John slipped the man a coin, watched it disappear into his scrip, then said his farewells. It was a little more information. But did it help, or did it simply raise more questions than it answered?
What else could he do, though? He’d followed the only track he had, and that had come to nought. Until he knew more about Crispin, he was stuck. Finally he returned to the house, noticing a shutter that was just beginning to sag, kissed Katherine and picked up his bag of tools.
‘I’ll be back this evening.’
She looked surprised but happy. ‘No more mystery, husband?’
‘Not today, at least.’ He smiled, then his face turned serious. ‘No more word? No victims? I didn’t hear anything.’
‘No, praise God.’
But he knew it wasn’t over. Jesu save them, it had hardly begun.
• • •
Alan beamed to see him, pulling at his mother’s sleeve as she opened the door.
‘He’s missed you,’ she said. ‘I tried to explain but all he wants to do is go to work.’
‘That’s what we’re doing.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘A half-day’s labour. Are you ready?’
As they walked, Alan moved his fingers so quickly that John kept stopping him; he couldn’t understand it all.
‘Slower, slower.’
The boy was concerned that they might not work together any more because of the carpenter’s job with the coroner. He wanted to learn, he was eager; it was the first thing in life he’d ever done well, the first thing that had come as naturally as breathing.
‘Don’t you worry,’ John told him. ‘There might be interruptions but I’m not giving this up. It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. You as well.’ As he spoke Alan nodded gratefully.
Only half a day’s work, but they filled every moment. More often now the boy could start on a task without being told; he realised what was needed and set to it on his own.
CHAPTER THREE
The days passed with work and the tolling of the church bell for the dead. New victims appeared in dribs and drabs. One, then nothing, two more, a gap just long enough for the town to begin to believe it might have passed, then another. So far all the victims lived close to the river; it was a single ray of hope.
John finished two small jobs. The next one was in town, shaping and erecting the framework of a kitchen behind one of the grand houses out past West Bar. A fire had destroyed the old one, and heavy, charred beams still lay on the ground, stinking of the blaze. It was simple work, cutting and putting up the wood before the mason came to lay the stone of the walls. He’d done it often enough before, here and in York. Most of the job was just sawing and shaping. Slow, repetitive, and with plenty of time to reflect.
There’d been no word yet from the bishop in Lincoln; he was certain that the coroner would have sent for him if any letter had arrived. John kept asking questions around the town, but it seemed as if no one in the flock had ever properly known their priest. A few had talked to him, arranging for weddings, for funerals, but none could say much about him. His past remained a mystery, and no one other than Walter seemed to have noticed his strange visitors.
Alan was cleaning the tools, wiping them with the oiled rag, when John heard the footsteps. Someone running. He turned, right hand ready to reach for his knife but it was Walter. For a terrifying moment the blood went cold in his body. Not plague at home?
‘Th-the coroner wants to see you, John,’ he said.
The carpenter took a long, deep breath. Small mercies. God be praised. ‘Thank you.’ He turned to Alan. ‘Finish the tools.’ He hesitated for a long moment, then said: ‘Take them home with you. Make sure you look after them.’
The boy smiled as if he’d been given the greatest gift in the world, making swift signs. Thank you, he’d take good care of them.
‘I know.’ It would be the first time since his father died that John hadn’t kept the tools close at night. He was surprised to realise that he trusted the lad so much.
• • •
De Harville was pacing angrily up and down the hall, his hands clenched into fists. Brother Robert sat at the table, pain flickering in small waves across his face.
‘What is it, Master?’ John asked.
The coroner looked at the monk and nodded.
‘We’ve heard from the bishop’s secretary,’ Robert began gravely, then started to cough. He held up his hand as John started towards him before taking a sip of ale to clear his throat. ‘He says that the bishop’s office is willing to tell us more about Father Crispin. But we need to go to Lincoln and have an audience with them.’ The words came out as a breathless croak and he drank a little more.
‘See them?’ He didn’t understand. ‘Why can’t they say it in a letter?’
‘I don’t know, Carpenter.’ The coroner held a pewter mug so tightly that his knuckles were white. ‘And now we have to go all the way to Lincoln to find out.’
We. ‘You know they’ll listen to you more than they would to me, Master.’
‘Of course.’ De Harville nodded, taking it as his due. ‘But I want you to come with me.’ He gave a dark, wolfish smile. ‘You can be good company on the journey and hear what they have to say.’
‘I can’t. I have work waiting here.’
‘Then it will just have to wait longer.’ He waved it all away. ‘We leave first thing in the morning.’
• • •
‘No,’ Katherine told him. She stood with her hands on her hips, the fire blazing in her eyes. ‘He can’t do that.’
‘He’s already done it.’
‘Stand up to him, John. Tell him no.’
‘I did. He told me it wasn’t my choice to make. Like it or not, I was accompanying him.’
‘Then I’m going to see him.’ She started for the door, but he caught her arm.
‘No, please. I can fight my own battles,’ he said softly.
‘It sounds like you surrendered on this one. Or perhaps you want to leave us for a few days?’
John stared at the ground, biting his lip.
‘You know I don’t want to go anywhere. Not now, with Juliana so young and pestilence all around town. But we both know I can never win against de Harville.’
She was about to answer when Eleanor dashed through the house. Her eyes were wide and her face was pale.
‘I think there’s something wrong with Dame Martha.’
Everything else was forgotten; their argument no longer mattered. The old woman was lying on her bed, eyes closed. John placed a hand on her neck. A strong, steady beat. She was alive.
‘Martha,’ Katherine said. A whisper at first, then repeating it more loudly until she stirred, eyelids beginning to flutter.
John took her hand, pressing it between his palms. The flesh was chilly and clammy, although the evening was warm. Martha moved her head, looking from one to the other of them, and the girls waiting by the door.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ she asked. Her voice was thick, the words slurred but growing clearer as she spoke.
‘We were worried about you.’ Katherine smiled. ‘You didn’t want to wake up.’
‘I must have fallen asleep.’ Martha closed her eyes again for a second, then opened them wide. ‘I don’t remember.’
John helped her to sit and sent Janette for a tumbler of ale.
‘Don’t fuss,’ the woman said as he held it to her lips. ‘There’s no need. I’m not an invalid. I just fell asleep for a little while, that’s all.’
John took a breath. ‘Eleanor, why don’t you stay with Martha?’
Katherine followed him up to the solar. With quiet voices, no one would overhear their worry.
‘She wasn’t asleep,’ he said.
‘I know. She...’ after a moment Katherine shook her head. She didn’t have the words for it. Neither did he.
‘I need you here, John. You can’t go, not when this has happened.’ Not pleading, not a demand. It was simply how life had to be.
Martha rested on the settle, more colour in her cheeks, chattering brightly to the girls, telling them a story about a knight who pursued the hand of a beautiful maiden. John stood, listening and watching, caught in the tale and the telling.
He roused himself and slipped out of the door. Past Martha’s old house on Knifesmithgate, leased now to a merchant and his family. Since the first cases of plague there were fewer people on the streets; it felt safer to stay behind closed doors and keep company at bay. No greetings now, they turned their faces away as if they were scared to show their fear.
He had to wait to see the coroner. The man was in his garden, watching the nurse play with his son. Finally he returned, striding into the hall.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What is it? I thought we had everything settled for tomorrow.’
‘Dame Martha isn’t well. I need to stay in Chesterfield.’
De Harville stared. His eyes were hard, and John could read the doubt in the man’s face. Martha was well-regarded in Chesterfield. The coroner could insist, but if word passed around town about his insistence and Martha died while they were gone...
‘How bad is she?’ he asked.
‘It was just a spell. But at first we couldn’t wake her. There might be more, we don’t know.’
The coroner ran a hand through his hair. He was weighing everything. The plague, the journey.
‘Very well,’ he agreed finally. ‘Stay here, then. But keep looking into this death. Someone here knows what happened.’
‘I will, Master.’
Outside, he felt stunned. He’d never expected the man to give way so readily; he couldn’t remember that it had ever happened before. But it was all for the good. And it was true. He did need to be here, to try and keep his family safe from the wolf that was stalking the land.
• • •
The days passed in hope and sorrow. Only one more victim, a child of five who took the pestilence and died in two days, buried with the others in the corner of the graveyard. No longer empty, but like everyone in the town, he prayed it wouldn’t become full. Vain, foolish wishes; it was out of his control.
Each day he worked with Alan on the new kitchen building. Walter joined them to help to raise the beams until the frame stood firm and ready for the masons. It was solid work, John decided. He walked around testing every joint. They’d done the job well.
‘John, I-I heard something,’ Walter said as they strolled home.
‘What?’ He turned his head. The lad looked serious, as if he was trying to arrange his thoughts into order.
‘I had to go out to Newbold earlier. On the way back I passed two men. One of them said, “Now the priest’s gone, there’s one less of them to worry about.”’
‘What?’ He stopped suddenly and turned, his hand on the lad’s arm. ‘Are you certain they said that? Those exact words?’
‘Yes, John. I know they did.’
They began to walk again.
‘Who were they? Had you seen them before? Was it the same pair you saw last month at the priest’s door?’ He had a rush of questions in his mind, but he needed to ask them slowly and steadily.
‘No, they were different. They weren’t from here,’ Walter answered with certainty. The carpenter believed him. Walter was all over the town, he knew every face. ‘They looked as if they’d come on the road from Sheffield.’
‘What did they look like? Were they riding?’ He could feel the blood roaring through his limbs, a taste of iron in his mouth.
‘No, they were walking. They just looked ordinary. One of them had dark hair. The other...’ he ran a hand over his scalp to illustrate, ‘...his hair was going back.’
Receding. He managed to pry out a few more details. The man with dark hair had a thick beard and was tall and thin, the other shorter and stockier.
‘Which way did they go?’
Walter pointed. ‘I followed them to Soutergate. They went down the hill and across the bridge.’
Only travellers. Strangers on their journey somewhere. Men who’d heard the news perhaps, or men who disliked priests. That was interesting, at least. But he wasn’t sure if it told him anything he could use. He considered what he’d just learned: it probably meant nothing useful.
In York he’d heard whispers about men who condemned the Church and its wealth. With all the plate and the hangings, the money in the coffers while so many went hungry, it was easy to understand. The cost of making an archbishop’s cope could feed a village for years.
But while men might resent the Church and its wealth, they didn’t kill priests. That meant eternal damnation. Talk came easily but they’d never act. Yet someone had.
‘Come on,’ John said. ‘Your sister will be expecting us.’
• • •
By the time the coroner returned from Lincoln, John had been unable to learn anything more. No one in Chesterfield recognised the descriptions of the travellers Walter had seen. They were only passing through. Another hope crumbled to dust.
He’d given up and returned to his work. It was only building a new gate to a field up towards Whittington, but the money made it worthwhile. The miles were hard on Alan’s small legs, but he refused to show it, doing more than his share of the labour.
John let the boy take the lead on the gate, measuring everything and laying out the wood. He offered suggestions, ideas to make it easier, but it was good for Alan. He’d learn more this way. Praise helped, seeing him smile with pleasure, answering the questions his fingers asked. Then checking his measurements and cuts.
They walked the distance back together, weary and hungry. No tolling of the bell today, God be praised. Each day without a burial came as some small victory.
There had only been one more case of plague in the last four days. Perhaps the worst had already been. He hoped and prayed with everyone else in town, but deep inside he knew the truth he was reluctant to admit: the pestilence hadn’t vanished. It was there, biding its time, and it would take many more deaths before it was sated.
• • •
‘Brother Robert came after dinner,’ Katherine told him. ‘He sat with Martha for a while.’
They’d kept a close eye on the woman but she’d had no more problems. John had cut her a stick of strong hawthorn, smoothing the nubs and rounding the top so it fitted in her hand. She shooed it away at first, but he persisted until she finally gave in. It seemed to help, keeping her steady as she walked.
‘Just a visit to pass an hour?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘He brought a message from the coroner. He’s back. He wants to see you.’ She made a dark face. ‘Robert was so out of breath that I made him sit for a few minutes and drink a mug of ale until it passed. He doesn’t look well. He ought to be at the abbey.’
‘I asked. De Harville won’t let him go. Not until the plague has passed, he said. He feels it’s too dangerous for him to leave.’
‘Selfish man.’
• • •
The coroner was travel-stained, dirt and dust still clinging to his hose and boots. He stared at the thick glass of the window, gently swirling a cup of wine in his hand.
‘I’ve been here for hours, Carpenter. I expected to see you earlier after I sent a message.’
‘I wasn’t at home, Master. I was working,’ he added pointedly. ‘What did the bishop tell you about Father Crispin?’
‘I never saw him.’ De Harville frowned. ‘Only his secretary. And that man has too many airs above his station.’
‘Was he able to tell you much?’
The coroner sighed and took another drink. ‘Crispin came late to the Church. He was only ordained five years ago. Before that he was a soldier.’
From the weapons they’d found in the priest’s chest, that was no surprise. They’d guessed as much. Something the man had never let go completely, it seemed.
‘Whose service was he in?’ With so many lords in the land, all of them with their own retain
ers, it might have been anyone.
‘He served the king directly.’
John breathed in slowly. That made Crispin a man of some importance.
‘Did you find out why he left?’
De Harville shrugged. ‘The secretary didn’t say. Very likely he didn’t know.’
‘Did he tell you where Crispin was before he came here?’
‘He was willing to say that much. The priest spent time in two different parishes.’
‘Two? In only five years?’ Usually a man would stay somewhere for life unless there were problems.
‘Yes. I asked why; he refused to tell me.’
And a bishop’s secretary was a man even a coroner couldn’t bully, John thought wryly.
‘Where was he? Did he at least say that?’
‘In Lincoln first, at the cathedral.’
It would be easy to keep an eye on him there, to make sure he understood his duties and train him properly.
‘Where did he go from there?’
‘Castleton.’
The name sounded familiar. He’d heard it before, but he didn’t know the place.
‘It’s almost twenty miles from here, perhaps a little more,’ de Harville explained. ‘There’s a castle there, Peveril. I don’t know who owns it now. The king, probably, or a duke. Someone far above our stations, Carpenter. It’s been little more than a hunting lodge for years, though. Crispin came here from there.’
It seemed as if the priest had been moved all over, barely given a chance to settle, John thought. Why?
‘Did he tell you anything more?’
‘No.’ His voice had a frustrated edge. ‘He claimed he didn’t know, but he had a smirk on his face as he said it.’
‘Why? Don’t they want his murder solved?’
‘In truth, Carpenter, I wonder. For all the help that secretary gave, I’m not sure.’
It seemed impossible to believe. Justice was vital, it bonded the kingdom.
‘What do we do, then, Master?’
‘I need to think about that.’ De Harville stared out through the glass again. ‘But I won’t let it drop. Not now. I don’t like people thwarting me.’
The Holywell Dead Page 3
