The monk looked flustered, his young face colouring as if he’d been discovered doing something wrong. He stood quickly.
‘Master. The coroner asked me to come and find you. Your wife and the good dame said you’d be home soon.’
‘Sit,’ John insisted. ‘What does de Harville want?’
‘He wants to see you. He went out to that house.’
‘I’ll be there soon. First I need to wash.’ He held up a hand to show the dirt and sawdust. ‘We’ll walk back together.’
• • •
‘How do you like Chesterfield?’ John asked as they strode out. He felt refreshed by the cold water. If his skin didn’t shine, then at least he was cleaner and cooler.
‘It seems very big,’ Edmund replied doubtfully. ‘I keep losing my way. And there’s the church with that spire.’
He laughed. ‘This is a small place, Brother. I lived in York, if you want large. They have churches on almost every corner there.’
Edmund’s eyes widened, as if he couldn’t imagine such a place. He was the second son of a small landowner, he said, destined for the church from the moment he was born. But he was content with his life, he told John with a smile.
‘I’ll become used to the coroner’s ways.’ He sounded less sure of that.
‘Did you talk to Brother Robert before you left the abbey?’
‘Yes. He gave me advice. He’s a gentle old soul, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. People here liked him. But I’m sure they’ll feel that way about you in time.’
‘I’m only here for a year. The abbot assured me.’
John raised his eyebrows. ‘Have you told de Harville?’
‘No,’ Edmund said, and a hint of mischief crossed his face. ‘Do you think I should?’
‘Perhaps not.’
• • •
‘Master. You wanted to see me?’
‘That’s right.’ The coroner speared a piece of cold meat from a plate and ate it as he paced around the room. His hunting dog sat, watching him carefully, ready to pounce on any fallen scraps. ‘I went to that house and took two of the bailiffs.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I thought you might like to see what we found.’
The door opened and the man was pushed in, almost stumbling. His wrists were firmly bound with rope and his face covered in bruises and cuts. He’d been questioned and beaten to make him answer.
The figure had dark, curly hair, a patched tunic that was smeared now with dirt and blood. His hose were ripped at the knee and the soles of his boots were coming away from the uppers. Not a knight. Definitely not a rich man.
One of his eyes was swollen shut, but the other held a defiant glare. He was the type who’d always look as if he needed a shave, the dark stubble on his cheeks ready to sprout into a beard within hours.
‘Do you know him, Carpenter?’
‘No. I’ve never seen him before.’
‘His name’s Malcolm. He didn’t want to come with us. The bailiffs had to persuade him.’ He stared at the man. ‘Speak.’
Malcolm let out a blast of curses until one of the bailiffs slapped the back of his head. John didn’t know the man and he certainly didn’t know the voice. He’d heard the accent before, though, when he lived in York.
‘Familiar, Carpenter?’
‘No. But he’s from the border country. Up towards Scotland.’
‘Is he now?’ The coroner threw down the rest of his meat and the dog jumped on it, tearing it apart in his jaws. ‘Where this might have all started five years ago.’ He stroked his chin and looked at Malcolm again. ‘What do you know about that?’
But the man stood with his back straight and his head high, saying nothing.
‘Take him away and find out,’ de Harville ordered. The bailiffs pushed him out of the room. ‘Jesu, he sounds more like an animal than a man. But I suppose it’s all you can expect up there.’ He turned. ‘You did well to spot that. How did you know?’
‘I’ve met others from the area.’
‘Maybe we’ll get to the bottom of this after all.’ His eyes shone. ‘You keep the vow to your wife and I don’t have to pay you. A good bargain, isn’t it, Carpenter?’
John smiled. ‘I wish you joy, Master.’
• • •
It kept his promise. Or did it? He’d been happy to let it all go, so glad to see the back of it and feel safe again. He could still feel the prick of the knife against his neck in the clearing and smell the sour breath of the man who held it. But he’d had no sense of being followed or watched since then.
He would have walked away from every part of it. But it kept returning to him. The man in the shadows on the lane. And hearing that voice again, he needed to know its owner and what it meant.
‘John.’ There was sadness in Katherine’s voice. There were out in the kitchen, a distance from the house. She was kneading dough for tomorrow’s bread, ready to leave it overnight to rise. ‘Brother Edmund told us what happened. Why did you have to bring Walter into things?’
‘He was safe, I made sure of that.’ Even if they’d spotted him, the lad could lose them in the woods and outrun them.
Her fists were bunched, resting in the bowl. ‘Why did you even need to know?’ she asked
How could he explain it? That understanding seemed like the only way out of the spider’s web that was all around him? It would never make sense to her; he wasn’t sure it did to him.
‘I’m trying to keep us all safe.’
She stopped, hands still deep in the dough, and gave him a sharp look.
‘How?’
‘As long as the killer is out there, we’re in danger. All of us.’
‘But—’
‘I know what they said.’ He placed his hands lightly on her shoulders. ‘And I know he hasn’t returned. As long as he’s out there, though, we can never feel secure. I can’t do anything about the plague. And I won’t go up against these men, whoever they are. I’m not going back on that. No risks. But small things...’
She breathed in and out a few times and started to push down, slamming the bread against the wooden board.
‘Fine.’ No anger, just acceptance. ‘As long as it’s nothing more than that.’
He kissed the back of her neck. Her skin was sweaty and he tasted salt.
‘It won’t be.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A new day and the summer sun shimmered in the sky. The road was dry and dust rose with every footstep. They were walking out along the Sheffield Road. Not too far, barely a mile. The fields were divided into their strips, so many green now and fertile. A few, dotted around, were brown and fallow, resting for a year.
Alan had been full of questions and suggestions. Where were they going? What work were they going to do? Would there be more jobs like working for the old man yesterday?
‘I don’t even know if there’s a name for where we’re going,’ John answered; he’d never heard one, anyway. ‘The steward on the manor has some work for us. And yes, we’ll do more charity work in time, I promise. Not often, though. We have to earn money, remember?’ He smiled. Boys, always wanting to know everything.
The work was on the manor house, preparing it for a visit of the owner.
‘He’ll be here in a fortnight,’ the steward said as he fussed around them. ‘If everything’s not right he could dismiss me.’
It wasn’t a large house, not much bigger than any others around. Enough room for a family and perhaps one servant.
‘When was he last on the manor?’ John asked.
‘Two years,’ the steward answered, distracted as a small shape moved under the old rushes on the floor. ‘He spends most of his time elsewhere.’
‘How many manors does he own?’
‘Six. He’ll be staying here until they cut the grass in the fields.’
Late July, John thought. He’d be in the house for a few weeks.
‘Leave it with us, Master. We’ll have it fine for him.’ The wood, at least. As to the rest, that wa
s beyond his skills. He could see mortar crumbling between the stones on the walls; that would need a mason.
John walked around the outside, Alan at his side. In his head he made a list of the tasks: tighten the door on the kitchen building and a new shutter for the window. Trim the back door to the house where it stuck against the step. Fresh skirting in one of the bedrooms. Tighten all the shutters and replace two floorboards in the solar. It wasn’t so much.
‘What did you see?’ he asked the boy. By now Alan should be able to spot things that were needed. He had noticed every task. It was enough work to keep them busy for a few days.
Once he began it was like falling into a dream, a reminder that he was born to do this job. Time passed without him even knowing as he became absorbed in his tasks. When Alan tapped him on the shoulder to check something he’d completed it came as a sudden awakening, cold water on his head.
‘That’s very good,’ he said at the way the boy had replaced the skirting board. A fine fit, flush and smooth, all well-finished.
Come evening, they’d made a solid start on it all. As they walked back, the spire grew taller with every footstep and he felt happy, still brushing the sawdust off his clothes.
• • •
‘Friend Malcolm still doesn’t want to talk,’ the coroner said. ‘And when he does I can’t understand his heathen tongue.’
A message had been waiting when John arrived home: de Harville wanted to see him. He’d let it linger until he’d eaten his supper, famished after a long day of work. Only then did he slip his good tunic over his linen and walk to the High Street. The man didn’t own him; he could wait. He wanted time with his family. After the recent shower of plague, today had brought no more, and another of those who’d come down with it had survived – one more miracle to be celebrated, if not understood.
He could hear a child wailing up in the solar as the nurse persuaded the coroner’s son reluctantly to bed. After a moment the crying and shouting ended abruptly.
‘Do you understand how he speaks, Carpenter?’
‘Not very well.’ In York he’d talked with one or two who had that accent, but even then he’d had difficulty following the words. And that had been long ago.
‘I’d like you to try.’ De Harville paused. ‘I’d be grateful.’ He smiled. ‘I’d pay for your time, of course.’
This was new. Greasing him with kindness and the offer instead of demands and orders. He considered the idea.
‘I’ll give him a few minutes. He’s in the jail?’
‘One of the bailiffs will be waiting.’
Better a bailiff than the jailer. That old sot had been unwilling to do anything more than necessary.
• • •
The brand in the sconce flickered patches of light around the cell, the flame jumping and shifting. Malcolm’s wrists were in chains. There was enough room for small movements but the chain was bolted to the floor. Even so, the bailiff remained in the room, silent in the doorway with a hand on his sword hilt. John handed the prisoner a mug of ale and let him wet his throat.
‘Your name’s Malcolm?’
‘Aye.’ The voice was dry as gravel.
‘Where are you from?’
‘Otterburn.’
‘I don’t know it,’ John admitted.
‘It’s only a small place. North of Newcastle.’ There was a glint of humour in his eye. ‘You know that area, do you?’
He needed a few moments to make out the words and understand them.
‘I’ve never been but I knew men from there when I was in York. What are you doing down here? It’s a long way from home.’
‘Trying to make a living. I’ve a family back there if the Lord’s been kind enough to spare them.’
‘What’s your trade?’
‘This and that.’ He shrugged. ‘Whatever needs doing, I can turn my hand to it. Not afraid of hard work.’ He held up his hands. Under the dirt his palms were heavily callused.
‘The men who came to see you. There were two of them.’
‘Met him in the alehouse. He can understand what I say, like, so we started talking. Wanted to offer us a job.’
‘Doing what?’ John asked.
‘He didn’t say.’
That wasn’t true and they both knew it. But he’d leave it be for now.
‘How long have you been down here?’
‘A little while now. Why?’
‘I just wondered.’
A little while could cover a wide span of time. Anything from a year to a few weeks.
‘This man had spent time up where you’re from?’
‘Aye, that’s what he told us, like. He seemed quite canny.’
‘What did he do up there?’
‘I never asked.’ Another lie. He’d want to know; anyone would, it was only natural.
‘What do you know about nalbinding?’
‘I’ve never heard the word. What is it?’ But his answer came too quickly. Another lie.
‘What do you know about something that happened in the borders five years ago? The way I heard things, a lord was killed.’
Malcolm raised his head enough to look into John’s face. ‘Plenty of men die up there. Honest men keep their heads down, stay quiet and try to stay alive. It’s one good reason to leave.’
‘And were you an honest man?’
That brought a fleeting smile. ‘What do you think, like?’
‘I think there’s more you haven’t said than you’ve spoken.’
‘Happen there is. But I’ll give you an answer. I’m a man who’s been honest and not. Like everyone else on this earth.’
With that he sat back, leaned his head against the stone wall of the jail and closed his eyes. There’d be nothing more out of his mouth tonight.
John climbed the stairs into the long evening light. After the cell it seemed as bright as midday.
‘Could you really understand that barking?’ the bailiff asked.
‘Some of it. You might as well tell the coroner that Malcolm doesn’t want to say much.’
• • •
Back to work on the manor house. It seemed too small for any lord, but that wasn’t for him to judge. With Alan at his side they worked through the day, stopping only to eat their dinner in the shade of a broad oak.
Nobody had whispered of more plague as he walked through Chesterfield that morning. All those it had taken were dead and in the ground, their bodies slaked with lime and dirt. No one had an explanation for why two had survived. They weren’t especially godly folk. Just lucky to be spared.
If they continued to work like this until November he’d have money to tide the family through the darker days of winter, John thought. With the garden Katherine had planted, they wouldn’t starve. Life felt blessed. And if the pestilence really dealt them no more than a passing blow this year, then God was watching over Chesterfield.
As they cleaned the tools, sharpening saw and chisels with a whetstone, he felt contentment. Bit by bit they were improving the place. It might never impress anyone who possessed real wealth and power, but the house would please the owner of the manor when he arrived.
The steward came to inspect the work they’d done. John pointed out all the tasks they’d completed.
‘Where is the lord travelling from?’
‘He didn’t say. He has manors dotted all around England. The last I heard, he was on the land he owns north of Durham.’
Durham. That wasn’t far from the border country where all these deaths seemed to have their root.
‘What brings him here?’
‘Touring what he owns.’ The steward gave a fretful smile, as if he might have something to hide. ‘It’ll cost plenty to see he’s comfortable while he’s here. Then he’ll complain because the manor didn’t bring in more this year.’
And how much had been vanishing into the steward’s scrip each season, he wondered?
‘Since the Great Pestilence it’s been hard enough to find tenants,’ the man contin
ued. ‘Everyone wants to be his own master now. More people want to rent land now than give service. Times change.’ There was sadness behind his eyes, as if he missed those older, harsher days.
Wearily, they walked back to town. Alan had worked as hard as any man. Left to his own devices there had been no playing or idling.
No signing, no talk. The boy was tired and well he should be.
• • •
That night John dreamed of Juliana as a woman, fully grown, on the way to her marriage. All her family was around her, even Dame Martha, older still and frail as a wisp. It was a sign, he felt as he woke and remembered the image in his mind. They’d survive.
• • •
Saturday and the mood was merry in the market square. Traders thronged the place the way they had before the plague visited. Still no fresh cases and hope began to show again in everyone’s eyes. John walked with Katherine, Juliana toddling between them as she clutched their hands, overawed by the number of people and the display of colour. Silk the colour of blood, a bright blue ribbon that fascinated his daughter so much that he had to buy it for her, seeing her delight as Katherine braided it into the girl’s hair. It was an extravagance, he knew that. But the joy that shone on her face made it worth every penny.
He bought more nails from the Apperknowle smith, a large parcel of them to weigh down his satchel. They were ready to leave when the word sped around: a girl had come down with the pestilence.
In minutes the customers had fled, as if a tide had washed them all away. The vendors were hurriedly packing up their goods and leaving.
The victim was a shoemaker’s daughter living near the bottom of Soutergate, close to the bridge over the River Hipper. The plague had returned to the place where it began to tease and taunt them.
Katherine took Juliana home while John watched the dismantling of the market with fascination. De Harville strode through the people; they parted to let him pass.
‘A good day turned bad, Carpenter.’
‘You can’t blame them, Master.’
‘I don’t,’ the coroner said, defeat on his face. ‘They fear for their families, the same as the rest of us. But the plague strikes where it will.’
‘Is Malcolm still a prisoner?’ What more was there to say about the pestilence? Nothing they didn’t already know, nothing they hadn’t heard a hundred times before.
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