‘Horses scare me.’
‘Find a gentle one and you’ll have no trouble.’ He brought an apple from the leather scrip around his waist and held it out on the palm of his hand. The animal sniffed at it, then snickered before taking it contentedly into its mouth. Robert stroked it one more time then left the stall. ‘You look troubled,’ he said.
‘I am.’ Slowly he explained what he had learned, the monk listening intently, never interrupting, waiting until he had finished.
‘Why does wood have to be seasoned?’ the brother asked. ‘I don’t understand that.’
‘When you fell a tree, there’s moisture in it. It’s wet inside. You need to give the wood time to dry, to take that moisture out. If you don’t do that before you use it, then it’ll come out later and whatever you’ve made with the wood will warp, it won’t stay true the way the carpenter fashioned it.’
The monk nodded. ‘But they’re leaving the oak in the churchyard until spring.’
‘Out in the weather, in the cold,’ John pointed out. ‘A few months isn’t long enough to dry out oak, it’s different, it takes two or three years.’
Robert raised his eyebrows. ‘That long? Are you sure?’
‘It’s my craft.’ He smiled gently.
‘But the new master carpenter disagrees?’
‘He does.’
‘Maybe he’s right,’ the brother began, his voice low, raising a hand to stop John objecting. ‘He’s there because it’s his craft, too. And he must know it well to have his position. Have you considered that you could be wrong?’
‘I’m not,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve worked with wood as long as I can remember. I’ve seen master carpenters reject wood because it wasn’t properly seasoned. They could still feel the dampness in it and they knew what would happen.’
Robert frowned. ‘You truly feel this might be connected to the murders of the men Will and Geoffrey?’
‘I do,’ he answered with feeling.
‘You feel the master should investigate this?’
John sighed. ‘That’s a decision he has to make. But if he doesn’t, then justice won’t be done, will it Brother?’
Robert paced around the stable, the horses in their stalls watching him. ‘Do you know who owns the church?’ John shook his head. ‘It’s the diocese of Lincoln, under the bishop. And you know where the wood comes from?’
‘The manor the coroner’s brother owns.’
‘His own kin,’ the monk said with a sigh.
‘You told me there’s a lawsuit.’
‘There is, but that’s something different. That’s at the courts, it’s far away. The master still sees his brother and the rest of his family.’ John looked at him in confusion. How could a man fight with another, even his brother, and still treat him as a friend? ‘I know,’ the brother said with a bemused chuckle, ‘It’s the rich. Maybe it makes no sense to us, but it does to them. Do you see what you’d be doing if you ask him to do this?’
‘So he won’t?’
‘Most likely not.’ He paused. ‘What do you know about Henry de Harville?’
‘Only what you’ve told me.’
‘That’s precious little. Henry has manors all over the country. I doubt he visits the one near Bolsover more than once a year, if that. The steward looks after it for him.’ He gave John a pointed glance. ‘He was clever after the pestilence. Land was cheap, as many of those who owned property had died. Henry had money and a good eye. He found places that could turn a profit and bought them. He’s a rich man now, far richer than the master will ever be.’
‘And you can’t fight money?’ John asked wryly.
‘Not if there’s enough of it,’ Robert replied honestly. ‘But it’s more than that. Henry has the ear of some very powerful people in the land, including the Bishop of Lincoln. Even King Edward himself, from what I’ve heard. What chance does anyone have against that?’
‘So he won’t even try?’
The monk shook his head. ‘A sensible man learns to choose his battles carefully. There’s no point in fighting if you know you can’t win.’
John thought for a moment.
‘You said the steward looks after the manor?’
‘The same way you’ll look after one for the master. A steward has a great deal of responsibility.’
‘Do you think this could be his doing?’
‘Without his master’s knowledge?’ Robert smiled. ‘It’s possible. Trying to prove it would be a different matter, though, can’t you see that? I’ve met that steward. Hugo’s arrogant enough to do it, but he looks after three manors for Henry.’
‘I don’t understand,’ John said.
‘Henry trusts him. He would be loath to lose a man like that.’
‘Even if he’s being cheated?’
‘Hugo’s not a fool. He’ll see that Henry receives a good share of the profits in his coffers.’
‘So there’s nothing we can do?’ he asked.
‘No,’ the monk answered sadly. ‘Nothing that would make any difference, anyway. It’s like I said, you need to choose your battles. I can talk to the master, but I know what he’ll say.’
‘It’ll just go on?’
‘You’re a young man, there’s still fire in your blood,’ Robert sighed. ‘There are things in this world that we can change and things we can’t. Remember, though, God sees it all and there will be justice in the end.’
He could feel the anger building inside even though he understood the truth of what the monk had said. He kicked out at the pile of straw, sending stalks flying into the air to settle all over the floor.
‘Go home,’ Robert advised gently. ‘You’ve told me, you spotted what might have been happening.’
‘Might have been?’
‘There’s no proof, John. Even the wood is your word against the master carpenter’s, and people will believe him. Take your time, let your arm heal and then do what you will. The coroner’s offer for the manor will be there for you.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, although he felt precious little gratitude.
‘Go with God.’
• • •
‘I’ve seen that Hugo,’ Martha said with contempt after he had told her. ‘To look at him you’d think the manor was his. Wears a fur-lined robe and rides a rich man’s horse. Always has airs around him. I’d not put cheating and murder past him.’
‘Brother Robert made it clear that the coroner wouldn’t pursue it.’
‘Of course he won’t,’ she told him. ‘They might never have seen eye-to-eye but he’s not going to accuse his own brother of killing. Not when his brother would sue him for slander for it. The man’s not a fool, John.’
‘All that’s missing is justice.’
She eyed him carefully. ‘Do you really think there can be justice for an ordinary man? You should know better than that at your age. All those above us care about is that we pay our taxes.’ He stayed silent, his eyes still blazing. ‘Leave it,’ she told him. ‘You won’t do any good. Not for yourself or anyone else. Stay away from trouble.’
It was what everyone was saying and he knew it was true. Nothing he could do would make any difference. He leaned back on the bench. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted finally.
‘Just live your own life. From what you’ve said they won’t have you back at the church.’
‘No,’ he admitted, ‘I don’t think they will.’ He had barely given that much thought, too outraged by what he had discovered. If God granted him full use of the arm there would be work elsewhere, other churches and castles where a carpenter could earn a decent wage. But winter was coming, the roads would be harsh, and little chance of employment before spring arrived.
‘Soon enough you’ll have tenants of your own to look after. If you want to fight for someone, do it for them, John Carpenter. That way you’ll only have to go against the coroner.’ She chuckled. ‘You won’t win, but at least you can feel as if you’ve tried.’
‘All I have to do is fill my t
ime until then.’
‘There are still weeds in the garden if you’ve a mind to be useful.’
‘I might well pull them up for you,’ he said with a grin.
‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I can find more for you to do.’
He bowed his head. ‘I’d be grateful to be of service.’
‘If you really want to help, why not go and see what you can do for Katherine. I doubt there’s been anything done on that house of theirs in years. Walter’s a good lad but he can’t do anything to help in that way.’
‘I’ll do that.’ He rose from the bench. ‘I’ll go over there now.’
‘It’s a good excuse to spend time with Katherine, too,’ Martha said slyly.
‘It’s just Christian charity.’
‘If you say so John.’
In truth, it was more to be doing something, anything. He felt restless and useless. But when he saw the smile of pleasure on Katherine’s face as she opened the door to him, there was perhaps a little more.
‘I have time on my hands. I thought perhaps there were jobs a willing hand could do on your house.’
She brought him in. ‘John,’ she laughed, ‘if you have enough time you can build me a new one.’
‘You might need to wait for that.’ He lifted the sling. ‘But I’ll do what I can for now.’
He followed her around the place as she listed the things that needed to be done. The building had been neglected, leaving it shabby and worn. Pieces of limewash crumbled in his hand as he touched it.
‘I can do some of the things,’ he told her. ‘Others will have to wait until I have two hands.’
‘I’ll take whatever you can offer,’ she said gratefully. ‘Walter can help you. Or I can.’
‘That would be very kind.’
‘It seems to me that the kindness is yours, John. I can’t pay you.’
‘Just give me ale when I’m working and some company now and then,’ he said with a smile.
‘I’ll willingly do that,’ she agreed.
He glanced around the hall. ‘There are some small things I can do today.’
She glanced around at her mother and the girls. ‘If they won’t get in your way.’
He smiled, hefting the leather satchel on his shoulder. It had seemed strange to carry it again, the weight so natural, the way it slapped against his side with each step. He worked for more than an hour, even the smallest job taking longer when he only had one hand.
The girls crowded around at first, asking their eager questions about what he was doing, what each tool was for. He had always kept his distance from children, wary and unsure of them, but Janette and Eleanor had something of their older sister about them, the same charm and easy manner.
Katherine shooed them away, only for them to return a few minutes later as he knelt to repair the hinge on a cupboard in the corner, standing so close he could feel their breath on the back of his neck, their eyes fixed on his hand at it moved.
He stopped as she lit the rushlights, the day almost gone. He’d been concentrating so hard that looking up to see the deep shadows in the room came as a surprise.
Katherine brought him a mug of ale and he drank gratefully, his throat dry and dusty.
‘Thank you, John. You’ve done so much, I don’t know what to say.’
‘I’ve enjoyed myself,’ he told her truthfully. ‘It feels good to be doing honest work again.’ He flexed his good hand. ‘It’s been too long.’
‘You’ll do plenty of this when you’re a steward.’
‘Then a little practice won’t come amiss.’ He winked and watched her giggle, then stop and blush furiously. Walter returned, full of life and the smell of fresh air, happy to see John, full of questions and talk to fill the hall to the rafters.
It was full dark when he left, tired and content. He’d be back the next day and the one after, every day until he had completed each task he could manage. He’d forgotten the satisfaction in finishing even the smallest job, in working with his hand and tools using the gift God had given him. He hoisted the satchel higher on his shoulder, his thumb in the strap. Tonight he’d sleep well.
For a moment he thought he heard footsteps behind him, and he turned quickly, reaching for his knife. But there was only the night and silence. He put the blade back in its sheath, his heart bumping hard and fast in his chest. It was the first time he’d sensed any danger since Mark had tried to attack him; that seemed so long ago now, another lifetime, back when he could use both his arms.
• • •
The next morning he arrived early at the house on Saltergate, smiling and ready to work. The morning was bright and he spent it outside, working slowly to remove areas of old limewash then mixing and spreading fresh. He ate dinner with the family, sharing their pottage, hungry from his labour, and gladly accepting when Katherine refilled his bowl. He heard her working inside, urging on the girls as they carded and spun wool, looking after the mother who sat trapped inside her silence. She managed to steal minutes here and there from her responsibilities, coming to bring him fresh ale and chat about nothing. He relished glancing up to see her standing there, the warmth of her smile and the sound of her voice. Then she had to leave and he had return to the job.
Walter returned early, helping as he worked outside. John showed him how to smooth out the limewash and the boy worked patiently, going over and over the surface until it was flat and even.
‘Keep on like that and we’ll make a labourer out of you,’ he said and the lad beamed, lapping up the praise. ‘Clean up now, it’s getting too dark for any more today.’ He straightened, feeling a pleasant ache in his back. He watched Walter clean the tools with the oiled rag, making certain he rubbed all the metal. Finally he packed everything away in the satchel and took his leave.
The evening was crisp and he could smell the fires burning in the houses, the sweet scent of woodsmoke that always meant autumn to him. He slipped the satchel onto his shoulder and left the house, walking briskly back towards Knifesmithgate. The sky was clear, the stars already shining. There’d be a chill by morning, he thought, but not cold enough yet for a frost. That was still a month or so away, God willing, or it would be an early winter.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They came at a run, so fast they must have been waiting for him. He barely had time to draw his knife and turn. They were big men, faces he’d never seen before, with hoods pulled up close on their heads and murder in their eyes.
Both had their daggers drawn, holding them out, ready to stab. He moved from foot to foot, watching them carefully, just waiting for them to move apart. With one arm there wasn’t much he could do, but he might be able to hurt them before they killed him.
‘You need to learn to shut up,’ one of the men said quietly. John watched the pair of them, his gaze steady. The other man took a small pace forward and John moved his knife in a slow arc. He couldn’t turn and run; they’d be on him in a moment. He could feel a trickle of cold sweat down his back.
The man who’d spoken was smiling, showing dark, ugly teeth. ‘You’ve upset the wrong people.’ He poked forward with the knife, probing. John stood his ground, watching and waiting. Soon they’d be ready, done with words.
The satchel was still on his shoulder, weighing down against his side. When they came he wouldn’t be able to move his good arm freely. If they wanted to kill him they’d manage it easily enough. His palm was wet, the knife handle slippery in his hand. He tightened his grip on it, still staring at the two of them, trying to keep his breathing slow and steady.
The talker edged forward, grinning. John watched the man’s legs tense, ready to spring … and then the man gave a cry of pain, reaching for his shoulder. He heard a short sound and the other man bent forward, dropping the dagger and clutching the back of his head. Yet another sound, and the first man cried out, then took off at a run, his companion close behind.
He listened in confusion as the footsteps grew fainter, put the knife in its sheath and ran a hand
slowly over his face.
‘Did they hurt you, John?’ Walter came out of the shadows, his hand down at his side, clutching a slingshot. ‘I tried to stop them before they could do anything.’
‘Your timing was perfect.’ He began to laugh, a mix of relief and fear, carrying on until his body was shaking and his eyes close to tears.
‘What’s wrong, John?’
‘Nothing,’ he said finally, once he could catch his breath. ‘You just saved my life, Walter.’ He shook his head, as if the last few minutes had been a bad dream. ‘Thank you.’
The boy reached into his scrip. ‘You’d left your chisel. I was bringing it back in case you thought you’d lost it. I didn’t want you to be angry.’
He shook his head in wonder. ‘After that, I don’t think I could ever be angry with you again. Where did you learn that?’
Walter shrugged. ‘When I was little they paid me to keep the crows off the fields.’
‘I’m glad they did. Without that I’d be lying there.’ He nodded at the ground.
The boy looked around, frightened. ‘Will they come back?’
‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘And those two probably won’t ever return.’ He laughed again. ‘They must have thought devils were attacking them.’
‘Were they going to kill you, John?’ the lad asked seriously.
‘Probably,’ he answered. ‘I’m in your debt: truly in your debt.’
‘You’re my friend.’
‘I am,’ John told him. ‘I definitely am.’ He extended his good arm. The shaking had stopped. ‘I think I’ve had enough of tonight.’
• • •
He lay in the dark, reliving the scene again and again, his heart pounding each time he closed his eyes and the visions came. He’d upset the wrong people. He needed to learn to shut up. He knew what it meant. There could only be one thing.
He’d told Martha and Brother Robert. The monk might have told the coroner, but that wouldn’t have brought men looking to kill him. But he’d also talked to the master carpenter. With that, it all began to make sense, one more piece of the chain falling into place. Joseph was willing to use unseasoned timber on the church, and even say it would make no difference, although he must have known the truth. Someone was paying him, the same people who’d paid Geoffrey to kill Will.
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