The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Soon enough,’ he promised, and hoped his words were true. All around, people were talking before the service began, low buzzes of gossip that flew around the building. He could feel his broken arm starting to itch inside its cast but put it to the back of his mind before it could torment him. He felt the light stroke of a finger against the back of his hand and turned to see Katherine gazing straight ahead, smiling impishly.

  Silence fell as the priest appeared, followed by a deacon who reverently placed the Bible on the altar. The priest spoke his Latin so quietly it came out as a mumble, looking down at the floor, only able to be heard when he made the readings and led the congregation in the creed.

  John mouthed the words of the Gloria, then joined the others, waiting to kneel for the Eucharist. He took the small scrap of bread on his tongue and the tiny sip of wine, swallowing them before he said ‘Amen’ and the priest made the sign of the cross over his head. He stood, moving his good hand to the four points of his chest without thinking, making silent prayers for his mother, dead so long she was no more than a name, and his father, the man’s gentle face springing into his mind.

  He half-listened to the words, joining in with ‘Thanks be to God’, then watched the priest leave, the deacon behind him, the Bible clutched close to his chest. People were quick to leave, the church emptying in moments. He looked at Walter. ‘We should meet the coroner.’

  Katherine left with the girls, looking back over her shoulder with a fearful glance. He saw Phillip’s wife and daughters go. Martha smiled as she passed him in the porch. Small groups gathered to talk outside, and soon there was only the pair of them, the coroner and the monk left.

  ‘Where’s your man, carpenter?’

  ‘He likes to pray inside after the service when it’s quiet.’

  ‘Then let’s hope he doesn’t need to talk to God for too long.’ He pulled the robe closer around himself.

  ‘Give him time, Master,’ Brother Robert told him.

  De Harville turned away and started pacing impatiently around the small porch, the sound of his boots sharp against the stone floor. The few still left in the churchyard drifted away to their homes, leaving just the silence of Sunday.

  ‘Go in and get him, carpenter,’ the coroner barked eventually. ‘He’s had enough time.’ He raised his hand before the monk could object. ‘Go.’

  He eased the heavy door open, hearing it creak on the great iron hinges, and entered slowly. The church seemed hushed, light from the tall windows showing the motes of dust in the air. The flames from a pair of candles flickered on the altar.

  He looked around expectantly but saw nothing of the carter. Stepping slowly and lightly he walked down the centre of the nave, peering into the corners where the shadows clung, moving towards the crucifix at the east of the building. His throat felt dry. He reached for his knife but the sheath was empty; men didn’t bring weapons to service.

  He heard a small sound, someone struggling for breath, and stopped, listening intently. There, over by the small chapel of St Mary in the corner, he saw a shape on the floor.

  ‘Master! Brother!’

  He dashed over, seeing Phillip lying before the statue of the Virgin, blood pooling under him and edging out in a small lake across the flagstones. ‘Phillip,’ he whispered, seeing his eyes flutter. Gently he lifted the man’s head, turning it, hearing the footsteps. ‘Over here,’ he shouted.

  De Harville and the monk pushed him aside, gently turning the carter onto his back. Blood soaked his cote from a cut deep in his belly. The coroner glanced at Robert, who gave a small shake of his head.

  ‘Who did this?’ de Harville asked urgently. Phillip opened his mouth, drawing in breath to speak.

  ‘Hugo.’ The word came out as a hiss.

  ‘Robert, you look to him,’ the corner ordered, standing. ‘I’ll raise the hue and cry.’ He blew out a long breath. ‘Well, carpenter, do you want to go hunting?’

  ‘Yes,’ John answered without hesitation.

  • • •

  He left the church, thinking rapidly, with Walter at his heels.

  ‘Where are we going to look for him, John?’

  ‘He’ll be going to the manor. But I want you to stay here.’

  ‘Why?’ the boy asked simply.

  ‘Because it’s going to be dangerous. I don’t want you hurt or killed. I couldn’t face your sister if that happened so soon after your mother.’

  ‘But –’

  John shook his head.

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I know what you want, but he’s going to be desperate. Please, Walter, do it for me.’

  The boy nodded sadly and started to walk away, his shoulders slumped. John felt a moment’s guilt, ready to call him back. But this could be saving the lad’s life. Leave it like this, he told himself, leave it like this.

  He ran along the road to Bolsover, each step jolting his arm. He knew what could happen if he tripped and tumbled hard once more onto his broken arm, but he forced it away from his mind.

  He was breathing hard when he saw the horse at the side of the road and slowed as he approached it. It was the animal Hugo had ridden when they’d met, a big, lovely beast that eyed him nervously now, limping as it shied away. Lame. He petted the animal, stroking its mane and looked for any sign of the steward.

  There was nothing to see, but the twists and turns of the land hid so much. He started to run again, going to the top of the hill and peering down into the valley. He could see a figure scrambling across a field, pausing to look back then moving on again towards the woods where Geoffrey had been killed.

  He followed, keeping Hugo in view. He loped steadily, not dashing, but slowly gaining some ground. Soon enough the others would arrive; armed men who’d be able to subdue the steward and take him back to Chesterfield.

  At the bottom of the hill he had to slow his pace as he climbed. The steward had vanished into the woods.

  He was panting by the times he reached the trees, pausing for a moment to try and find the path Hugo had taken. Finally he spotted the grass trodden down and started walking slowly, glancing around every few paces, listening for any flutter of wings or unusual sounds.

  John stopped in the clearing, seeing where Geoffrey had been killed, imagining Hugo creeping up behind the man and slitting his throat. He cast his eyes around, finally selecting a fallen branch and hefting it with his good arm. It was hardly a weapon at all, but it was better than nothing.

  Hesitantly he moved on, going back into the trees. If he carried on this way he would come out above the manor. With luck, some of the men would already be there. If not, he might be able to stop the steward leaving until they arrived and could make the arrest. He tried to move quietly, but he was no countryman. With every step he blundered on a twig or heard a cone skitter off through the undergrowth.

  He could see the clear slope ahead of him and the ruts where the trees had been dragged away when he felt something behind him. He tensed, turning quickly and brought up the branch. Hugo was there, three paces behind him, just out of reach. His sword was drawn and the haughty, mocking smile played across his mouth.

  ‘The coroner sent you out alone, did he, carpenter?’

  John’s mouth was dry, his eyes on the man’s hands and feet. They’d tell him what was coming next, not the words from his mouth. ‘There’s me, and there’s the men,’ he said. ‘I daresay they’ll find you before you can go too far. Especially after your horse went lame like that.’

  ‘Where did you think I was riding? Back to the manor?’ He barely paused for an answer. ‘Of course you did. That’s what you’re meant think.’

  ‘You won’t get far on foot.’ John advanced half a pace; anything to keep the man on edge.

  Hugo swung the sword lazily. ‘I only go on foot when I have to, carpenter. There’s another horse hidden and its saddlebags full. By the time the men understand I’ve gone, I’ll be half a county away and Henry de Harville will be a much poorer man.’

  ‘And I
’ll be dead.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the steward told him with relish. ‘Tell me, did you really think I wouldn’t find out about the carter? It’s a very small world out here.’

  ‘Why did you kill him in the church?’ The longer he kept the man talking, the more chance of the posse arriving.

  Hugo shrugged. ‘It started with a murder there, it seemed only right to end it with another. No matter where it had happened, someone would have been looking for me.’

  ‘He named you.’

  ‘He was still alive, was he?’ He shook his head. ‘No matter. Are you ready to die, carpenter?’ he asked casually and lifted the sword. ‘You might as well put that branch down. It won’t make any difference in the long run.’

  John smiled. ‘We’ll see.’

  The steward took a pace forward, extending his sword, offering it as a target. John poked the branch at it then had to step sharply back as the blade moved quickly towards him.

  ‘I’m not going to toy with you. I’m going to make it quick.’ Hugo feinted to the side then brought the sword down hard, jarring the branch from John’s hand. ‘Just as simple as that.’

  He stood there, the broken arm held against his chest by the sling, the other arm outstretched. Slowly, he smiled, not moving. ‘Do what you want,’ he said.

  The steward raised the blade, his grip tight on the hilt, ready to end things. John looked him steadily in the eye, his face placid and accepting. Then he heard the sound, something that whistled in the air, and Hugo was face down on the ground, the sword thrown from his hand.

  John looked around, crouching and picking up the weapon. He put his hand against Hugo’s neck, feeling a movement under his fingers, then saw the wound on the back of the man’s head, his skull sticky with blood. He removed the dagger from the steward’s belt and checked his boots for another blade before standing again.

  ‘You can come out now,’ he shouted, looking around and waiting.

  Walter emerged from behind a tree, the slingshot still in his hand. His eyes were a mix of thanks and terror as he moved forward.

  ‘Is he dead, John?’ he asked fearfully.

  ‘No. He’ll live long enough for them to hang him.’

  ‘He was going to kill you, wasn’t he?’ The words flooded out of the boy’s mouth. ‘I thought he was, that’s why I threw the stone.’

  ‘Yes, he was.’ He could feel his heartbeat gradually slowing. He smiled and shook his head in wonder. ‘That’s twice you’ve saved my life now. Thank you.’

  Walter was grinning.

  ‘Why didn’t you want me to come, John? I wanted to come. I followed you.’

  He let the sword drop and clapped the lad on the shoulder. ‘Because I can be very stupid sometimes.’ He let out a long, slow breath and sat on the ground close to Hugo, leaning forward and breathing deeply before he looked up. ‘Thank you,’ he said again. The exhaustion was sweeping through him. He was bone weary, his head a muddle of thoughts that made no sense. ‘Can you go and find the men?’ he asked. ‘I’ll stay here with him.’

  ‘Yes, John,’ the boy said eagerly. He heard Walter loping away, the sound slowly fading. The steward still hadn’t moved. He closed his eyes and let the imaginings trickle through his mind like sand. He’d been ready to die. He’d accepted it, simply waiting for the cut. It hadn’t scared him. He’d stood his ground, prepared. And God had released him, decided that it wasn’t his time yet. He raised his good hand, surprised to see it steady, not shaking.

  He eased himself back to his feet, hearing birds calling to each other in the trees. Somewhere out of sight men were shouting.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was the soft grace of an autumn morning, with mist lying along the river valley. The air steamed his breath as he stood outside the bone-setter’s house.

  The last of summer had fallen away quickly, bringing crisp nights and rainy days that churned up the roads. He’d spent the time quietly, completing all the work he could do on Katherine’s house, revelling in her company whenever she brought him ale and they could snatch a few minutes together. On Sundays he walked with Walter, careful to avoid the Bolsover road and the dark memories it would bring.

  In the evenings he sat with Martha, exchanging tales. She would talk of the past, of the place Chesterfield had been when she was a girl, and he would tell her more of the towns and cities he had seen, enjoying the wonder in her eyes and her laughter at some of the strange characters he had met.

  And so the time had passed.

  The men had taken Hugo. The coroner had found the horse and the money the steward had hidden away and confiscated both for the Crown, a handsome small fortune to add to the King’s coffers. Now he waited in the gaol to go to Derby and hang, convicted by the carter’s dying words.

  It had all given the coroner more in the case against his brother. But, the lawyers told him, there was no knowing when it might be heard. The following year, perhaps, or the one after that; Henry de Harville had the money and the influence to keep bringing delays.

  • • •

  John knocked on the door, escorted in by the old servant and left to wait in a room full of bottles and unguents with their strange smalls, the walls full of charts he couldn’t begin to comprehend.

  The bone-setter came in, a smile on his placid face.

  ‘Well,’ he asked, ‘are you ready to have your arm back?’

  ‘I am,’

  ‘Take off the sling. Have you had any problems?’

  ‘Just itching.’

  ‘That’s normal, it’s good,’ the man told him, feeling lightly along the dirty cast and nodding to himself. He reached for the scissors and cut the stiffened linen carefully. His hands peeled it away, bringing the bark of the splint along with it. His flesh was as pale as if it had never seen the sun. ‘Keep it still.’ The bone-setter stroked the flesh, checking it carefully. ‘Lift your arm,’ he ordered.

  He obeyed, the sensation of seeing and raising the arm strange. It looked thin, withered, something that wasn’t quite his.

  The man held out a small block of wood. ‘Take hold of this.’ He grasped it, letting his fingers tighten around it before raising it above his head. The bone-setter stood back and nodded. ‘It seems to have healed well. Be careful, though,’ he warned. ‘You haven’t used it; you’ve lost much of the strength in your arm. You’ll have to build it back up slowly. Do you understand?’

  John nodded, flexing his hand and moving the arm with all the wonder and joy of a child discovering something new. He stood, happy to dig into his purse with his left hand and pick out the coins for payment. Carefully, he eased his arm into the sleeve of his shirt, then his cote, watching himself button the garment.

  He didn’t return directly to the house on Knifesmithgate. Instead, he went to the church, slipping inside and kneeling, offering his thanks for the use of his arm.

  Work had already fallen away here for the winter, just a few men remaining, the others all gone, most taken to the roads, some finding what they could around town. The master carpenter had vanished as soon as the news about the steward had spread, leaving as quickly as he’d arrived.

  The wood remained, stacked in piles against the wall, covered by canvas.

  In the end nothing would change. Spring would come and the wood would be used for the spire, seasoned or not. The Diocese had spent the money, the timber was there. They wanted the spire raised to God’s glory, to have it climb to the sky by the end of the next summer. The final word had come from the Bishop himself. The jingle of coins had a loud voice.

  He walked by the graves, wondering what it had all been worth. In the end he had achieved little. In a year or two few would remember anything about the wood. The church would have its glory, the spire rising to the sky, visible for miles, a sign to the faithful. He sighed and shook his head as he left.

  • • •

  Walter was sitting on the joint stool, Katherine sharing the bench with Martha. The girls were playing with a pair of carv
ed wooden dolls taken from an old, dusty chest in the corner.

  ‘Well?’ Martha asked, her clear eyes on his face.

  ‘He says I’ll be fine’ He raised the arm, grinning. Katherine ran to him, and he hugged her close, for the first time able to properly wrap his arms around her. She pulled back, blushing, with a joyful smile. ‘What do you think, lad?’ he asked Walter.

  ‘Does this mean you’ll be leaving, John?’

  ‘I’ll only be a few miles away, don’t worry. You’ll see me every week. ‘And,’ he added brightly, ‘sometimes I’ll need help on the manor. Would you like that?’

  ‘Yes, John,’ the boy answered eagerly. ‘I’d really like that.’

  ‘Since you’ve two good arms again you can bring the wine and cups from the buttery,’ Martha told him. ‘You might as well make yourself useful again.’

  ‘Yes, Mistress.’

  They drank a toast to his health, Walter grimacing at the harsh taste.

  ‘I’ll miss having you here,’ Martha said.

  ‘I won’t be far away.’

  ‘I’m an old woman, I can’t travel out there.’ Her eyes were twinkling.

  ‘You won’t be rid of me like that.’

  ‘You’d better keep that promise,’ Katherine warned him. ‘I’ll be expecting you every Saturday.’

  He gave her a small, elegant bow and finished his wine.

  ‘I should go and see the coroner.’

  • • •

  The man was sitting by the table, the monk close by, thumbing through several closely-written pages. He glanced up as John entered.

  ‘Well, carpenter,’ he said lazily, ‘two working arms again?’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  De Harville cocked his head and smiled. ‘It seems strange to see you like that. I’d grown used to the broken wing.’ He shrugged. ‘Are you ready to work?’

  He stood straight. ‘I am.’

  The coroner stood up and paced across the room to stare out of the window. ‘If I find you’ve been dishonest I’ll turn you out and prosecute you.’

  ‘I won’t cheat you.’