldn’t work with wood?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the boy admitted.

  ‘I’m not sure if I can explain it to you, but wood talks to me.’

  ‘Talks?’ Walter turned his head sharply. ‘You mean
like we’re doing now?’

  ‘No, not quite.’ He smiled and tried to find words the lad might understand. ‘I can run my hands over it and I know where to cut it, how to shape it to what I need. The wood tells me what’s right, the things I can do and the things I can’t.’

  ‘How?’ he asked quizzically.

  ‘I can’t tell you. I just feel it.’ He glanced over at Walter. ‘Does that make sense?’ The lad shook his head slowly. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s the only way I can say it.’

  They continued out to Newbold, another of the tiny villages that dotted the countryside where a small stone chapel stood at the roadside.

  ‘We can go further if you like,’ the boy said.

  ‘Not today,’ John answered. ‘I’d as soon go back and sit.’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ He wasn’t weary, but he was surprised at the feeling that being on these roads gave him. His body was tense and he was fearful in case he should fall again. He had never been like this before. Distance, the city, the town, the country; he’d never given it a thought, it was all one. Now he felt safer with people around. As they strolled back, he kept his eyes on the ground, planting his feet carefully, glancing up from time to time and smiling to himself to see the church tower growing closer.

  At the house he was ready to leave Walter, but Katherine would have none of it.

  ‘It’s dry as bone out, you’ll need some ale,’ she insisted. ‘I brewed fresh a few days ago. Come in and have a mug, please.’

  From sitting in the hall, where Walter entertained the girls in some childish game and their mother slept, Katherine led him outside to sit on the ground in the shade of an apple tree.

  He leaned back against the trunk and let his eyes close.

  It was a pleasurable silence. He could hear her breathing close by, and then she leaned her head against his good arm, the feel of her pleasantly warm.

  ‘I could stay like this for hours,’ she said dreamily.

  He said nothing, but there was a smile on his lips. He had ale to refresh him, good weather, and a pretty girl with a spark about her at his side. For the moment, at least, he was content.