The Holywell Dead

by Chris Nickson

  He realised his belly felt empty and nodded.

  ‘This is a short day for you, John,’ Martha said.

  ‘We finished the job. A few hours break seemed like a good idea. What were you talking about?’

  For a moment she looked down at the table, then raised her head again.

  ‘The house on Knifesmithgate. The one that will be yours.’

  He frowned, confused. ‘What about it?’

  ‘You remember that William the Merchant has leased it?’

  ‘Of course.’ One of those who’d come to Chesterfield in the last year. The man had gone off on business before the plague arrived, and they still awaited his return.

  ‘His wife came to see me today. She had word from the north. Her husband is dead.’

  ‘Dead? What happened?’ For a moment he wondered if William had been murdered.

  ‘An accident’, she said. ‘His horse stumbled and he fell. He broke his neck.’

  Without thinking, John crossed himself.

  ‘What is she going to do?’

  ‘Go and live with her parents. They have a small manor near Locksley.’

  ‘Then what will she do about your house?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s what we were discussing. I thought we could move there.’ She waved a hand. ‘You know it’s bigger than this place. And you made sure it was in good repair.’

  That was true. There would be more room for them all; a larger garden, a grander solar for sleeping.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked Katherine.

  ‘I like the idea,’ she said as she returned with a full bowl and a wooden spoon. ‘What do you say, husband?’

  ‘Do I have a say?’ John said with a grin. ‘It sounds as if you’ve already arranged it all. But yes,’ he looked around the table, ‘we’ll be happy there.’

  • • •

  ‘What is it?’ John asked as he looked at the shape that Alan had carved in the lump of wood. A bear, the boy signed. I’ve heard about bears in stories.

  It was... something. He’d seen the chained bears in York, huge beasts with fur and claws and sad, pitiful eyes. He doubted Alan had ever laid eyes on one. This was a child’s imagination, just a general shape of curves and lumps.

  ‘It’s good,’ he said with a smile and a nod. ‘You like carving, don’t you?’

  Alan’s head moved up and down quickly. But the boy liked everything to do with wood. This was just another fancy; it would pass soon enough and he’d come back to the rest of the work.

  ‘Today we work on the Guildhall,’ John said, and Alan’s eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Nothing that important. It’s just more of the work we’re used to doing.’

  Standing at the west of the market square, it was a half-timbered building. Two storeys with a glazed window upstairs, small mullions joined with lead. That was where they’d be working, with the clerk forced to move his desk so they had room. The sill under the window had rotted and needed to be replaced.

  It was going to be a difficult job, John had known that as soon as he saw it. The only way to do it was remove the entire window and frame, then rebuild everything. When he first looked at the job, he suggested replacing all the wood in the frame, but the town leaders weren’t willing to go that far: it was too expensive. On their heads be it, he thought as he took out the glassed windows and leaned them carefully against the wall.

  He explained each step to Alan as he worked; the boy was too small to help him with this. But he was skilled enough to start cutting and shaping the new sill. A breeze blew through the gap, easing the heat of the day, but he was still sweating as he began to dismantle the frame.

  Dinnertime, and there was progress. But he was hungry and thirsty. Alan’s work was taking form, but they’d leave the details until the sill was in place.

  ‘Come on,’ John said, ‘let’s go to the pie shop on Low Pavement.’

  It was a treat for the lad, something hot in his belly. Working men stood outside, dusty, hair damp and matted from their labours. He saw Henry the Mason, still covered in dust.

  ‘God’s peace to you,’ John said as he passed Alan a coin and sent him in to buy two of the pies. The scent of spiced meat and hot pastry filled the air.

  ‘How’s that lad?’

  ‘Talented and a good worker.’ They laughed; both knew the two often didn’t go together. ‘How’s your business?’

  ‘Fair.’ The smile faded from his face. ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Four down with the plague today. Two different families, neighbours on Beetwell Street.’

  Poor souls. The mood had soured; they ate with occasional glimmers of talk, then dispersed. A few doors down he bought a mug of ale for himself, another of small beer for the boy.

  Will the plague ever end? Alan asked with his fingers. How could he answer a question like that? God made the decisions, but often it seemed as if he’d turned his back on the world and left them to whatever might happen.

  During the afternoon John removed the shutters and eased out one side of the window frame. It took time; this had been built well. If the lintel was equally firm there’d be no need to remove it, he thought. He was teasing the wood away from the wall when he heard men talking as they passed below.

  The voice chilled him. It was the one who’d lured him into the passage, the one who’d told him about Roland and threatened to kill him.

  John leaned out. There was little to see beyond a pair of figures dressed in green jerkins and hose. He couldn’t see either face.

  ‘Keep working,’ he told Alan. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  He hurried down the stairs and out into the street. The men were thirty yards ahead, paying no attention to anything else. John kept his distance, trying to be invisible, walking with his head down and his shoulders hunched.

  This was the man. There could be no mistaking that rasp. Yet here he was, strolling around Chesterfield as if he had nothing to fear, as if he owned the town. It would help the coroner to know who the man might be, where he was going.

  Their path took them by the churchyard wall. Walter was there, talking to a girl whose face looked familiar. It took a moment to place her: the servant from the salter’s house. John raised a finger to his lips and moved past them. In an instant Walter was beside him.

  ‘What are you doing, John?’

  ‘Do you know those men ahead of us?’

  The lad shook his head.

  ‘One of them, he told me about Roland. I’d like to know who he is.’

  They were on the Unstone Road, leaving town. There were few travellers on the road. To follow would be too obvious, too open.

  ‘Do you want me to see where they go?’

  ‘How?’

  Walter smiled as if the answer was obvious.

  ‘I can go through the woods.’ He gestured to the trees that grew on either side of the road.

  ‘Be careful,’ he warned. ‘Don’t let them see you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, John.’

  He slipped into the undergrowth. In no more than a few heartbeats he was out of sight and silent.

  Jesu, but it was stupid. In his head he knew that. It was vain. He should have simply let the man go; it wasn’t his business any more. But his heart spoke different words. This wasn’t any kind of involvement, he told himself. Nothing more than seeing and hearing and then passing all that to the coroner.

  Thoughtfully, John returned to the Guildhall. Alan gave him a questioning look.

  ‘Business,’ he explained. ‘Someone I wanted to see.’ It was truth of a sort, enough to satisfy the boy.

  He continued working, but his heart wasn’t in it any more. He was willing time to pass, so he could sit in the garden on Saltergate with Walter and hear where the men had gone. But that would happen, that would happen, he told himself. Patience.

  He tried to let other thoughts fill his mind. Moving to Martha’s old house. It wasn’t far, no more than a few yards, but it would still b
e a big job. Katherine and her family had accumulated so much. So many chests full of this and that. What about the furniture? What about the garden his wife had planted? The thoughts occupied him as his hands moved without thinking. The tools felt so familiar, so natural, that they might have been part of his flesh.

  Another hour and the remaining side of the frame was out. The fit was very tight; he’d been forced to use a chisel and work slowly, painstakingly. But the lintel held in place well; that was one job less.

  There was time enough to make sure the new sill was the right size. One or two small adjustments, but Alan had done his work well. They’d need to make more tomorrow as everything was put in place, but that was fine. It was part of carpentry.

  ‘You can’t just leave a hole in the wall like that,’ the clerk complained.

  ‘It’s what we have to do, Master,’ John told him. ‘Weigh down your documents, although there’ll be no rain tonight.’

  ‘What if someone climbs through the window?’

  ‘You have the bailiffs below. No one would be that stupid.’ He winked at Alan. Clumsily, the boy winked back.

  • • •

  Finally, he was home. The women were eagerly discussing all the details of the move. That was fine. He’d let them work it out and just lend his strong back to the cause. They’d have their way no matter what he suggested.

  Walter hadn’t returned yet. Every few minutes John looked to the door. Finally, just before supper, he arrived, grinning and happy. The family ate, all the talk of the new house and what might go where and what they’d do with this one.

  It seemed to drag on and on, until finally the girls collected the plates. John refilled his mug of ale. With a look at Walter, he walked into the garden. Almost dusk, and still balmy, the June air warm against his skin. This was the beauty of summer, the evenings that seemed to spin out forever, as if daylight didn’t want to leave.

  Then the lad was next to him. Every day he was a little taller, John thought. When would he stop?

  ‘Did you have any luck?’

  ‘Yes, John. They never knew I was there.’

  He’d had moments of worry that Walter might be discovered. But even if they’d seen him, he knew how fast the boy could run. After all, that was part of delivering important messages around town. They couldn’t have caught him.

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘Just beyond Unstone. There’s a house along a track to the right of the road. Before Dronfield.’

  He’d passed it several times; he could picture it in his mind. A squat, solid building of dark stone on enough of a rise to look down on the road as it went by.

  ‘Thank you. You’ve done very well.’ He brought a coin from his scrip but Walter shook his head.

  ‘I don’t need to be paid for that,’ he said seriously, sounding so mature and considered. Then his face split into a child’s grin. ‘I enjoyed it.’

  ‘I’m grateful.’

  ‘I’ll do more if you wanted, John.’ There was a hopeful look in his eye.

  ‘Did you get a look at the men?’

  ‘No. They were always in front of me.’

  That wasn’t important. It was enough to know where they’d gone. In the morning he’d tell the coroner. From there the man could follow the trail himself.

  ‘You look satisfied, husband.’

  Lost in his thoughts, he’d never heard Walter leave or Katherine appear at his side.

  ‘I am.’ He put an arm around her shoulder. ‘Tell me, what do you want to do with this house once we leave?’

  ‘Nothing until next spring.’ Her answer surprised him. The year was only half-done. ‘I thought we could clean it properly, put on new limewash. There are shutters that need to be mended, small things.’

  He knew. All the jobs he’d put off as he earned a living.

  ‘And what about after that?’ He’d taken her gentle reproach for what it was.

  ‘Lease it to someone,’ she replied without hesitation. ‘Then we’ll have rent money every quarter day.’

  It made sense. Chesterfield had been good to him. But there would be slack times in his trade. To have the assurance of money coming in would be a blessing.

  He was quiet for a long time, then said, ‘What about the pestilence?’ No one had mentioned it over supper. All the chatter had been plans and happiness.

  ‘We’ve already said everything we can, over and over.’ She had the weight of sorrow in her voice. ‘All we can do is trust to God.’

  And hope He listened, John thought.

  • • •

  ‘For someone who wants nothing to do with me you’ve become a regular visitor here.’ De Harville’s voice curled with the relish of triumph. ‘Or perhaps wood is too boring for you?’

  He turned his head towards the corner where Brother Edmund appeared to be sleeping. His chin rested on his chest.

  ‘God save us from lazy monks,’ de Harville muttered. ‘Even in his dotage, Robert could usually manage to stay awake.’ He kicked the table and Edmund’s head jerked up as he blinked his eyes. ‘Now, what do you want, Carpenter?’

  He recounted the tale and the way Walter had followed the men, seeing the coroner grow more interested with each word.

  ‘You’re absolutely certain this was the man who told you about Roland?’

  ‘I am. There was no mistaking that voice, Master.’

  ‘It seems I’d better visit this house and make sure I come back with some truth.’ He smirked. ‘You’ve brought me more since you stopped working for me than when I was paying you.’

  ‘May it help you, Master.’

  • • •

  ‘What are we doing today?’ Alan signed with his fingers.

  ‘You might not want to come with me,’ John told him. With the table complete, there were other jobs waiting, enough to keep them busy past harvest. But Dame Martha had told him about a man who lived on his own in a small cottage. Once he’d been tall and broad, but life had whittled him down. He was old now, she said, older than her. He’d lost all three of his sons in the Great Pestilence, his wife and daughter a few years later. Now he was alone and withered. His house was tumbling down and he no longer had the strength or the money to do anything.

  He understood what she was asking when she told him, and today he’d do what he could. He had wood left from other jobs. He had his skill and his tools.

  ‘Today is Christian charity,’ he said to the boy. ‘No payment, but good for the soul. But if you don’t want to come, I understand.’ How could an eight-year-old child realise what a good deed meant?

  ‘If you’re working, I’ll come with you.’ Alan’s fingers moved quickly. He hadn’t even needed to think before answering.

  • • •

  The house needed more than they could manage in a single day. Still, he thought as he gazed around the small single room, they could make a good start. Tom, the old man, sat in the corner, hardly aware they were in his home, far away in his own lost world. If he’d once been a strong, powerful man, now he was a husk of that.

  This was a chance to trust some of the work to the boy. Alan had learned a lot; this would give him the opportunity to prove himself.

  ‘The shutters on the windows need tightening. Can you start with those?’ Immediately Alan was at work.

  The door hinges were old; the screws all needed to be replaced. But the frame was sound; that was good. The roof beam sagged with age; there was nothing he could do about that. It would last until Tom was dead. At least they could make sure he’d spend a warm winter.

  Each job seemed to reveal another. John swept the old, rotting rushes from the house. Better a bare floor than something that nursed rats and God alone knew what else. One of the goodwives could bring Tom something sweet-smelling.

  By dinner he was sweating, stripped down to his hose and a soaked linen shirt. There were old cobwebs in his hair and dirt caked in his fingernails. Alan worked more slowly, taking his time to make sure everything was just r
ight. The boy had a look of fierce concentration on his face. He’d kept going without a break.

  ‘Come on,’ John said. ‘We both need to eat.’ He put his tools into the satchel and slung it on his shoulder. Another lesson his father had taught him: the tools went wherever he went.

  Alan seemed overwhelmed by the group around the table: the girls, Dame Martha, Katherine and Juliana. The boy ate quickly, with his head down, staying close to the only one here who could understand what his fingers said. The girls kept talking to him, puzzled when he didn’t answer. John tried to explain that he couldn’t speak, but their only response was to wonder why not. They couldn’t understand that he’d been born that way.

  Alan seemed relieved to leave, to be back doing something he understood and loved. He worked hard all through the afternoon, moving steadily along the tasks John had set. Still Old Tom said not a word. Sometimes he’d raise his head and stare at them without recognition. Then it would fall again and he’d drift off to his dreams of the past.

  As they cleaned their tools, John knew he’d barely touched the surface of the work that was needed here. The real kindness would be tearing the house down and building something new. Still, they’d managed to take care of the worst. It was a start, but no more than that. He’d helped a little.

  Are we going back there tomorrow? Alan asked as they walked home.

  He knew that the boy liked working without supervision, to be allowed to do a thorough job on his own. It made him feel he’d achieved something.

  ‘No. We have money to earn. But we’ll return in time and do more.’

  • • •

  Perhaps he should have felt the warmth of charity in his blood. But as he opened the door to his house on Saltergate, the only sense was frustration. Tom’s house needed a week of work, maybe more than that, and he had a living to make; he couldn’t spare all that time. The man had probably never even known they were there.

  He strode past the screen and into his hall, stopping short when he saw Brother Edmund on the settle, cradling a cup of ale as he talked to Katherine and Martha. From the back came the sound of the girls playing in the garden, then Juliana’s happy screech.

  ‘Brother,’ he said in surprise. ‘Welcome.’