The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I’ll have plenty to do without that.’

  ‘You’ll manage it,’ she told him with confidence. ‘You’re clever, you think; de Harville’s an intelligent man, he wouldn’t offer this to someone who couldn’t do it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t you sell yourself short, John Carpenter, it’s not charity; he’s spotted your value to him.’

  He smiled, realising he felt happier than he had in months. Whatever happened, he had a future now, one that would keep him around here. He’d be able to come to the market and see Martha, Walter, and Katherine. He could watch the spire grow into its full glory. For the first time since his father’s death he would have a real home.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he answered, then shook his head. ‘Everything, maybe. I don’t know.’ He gave her a bemused smile. ‘I keep thinking I’ll wake and realise none of this will be real.’

  ‘It’s real enough.’ Martha grinned. ‘I can pinch you if you like.’

  Before he could reply there was an urgent banging at the door. He looked at her then strode to answer it.

  ‘Walter,’ he said. ‘Come on in, lad. What’s so important?’ The boy’s face was flushed, as if he had been running hard, and he was carrying something wrapped in a piece of dirty sacking. He led him through to the hall.

  ‘Hello Walter,’ Martha said. ‘You look hot. I’ll get you some ale.’ She flashed John a curious glance and he returned a small shrug.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. He waited until the boy had drunk and caught his breath.

  ‘You looked so sad the other day John,’ the lad said.

  ‘Sad?’ he asked, not understanding.

  ‘When we were in the woods. You wanted to find something.’

  He nodded. The joy of a future had pushed the deaths from his mind. ‘I hoped we would, but there wasn’t anything there. You saw that.’

  ‘I wanted to try and make you happy, so I went back there this morning,’ Walter announced with a smile. He held up the sacking. ‘I found this.’

  ‘Let me see.’

  The boy unfolded it slowly to expose a knife. The handle was worn, plain wood, the blade short and lightly pitted with rust. John picked it up, running his thumb along the edge; it was still sharp.

  ‘Where did you find it?’ he asked.

  ‘At the edge of that clearing where you were searching. Are you pleased, John?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Is it useful?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I think it might be very useful indeed.’ He smiled broadly and clapped the lad on the shoulder. ‘You’ve done very well indeed.’

  ‘Thank you, John.’ Walter looked over at Martha, the grin wide on his face. ‘What is it? Do you know?’

  ‘I think it might be Geoffrey’s knife.’ He wrapped the blade once more. ‘Do you want to go and find out?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was eager.

  ‘Come on then.’

  The High Street was busy; a press of folk looking at the goods the shops were displaying, apprentices crying their Masters’ wares. In the market place the traders were dismantling their trestles, some smiling at the profits they’d made, others surly and disappointed.

  The servant answered the door and showed him in without question. The monk was in the parlour, copying a list from a scrap of vellum to a longer roll. His fingers were stained with ink, his face pinched in concentration as he read and wrote.

  ‘Master Carpenter,’ he said with a nod. ‘Walter. The master’s gone for the rest of the day if you’re looking for him.’

  ‘You can help me. And I owe you my thanks,’ John said, but the monk waved the gratitude away as the boy looked on, confused.

  ‘You’ll do well there, and the master will have someone he can trust. But from the look of you, that’s not why you’re here.’

  ‘Have you buried Geoffrey yet?’

  ‘This morning. Why?’

  ‘What about his goods?’

  The brother nodded at a chest in the corner. ‘Over there, for whatever little they’re worth.’

  ‘Does that include his knife?’

  ‘Yes, that’s in there, and his sheath. Why?’

  John pulled back the sacking to show the knife. ‘You remember I said that the knife we found with Geoffrey didn’t fit his sheath?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘This morning Walter went back to the clearing where Geoffrey died. He found this there.’

  ‘And you think it’s Geoffrey’s?’

  ‘I’d like to see if it fits.’

  Robert thought for a moment then rose slowly and limped across the room, drawing a key from his belt to unlock the chest. He searched through two or three items before straightening, one hand against the small of his back. He dropped the sheath on the table, the knife so loose inside that it skittered out along the wood.

  John nodded at Walter, watching the boy slide the knife into the leather.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s the right knife,’ the monk accepted with a sigh. ‘But we already agreed he was murdered. This doesn’t make any difference to that.’

  ‘It’s proof.’

  ‘Proof of something we already know.’

  ‘But there’s a duty to find out who killed him,’ John insisted.

  ‘The coroner’s made his decision. That’s an end to it.’ He paused. ‘You’d do well to heed it.’ Robert’s face softened. ‘It’s for the best in the long run.’ He gave soft emphasis to the final words.

  John stood silent for a moment, his eyes fierce. Then he nodded, turned on his heel and left, Walter rushing after.

  ‘What is it, John?’ the boy asked once they were outside.

  ‘The coroner doesn’t want to do anything. He knows Geoffrey was killed and he wants to ignore it.’

  ‘But what else? There were other things he was saying. What did he mean?’

  John took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘I told you my arm might not heal properly.’ Walter nodded. ‘If that happens, the coroner offered me the job of steward at one of his manors.’

  ‘But isn’t that good?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘But Brother Robert just warned me, too.’

  ‘Warned you how?’

  ‘To let things drop and not cause any problems.’

  They walked silently, dodging around the people, the boy frowning hard.

  ‘What will you do?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered, shaking his head in frustration. Would the coroner really withdraw his offer so easily? For a moment he wondered if he had only been given the stewardship to keep him from this, but that was foolish. Even now, with the knife, he knew no more than he had before. It gave him nothing new. All it had done was rekindle his desire to find whoever had killed Geoffrey.

  He should leave it, be satisfied with the truth of the knife, and everyone would be happy. He could spend the weeks quietly until the cast came off, knowing that whatever happened he was safe.

  ‘What are you thinking, John?’

  ‘I’m just dancing with my demons,’ he replied darkly, then gave a weak smile. ‘Pay me no mind. You did an excellent job out there, and I’m very grateful. Come on, I’ll walk home with you.’

  Katherine was there, entertaining the girls with a game of nine men’s morris, jumping up and smoothing down her skirts when they entered. The little ones complained, but she soothed them gently until they were laughing as she ruffled their hair.

  ‘Good day to you, John,’ she said, the hair hanging loose and wild. ‘Forgive me, I wasn’t expecting a visitor.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ he apologised. ‘I’m intruding.’

  ‘None of it,’ she countered. ‘Walter, can you fetch Master John some ale?’

  ‘Your brother’s done well,’ he told, explaining what the lad had found.

  ‘I told you, there’s more to him than most people think,’ she said proudly. ‘But how does it change things?’r />
  ‘It probably doesn’t,’ he admitted. He looked at her. ‘I should tell you something. The coroner has offered me the stewardship of a manor if I can’t be a carpenter any longer.’

  ‘John that’s wonderful!’ Her eyes were wide and she bit her lower lip. ‘A stewardship,’ she said in amazement. ‘Where’s the manor?’

  ‘Near Unstone.’

  ‘That’s close enough for you to come into town often.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Come out into the garden.’ He followed her, curious. Once they were away from other eyes, she hugged him, blushing crimson, and then lowered her eyes. ‘I was afraid you’d leave and I’d never see you again.’

  ‘With God’s will I’ll end up a carpenter here instead.’

  ‘Of course,’ she agreed quickly. ‘I pray for it every day.’ He believed her, the words so heartfelt. ‘But even if you don’t it means you’ll stay around here.’

  ‘I’ll be in Chesterfield for the market every Saturday,’ he promised with a grin. ‘You won’t be rid of me that easily.’

  ‘Then you’d better find the time to visit us,’ she cautioned teasingly. ‘I’ll be disappointed otherwise, although, you’ll be a busy man.’

  ‘I’ll be a confused man,’ he laughed. ‘I don’t know anything about running a manor.’

  ‘I have faith in you.’

  He sighed. ‘So does the coroner, it seems, although, I don’t know why.’

  ‘He knows a good man when he sees one.’

  ‘Thank you, but I doubt goodness has anything to do with his offer.’ He bowed his head with a small, easy smile. ‘You shouldn’t compliment me so much, Mistress.’

  She laughed and lightly tapped his good arm with her small fist. ‘You’ll tell me next you don’t like it, Master.’

  ‘The danger is that I might believe it,’ he teased her.

  ‘You’re a man, John.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘You’ll believe whatever a girl tells you if her words are honeyed enough.’

  He put back his head and roared. It was the first time in far too long that he had laughed loud.

  ‘You should do that more often,’ Katherine said. ‘They say it’s good for the blood.’

  ‘There’s been precious little to laugh about. So it seems I must thank you once more.’ He bowed again, more deeply, hearing her giggle, and it sounded sweet in his ears. ‘I’d better take my leave of you.’

  ‘You can stay as long as you wish,’ she told him, choosing her words carefully.

  ‘Better I go for now.’ He saw a flicker of sorrow in her eyes. ‘But I’ll be back, I promise you that.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There was light drizzle in the air on Monday, enough for him to pull up his hood as he walked to the church. Cloud hung low in the sky, the air misty with a damp that nestled in the chest.

  Seven of the workers stood by the grave, Stephen’s coffin already resting deep in the earth. He bared his head and joined them. The weather suited his mood – dank and dismal. How many had he known over the years who had died from accidents? Five in York alone over the space of two years; others elsewhere. Each one left him reflecting on just why God had spared him, his mood dark and sombre for days.

  The priest intoned the words John had heard so often but didn’t understand; at least it sounded holy. Then, like the others, he picked up a handful of dirt and dropped it onto the wood, hearing its quiet resonance. With that it was done, a life ended, soon to be forgotten. Some of the men would go out tonight and drink in Stephen’s name, but then he would fade until he was nothing more than a blurred memory.

  He walked around the yard, his hose damp against his legs, the grass and dirt slippery under his boots. Cut wood was piled against one of the walls, canvas thrown on top to protect it from the damp. By habit he started to feel the grain and examine the cut, seeing how each piece could best be used and worked. He’d expected to find the timber dry and seasoned, all the moisture gone from the heart of it. But he could feel the wetness there, still close to the surface. He tried another piece, then a third, but they were all the same. Frowning, he pushed back the canvas and began running his hand over all the pieces he could reach, bending to push his good arm into the gaps between boards. Everything was the same, all the timber unseasoned and green.

  John stood back, thinking. There was a second pile of timber a few yards away; when he checked, his fingers on the roughness of the wood, he could feel the same wetness just below the surface.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  He turned and saw Joseph, the master carpenter, a few yards away with a wooden mallet in his hand. The man narrowed his eyes, thinking. ‘You’re the one who was working in the tower room.’

  ‘Aye, Master, that’s me.’

  Joseph relaxed and let the mallet hang, swinging from a thong around his wrist. ‘How’s the arm healing?’

  ‘Well, God willing. A few more weeks and I’ll be back.’

  The man wiped the thick stubble on his chin with the back of his hand. ‘I’ve everyone I need at the moment. They’re not that good, but they’re cheap. I’ll be getting rid of most of them soon for winter, anyway.’ He shook his head. ‘Still, you’re welcome to come back when you’re whole and I’ll see if I can do anything for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He indicated the timber under the canvas. ‘Is this for the tower?’

  ‘The framing and the braces,’ Joseph said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s not seasoned. You can’t use it.’

  The man spat. ‘It’ll be out here until spring. That’s ample time to season it.’

  ‘It needs two or three years,’ John told him. ‘You know that.’

  ‘I know what folk say and I know what my experience has told me,’ Joseph countered. ‘All that talk of years, good oak doesn’t need that. A few months and it’ll work just fine.’

  ‘It’ll warp as it dries,’ John said with certainty.

  ‘You’re wrong lad. Anyway, I have my orders, and they’re to use that wood for the rest of the spire, the frame, the bracing and for the oak tiles that are going to face it.’

  ‘Whoever gave those orders doesn’t know what he’s doing,’ John said in disgust.

  ‘They’re the ones paying the wages and for all this. You’d do best to remember that if you want to work here again. I’ll say nothing this time, but I won’t tolerate any troublemakers.’

  ‘It’s the weight of the spire that’s going to hold it in place.’

  ‘I know that,’ Joseph said before turning his head to spit.

  ‘How’s it going to do that if the wood warps?’ he asked. ‘You won’t have any control over that.’

  ‘I’ve said it once and I’ll not repeat it. It’ll be fine.’ The master carpenter’s jaw set hard. ‘I think you’ve spent enough time here. I wish you well with your arm.’ He took hold of the mallet again.

  ‘God speed to you,’ John said as he left.

  ‘And to you, lad. And to you.’

  • • •

  He sat in the alehouse, lost in thought. After that conversation there’d be no job waiting for him at the church, even if God saw fit to make his arm whole again. But something was wrong there: any carpenter with worth who’d worked a few years knew that wood had to be properly seasoned, oak most of all because of its hardness and the way it lasted. The wood at the church was so new it was green. To build the spire from that was dangerous; as it dried and bent, it would twist; it could maybe even topple.

  He drank slowly, trying to think it through, barely tasting the ale. Money. That was the only possible reason. Someone, somewhere, was making a profit from this. He sat upright with a start.

  Someone had paid Geoffrey to murder Will. That had been Roger’s testimony. Then someone had murdered Geoffrey, his body found close to where they were cutting wood to use in the church. Wood that would be used well before it was ready. He laid the pieces out like a chain in his mind, one leading to the next and the next.

  Will had bee
n a competent man, someone who knew his craft and valued it – an honest man. He recalled what the man’s widow had told him, the words he had spoken in his sleep that had made no sense to her: ‘I can’t do what they want.’ Put with everything else, the meaning became clear.

  But in the end, who would care? No one would listen to his accusations, to what he had to say. He was a carpenter. The only wealth he had, he carried with him in a small purse. It was enough to last him a few more weeks and then he’d have nothing. Those with property and full coffers had louder voices, one that authority listened to. If the spire fell, or if it twisted and turned, the workmen would be blamed, not the people who’d made their crooked bargains and pushed everything through.

  The only person with any authority he could tell was the coroner and he’d already washed his hands of it all. He would want no part of this, one man of privilege accusing others of murder, especially when the dead were nobodies with nothing to pass on.

  He drank slowly, working his way gradually to the bottom of the mug. When it was done he slid it across the bench, then stood and walked out. He knew he should leave this whole business alone. He should be pleased that he would have any job waiting when the cast came off his arm, but this new knowledge was going to weigh too heavily for silence.

  John walked across the empty market place to the coroner’s house on the High Street, and knocked loudly on the door with his good hand.

  ‘The master’s out,’ the servant told him. ‘He’s gone to his manor for the day.’

  ‘Is Brother Robert here?’ he asked.

  ‘In the stables,’ she said with a snort, inclining her head towards the yard. ‘But don’t ask me what the old fool’s doing out there.’

  The monk was stroking the head of the roan, talking to the horse in a soft, lulling voice. Robert had been newly tonsured, the hair clipped away so only a circle of it surrounded the shine of his scalp.

  ‘God’s peace to you Brother.’

  The monk continued to stroke the horse, but turned his head, acknowledging the carpenter with a small nod and a smile. ‘You’ll need to learn to ride when you work out at Unstone.’