The Holywell Dead

by Chris Nickson

  • • •

  The days continued. John worked, and on Saturday he went to the weekly market. Now it was almost as busy as it had been before the pestilence came. Folk wanted this and that and the merchants needed to make their money to survive. The plague was here, the guest that refused to depart; by now, people were willing to take their chances.

  John bought his good iron nails from the smith from Apperknowle. Katherine walked with Martha, stopping to admire fabrics as John waited, neck craning around for familiar faces. He saw the coroner in the crowd with his wife, his son walking behind, holding on to the nurse’s hand.

  The man didn’t look towards him and John decided to keep his distance. De Harville was still alive. If he’d caught the other killer, then the gossip would have passed around like a wild fire.

  Leave it be, he told himself. It’s not your business any more. Another smith was offering tools for sale and a chisel caught his eye. It had a beautiful edge to the blade, the handle smooth and easy to grasp. He talked the man down from the price he was asking and counted out his money. From there to the leather worker with his stall in a different part of the market square. The man had a neat leather satchel; he’d noticed it a few weeks before. Plain, simple, but it looked right in a way he couldn’t put into words. John hefted it on to his shoulder and knew; the balance was ideal. He paid, put the chisel in the satchel and went to find his wife.

  But it was Dame Martha who spoke first.

  ‘I thought you loved your old bag.’

  ‘I do.’ He grinned. ‘But Alan’s going to need something for his tools, isn’t he?’ He produced the chisel and slid it back down into the leather. ‘And something to start. He’ll have to buy the rest himself.’

  Martha raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s very generous, John.’

  It didn’t seem that way to him. It was no more than a small push along the path that would make the boy his living. An encouragement.

  • • •

  He could see his way to the end of the carving. From a distance people might believe it was a rose. The closer they drew, the crudity of it would be obvious. But Alan thought them the loveliest things he’d ever seen. He traced them with his fingertips and stopped his own work to watch as John put the final touches to the flower.

  His fingers moved. Could he really learn to do that? How long did it take to master?

  ‘You can learn it,’ John assured him. ‘I did. You can probably be better than me.’

  But it’s beautiful, the boy insisted. All John could do was laugh. He unwrapped the sack he’d carried with him.

  ‘Here, this is for you.’

  Alan’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe what he saw. For me? he signed.

  ‘Yes. There’s something inside.’

  The boy lifted the flap and drew out the chisel. He held it tenderly and drew a small finger along the hard metal. Do you mean it, he asked?

  ‘Yes. It’s yours.’

  Alan thanked him over and over, until John stopped him.

  ‘We still have plenty to do here. Take some wood home and you can practise carving.’

  For the rest of the day they worked well. Whenever they took a break to drink, Alan reached out to stroke the leather of his satchel, as if he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

  They’d done a good job, but there could be no rushing the polishing of a table. Layer after layer of it, allowed to dry and then rubbed down before another coat was added, the same for the legs and the carvings. By day’s end he felt satisfied with all they’d done, though it wasn’t over yet.

  Alan oiled the tools, including his own chisel, and walked home proudly with his own satchel over his shoulder.

  ‘Master,’ his mother said, as the boy explained it to her with his signs, ‘you shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘He’s going to need it, and many more tools.’

  ‘But,’ the woman began, ‘you’re teaching him. You pay him. We can’t thank you enough for that.’

  ‘I’m glad to have him, and I make sure he earns his money.’ The boy looked up and smiled. ‘Use it to buy what he needs. He knows about tools.’ It began to rain and he raised the thick hood on his tunic. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, lifted a hand and began to stride out for home. With luck he’d reach the house before he was soaked.

  He was dashing across the market square when he heard someone call his name. John glanced around. Nobody was there. Strange. He must have imagined it, he decided, and started to run on. Then it was there again. It seemed to come from one of the small gennels across from the Shambles.

  He could ignore it or he could investigate. But he knew himself too well; it wasn’t in his nature to act as if nothing had happened. He needed to know. Cautiously, he drew his knife.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he called. But there was only silence. The street was empty as everyone took shelter from the heavy shower. The day was still warm but he felt the prickles of fear crawling up his spine. Go, he thought, walk away. Forget you ever heard anything.

  Instead he took a pace forward into the passage and called out again. He tightened his grip on the handle of the blade.

  It was gloomy here, full of shadows where a man could hide. He stopped and listened, straining for the merest sound. A few yards away he caught the faint rasp of breath.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Still there was no reply. He swallowed hard, feeling the dryness in his mouth. John let a few moments pass, then began to back away. Whatever was here, he wanted no part of it.

  ‘Wait.’ The voice was harsh, a rasp. A man, he thought, and no one he’d ever heard before.

  ‘Show yourself,’ John said, but there was no movement. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To help you.’ It sounded as though the man found it hard to catch his breath.

  ‘Then let me see you like an honest man.’

  ‘I’ll stay here.’ A grating chuckle. ‘Don’t come any closer,’ he warned as John took a pace. ‘I’m armed and I can kill you.’

  The easy, throwaway manner of the words were chilling.

  ‘I’ll ask once more,’ John said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Don’t you want to catch a murderer? He killed the priest, the steward, and the salter. Him and his friend, they could have killed you, too, and that coroner you work for.’ A pause so long he wondered if there would be more. ‘Don’t you want him?’

  ‘It’s not my business now.’

  ‘It’s always a man’s business when someone threatens his life. It’s like a noose around his neck. It needs to be cut so you can breathe again.’

  The man wanted to tell it all. Let him; John could listen and pass word to de Harville.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Someone who thinks it’s time for the blood to stop flowing. No,’ he warned, ‘I told you, not a pace forward unless you want it to be your last. You want a man called Roland. But when you find him, you’d better make sure he’s dead. That’s the only justice you’ll ever get.’

  ‘Why is he doing this?’

  ‘He has his orders. That’s all I’m saying. Turn now, and go.’ He waited a moment. ‘I said go!’

  Out in the street the rain came tumbling down. The encounter seemed like a strange dream, but the knife was in his fist and he could still hear the rough, scratchy voice in his head.

  The coroner was in his hall, dictating to a young monk.

  ‘Come to your senses and decided to help me, Carpenter?’ De Harville smirked.

  ‘No, Master. I’ve made my vow and I’m keeping to it. But I’ve something you might want to hear.’

  He recounted the conversation word for word, as if it was burned on his memory. By the time he finished the coroner was sitting up straight.

  ‘That’s all? How’s that supposed to help me?’

  ‘I’m telling you what he said, Master.’ John glanced over at the monk. He was barely more than a novice, with smooth, pale skin. But his face was pale and frightened as he sat with his quill poised a
bove the vellum. ‘Don’t write this down,’ the coroner snapped, and the monk’s face reddened in embarrassment.

  ‘I’m John the Carpenter.’

  ‘He’s Brother Edmund. Fresh from the abbey. He writes a good hand and he’ll learn in time. Now, Carpenter, who was the man who said all this to you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never heard his voice before, I’m sure of that. He stayed in the shadows so I couldn’t see him at all, but he spoke like someone who could kill without it troubling him too much. He said there had been enough bloodshed.’

  ‘Was he local?’

  ‘He was no one I knew.’ How many people lived in Chesterfield? Surely he’d heard every one of them speak in his time here? But this man had a voice that sat in his mind, one he’d know again in an instant. And Roland. The man had said to search for Roland. There was no one of that name here, not that he remembered.

  ‘You’ve told me now, Carpenter. You’ve done your duty.’ He said the word with a sneer, as if duty wasn’t enough.

  ‘Then I wish you well of the day and godspeed, Master.’

  The rain had drifted to a misting drizzle, barely enough to dampen his face as he walked back to Saltergate. In the house everything felt alive and joyful. The girls were playing, done with their spinning and their lessons. They were trying to teach Juliana to say ‘Mama.’ She made sounds, some that resembled words. Something that could have been mama. It would come in time, then the phrases and sentences and questions would all tumble out, one after another. One more miracle in this world. And another: no cases of plague that day.

  After supper he took Walter aside, out into the garden. He could hear the laughter and the women’s voices from inside.

  ‘You know all the people in town, don’t you?’

  The boy looked surprised. ‘Some of them, I suppose,’ he answered.

  ‘Is there a man called Roland?’

  ‘There are two of them, John,’ Walter replied after a little thought. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘It’s just something I heard,’ he lied. ‘Nothing important. Can you tell me about them?’

  ‘There’s a Roland in the Shambles. He’s an old man.’ Old could mean anything to someone so young. ‘And there’s another one who lives on the Brampton Road. I’ve never spoken to him.’

  ‘The second one – what does he look like?’

  ‘He’s big. He has dark hair. And a scar on his face.’ With a fingertip he traced a line down his cheek. ‘Right there.’

  ‘Do you know much about him?’

  ‘Has he done something, John?’

  ‘No.’ He smiled. ‘It’s a name that came up. I was curious.’

  ‘I think it must be about three years since he came here.’ Walter looked back into his memory. ‘Somewhere close to that time. Folk say he can have a temper on him.’

  ‘Does he have a family?’

  Walter frowned. ‘I’ve never heard of one.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He knew enough now. Here for three years. Long before Crispin. Before the salter. Since he lived away from town, not so many in Chesterfield would know him. And a scar... there were many ways to get those, but battle was certainly one. It was food for thought.

  ‘Are you brooding, husband?’

  Katherine came out into the garden. He was standing, thinking. The earth was dark from the rain and drops had gathered on the shoots and young plants. It was full night now but the moon was up, throwing out its light.

  ‘Not really.’ He put his arm around her shoulders and told her about his strange encounter. Her body stiffened a little as she listened. ‘I went and told the coroner. It’s up to him now.’

  ‘I heard you. You were asking Walter about someone called Roland.’

  ‘I was curious. I’m not going to do anything about it.’

  ‘De Harville can find out for himself. The bailiffs are sure to know the man.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied gladly.

  • • •

  More time polishing the wood, working the rag into all the crannies of the carving. After that, all they could do was sit and wait for it to dry.

  Show me how to carve, Alan signed. He’d carried his satchel proudly to the job and now he reached inside for the chisel. John laughed. Why not? They had nothing better to do.

  ‘All right. Bring me those two small blocks of wood over there. First, though, you need to know what you’re carving.’ The boy nodded eagerly. ‘You start by making a design, like this.’ He drew the outline of a flower with a piece of charcoal. ‘You try it.’

  Alan might have had a feeling for wood that ran deep in his bones, but he couldn’t draw. He looked at what he’d done and compared it to John’s, then his mouth set in frustration. Perhaps he was too young. Or it could be that he had no talent for it. No matter.

  ‘Go ahead and use what I’ve done,’ John said. ‘You need to scoop out between these lines so they look like petals.’ He demonstrated, then handed over the wood. ‘Take things very slowly and carefully. Carving needs patience.’

  An hour later the boy had finished. It was a first attempt, crude and awkward. But had his own work been any better when he was young? He’d been lucky, a carver in York had shown him and helped him.

  ‘That’s very good,’ he said and Alan beamed at the praise, although doubt still shone in his eyes. ‘I mean it. You’ve made a start. Now we have to carve the back of the petals. Make sure your edge is very sharp.’

  He’d completed three of them by the time the polish had dried. One final coat, John decided, and tomorrow they’d attach the legs to the table. Then it would be done, and on to the next job. There was little chance to grow bored in this work. Always something different, always another problem to solve.

  ‘Take that home and work on it,’ John suggested. ‘Give it to your mother when you’ve finished. She’ll love that.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A fair morning, just a few clouds drifting high in the sky turning a brilliant pink in the early sun. John stood in the garden with a piece of bread and a mug of ale. The air was still cool, hardly a breath of wind stirring.

  He’d slept fitfully, troubled by something. But only now could he see what it was. He needed to tell the coroner about Roland living out towards Brampton. Yes, Katherine was right, the bailiffs should know the man. Yet he felt the responsibility like a weight around his neck.

  By the time he gathered his satchel of tools he knew what he had to do. Men were up and around on the way to their labours, the forge or the field. He turned into the yard by de Harville’s house. The man was already up and around, supervising as the groom saddled his roan.

  ‘You’ve checked his hooves? Last time there was a stone.’ He turned at the sound of John’s feet. ‘God’s grace, Carpenter. I hadn’t expected to see you here again.’ A haughty look.

  ‘I have more information for you, Master.’ He passed on what Walter had said about Roland.

  ‘I’ve never seen the man. I’ll have the bailiffs bring him to me later.’ With that, he looked at the groom, who laced his hands together. The coroner put one foot in them and pushed himself up into the saddle. A small tug on the horse’s reins and he was gone.

  So much for good deeds, John thought as he walked to collect Alan. The boy was waiting, eager to go. Together they inspected the table, the surface shining, feeling like the finest silk. It was ready.

  The carvings on the feet looked crude and awkward to his eyes, but the boy loved them. He brought out his own effort; he’d worked on it before sleeping.

  The shape was there, very rough and uneven. But it was a start and Alan was proud of it, so John praised it carefully. There would be other chances for him to practise if he wanted.

  ‘Let’s put this table together,’ he said.

  Everything had to be perfect, and handled gently. Alan wanted to help, but this demanded delicacy. If anything went wrong, any mistakes, John only wanted to blame himself. The boy could hand him screws and trim the wooden plugs.


  The work took three hours, measuring then measuring again, testing and finally drilling the holes for the screws. Eventually, though, it was done and he gave the table a final wipe with his rag to remove the last of the sawdust. Clean up, sweep, and then he could invite the master and mistress of the house to inspect it.

  They approved. The man kept running his fingertips over the surface in amazement while the woman admired the carvings. They paid willingly for the work, with two extra pennies as thanks. Then it was time to clean the tools they’d used.

  Only half the day had passed but there was no sense in beginning anything new. Tomorrow would be soon enough for that.

  He ambled through the last of the weekday market. Traders were packing away their wares and counting their money, hoping it was enough. Two chickens packed in a wooden cage stared at him.

  It was rare for him to come here; usually he was busy working during the day. This was a place for the goodwives to strike their bargains and gossip together. But few of them remained, gone home to their chores and their dinner.

  A few yards away, inside the church, the sickly sweet smell of incense seemed to cling to the stone. He crossed himself, then knelt and prayed, offering up his thoughts for those who’d died of the plague so far.

  He’d heard no word of more victims as he wandered through town. That was a blessing, although he knew it couldn’t continue. The pestilence wasn’t done with them yet. Like a cat playing with a trapped mouse, it gave them hope then wounded again. More would perish, and no one knew if their name was on that list.

  Only home was a constant comfort, he thought as he walked through the door. The empty pottage bowls were still on the table. Dame Martha was sitting on the bench and talking earnestly while Katherine listened. Juliana was stacking her blocks under the supervision of the girls. The only person missing was Walter and he was rarely here these days. He had a life that was all his own, always off working or with his friends.

  His wife smiled to see him.

  ‘The food’s still warm if you’re hungry. We’ve only just eaten.’