‘There are people outside willing to look.’
‘No.’ De Harville shook his head very slowly. ‘He’s won. He’s put two lives on a scale and I know which means more to me.’
Outside, he addressed them all. Thanked them for their efforts and devotion. But it had all been solved, the man said, as John saw men turn to look at each other questioningly. His son would be free later.
He knew how much it must have cost for the coroner to admit he’d lost. Yet at the same time he couldn’t help but admire the man. He’d come out and told them all.
With mutterings and odd backward glances the crowd dispersed. He waited until they were alone, then asked, ‘How do you know he’ll keep his side of the bargain?’
‘I don’t,’ the coroner answered bleakly. ‘The only thing I can do is trust him.’
John understood; faith was all the man possessed now. Better to let him cling to it than say more.
‘Did he say how he wants it done?’
‘Nothing more than I read to you, Carpenter.’ He glanced up at the sky. Full daylight now but the sun was still low in the east and the night coolness still touched the air.
‘He’ll be watching somewhere.’
‘Let him,’ the coroner snapped. ‘He has my son.’
A son, someone to continue the line. God’s true gift to any family.
‘Maybe afterwards you can find him and make him pay.’
‘I’m not going to think of that.’ He took a deep breath and straightened his back. ‘I’m going to the jail, to see Malcolm released. You might as well come with me.’
The man was still in chains, looking more battered and bruised than before, skin swollen around his eyes and mouth. His skin was covered in dirt and blood, so he looked more animal than human.
‘On your feet,’ the coroner told him, and Malcolm struggled to rise. A bailiff unlocked his bonds. Malcolm cackled.
‘What now? Going to take me out and kill me?’
‘You’re free to go,’ de Harville said. ‘Up the stairs and out of the door. No one will stop you.’
Malcolm stared suspiciously.
‘Why?’ He took a pace or two, unsteady on his legs. John moved forward to take his arm but the man brushed him away. ‘Why?’ he asked again.
‘Go.’ The coroner stared at him. ‘Before I change my mind.’
Malcolm spat, looked around and then began to walk.
‘Now we wait.’
• • •
There was nothing more he could do. The silence was oppressive, a prison in itself. Finally the coroner led the way back to the street. Malcolm was nowhere to be seen.
De Harville had his bailiffs around him. Roland would either keep his promise and show he was a man with some small honour, or they’d find the boy’s body. Whichever way the dice rolled, John had no desire to be there for it.
• • •
A day of work, although his thoughts refused to stay on the job. Try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate. Twice Alan had to point out small things he’d missed; the pupil correcting the master.
At least they were working in Chesterfield. When they finished for the day he took the boy home then walked quickly across the market square to de Harville’s house.
Silence in the hall. Brother Edmund stared at nothing and the coroner was lost in his thoughts. Both turned sharply as John entered, their faces desperate for news, for anything.
‘No word?’
‘Nothing, Carpenter.’ He picked up a wine goblet, swirled it around slowly, then drank. His voice was empty, lost.
‘Maybe you’ll hear soon, Master,’ John said, but the man just shook his head.
‘I threw the bones and I lost.’
What could he say? There was nothing he could offer, no more hope.
• • •
‘Nothing at all?’ Dame Martha asked.
‘No.’
‘For once I feel sorry for him,’ she said.
‘And his wife,’ Katherine added. ‘It must be worse for her.’
‘True,’ the old woman agreed with a sad nod. ‘May God give strength to them both.’
‘The boy,’ John said. ‘We don’t even know if he’s alive. We might never find out.’
• • •
Darkness had fallen when he heard the voices outside. One or two at first, then more. John opened his door and stepped on to Saltergate. Two men passed, laughing.
‘What is it?’
‘God be praised, the coroner has his son back.’ They moved on, smiling and cheering.
He told his wife then slipped into his coat.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I want to find out what happened.’
• • •
He pushed through the small crowd gathered outside de Harville’s house and into the yard. An anxious bailiff stood guard; John nodded and passed unquestioned.
The mood had changed in the hall. The coroner was smiling; even the young monk looked merry, a mug of ale in his hand.
‘Drink, Carpenter,’ de Harville insisted, pressing a mug into his hand. ‘We have something to celebrate.’
‘Is he safe? Unhurt?’
‘No injuries, God be praised.’ The man’s eyes shone, his smile broad and relieved.
‘Where was he?’
‘Sitting by a tree on the Tapton Road. A boy delivered a message two hours ago to say we’d find him there.’
‘From Roland?’
The coroner nodded. ‘Who else? We questioned the messenger, he described the scar right enough. He kept his bargain.’
‘What does your son say?’
‘My wife and the nurse are coddling him.’ For a moment the joy left his face. ‘He’s too young to be able to tell us properly. You know that, Carpenter.’
It was true; the lad wouldn’t have the words to describe it all. Not old enough to even understand much of what had happened, probably. But the fear and the terror would remain with him.
‘What now, Master?’
‘Now I give thanks that my son is back with us. The bench I mentioned for the choir, have you thought about it?’
‘I’ve considered it.’
‘Can you make one?’
‘If you wish, Master.’
‘Yes.’ He said the word slowly, starting to pace around the room. ‘Yes, that would be good. My thanks to God for delivering my son.’ He drained the goblet. ‘Draw what you think and let me see it.’
‘I will.’ It wasn’t what he’d come to hear, but it was work and only a fool would refuse that. ‘What are you going to do about Roland?’
The coroner poured more wine and slammed down the jug. ‘Nothing. Let him win. The bishop doesn’t care, the Crown doesn’t care. If justice doesn’t matter to them, why should it to me? Maybe you were right when you made your choice.’
‘Perhaps.’ He raised the mug. ‘Great good joy to you and your family, Master.’
• • •
‘As simple as that? Just released him?’ Katherine asked in astonishment. ‘And the boy’s not hurt at all?’
‘That’s what the coroner says,’ he replied.
‘God’s smiled on them,’ Dame Martha said.
‘I didn’t think Roland would honour his bargain,’ John said. They were sitting at the table, the candle guttering. ‘But he’s won. De Harville is going to let it lie.’
‘A pity it took this long to make him see sense.’ Katherine shook her head. ‘If he hadn’t been so stubborn...’
He knew what she meant, and understood that her words included him. But she was right. It was time to let it go.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Over?
He’d believed it, but he was less certain the next morning as he crossed the square to collect Alan. The coroner rode out of his gate, spurring the roan, three of the bailiffs on horseback behind him, all of them armed with swords. De Harville wore a hard, determined expression. Wherever he was going, he believed it was important and dangerous.
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But it wasn’t his business. Wood waited for him, and he lost himself in it for the day. Nothing to tax his skills, but today he found real pleasure in the exactness of measuring and cutting. Alan worked alongside him, slower, still not sure of himself. That would come in time. Practice makes perfect, an old man had told him once. None of them would ever be perfect in this world, but they might always keep improving.
As they walked home he heard the news: the coroner and his men had gone after a nest of outlaws hiding out towards Baslow who’d been robbing travellers on the roads. Four dead, including one of de Harville’s men, and more wounded. Another three now in the jail, awaiting transport to Derby to stand trial.
That wasn’t the man’s job. A coroner brought justice to the dead, not the living. But he could understand. The man needed to do something, to prove to himself that he wasn’t impotent. And maybe he’d hoped to find Roland there and exact his revenge.
If so, he was disappointed; there was no mention of him. He’d be far away by now. Or if he was still around Chesterfield it meant he had business to finish, and that could be worse.
None of it was his concern. The coroner’s son was home unharmed; that was the important thing. He’d done what he could to help, but he’d have done as much for anyone’s missing child.
At home the chests were piling up higher in each room. There was just enough still out for daily life. Katherine and Dame Martha had made their preparations well. Come the day to move it should go swiftly, although he wondered how long his back might take to recover.
He sat in the garden with a mug of ale, watching Juliana crawling on a small patch of grass, concentrating as she moved twigs around in a game that made sense only to her. Katherine was busy in the kitchen, the door propped open to catch the faint breeze. As she worked he could hear her humming a merry tune.
Linen was spread over the bushes to dry after a washing, stark white against the bright, lively green; Katherine had been down to the river today to clean their clothes.
With a stick, John began to draw a few rough ideas for a choir bench in the dust. The first was too plain, the second one better. He scratched them out and thought, then started to sketch again. Juliana toddled over, watching, then tried to make her own marks on top until he had to lift her on to his lap.
Finally he had it. Simple enough, but with some elegance. A plain bench, the sides rising in a curved design, and a plank at the back so the choir could rest their backs. Polished and glowing, it would look impressive and elegant, yet easy enough to make. Tomorrow he’d draw it for de Harville. If he approved and they reached a price, he and Alan would have even more work ahead.
• • •
‘Is that it, Carpenter?’
The sketch was crude but it gave the idea of the thing. John had begged a scrap of parchment and the quill from Brother Edmund and scratched out a picture of the bench.
‘It is, Master. It will fit well in the church.’
‘And can you make it?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘I can.’
The coroner stared at it a little longer then nodded. ‘Four pence a day and your ale as you work on it. But I want the best wood, good oak.’
‘Five pence and ale.’
‘Four is what I’ve paid you before,’ the man countered sharply.
‘And this is my trade. It’s my skill.’
Eventually de Harville gave in. With a bad grace, as ever, but they sealed the bargain.
‘I want it done soon. Not just to give thanks; it might help us with the plague. Did you hear, Carpenter? Another one this morning.’
‘Who?’ The news hadn’t reached him.
‘Rufus the Shoemaker.’
Someone else who lived close to the bottom of Soutergate, down by the river. John crossed himself.
‘May God help him.’
‘May He help us all. Tell me when you’re starting to fashion this bench. I’ve a mind to see it progress.’
‘Yes, Master.’ He didn’t like it; he always preferred to work without someone glancing over his shoulder and offering suggestions and criticism. But de Harville was paying the bill; he had the right.
If they hurried through the next two jobs they could begin work on the bench in a few days. There were other things, but no rush on them. And this excited him. Something that would be on display in the church day after day, work that would be judged by the whole town. It needed to be as good as he could make it.
He explained it all to Alan as they walked to their next task. This one was simple, building a small wooden shed behind a kitchen. The building itself would form the back wall. He dug the holes for the posts as Alan measured and cut the wood. By dinner the frame was all in place. Gravel at the bottom of each hole to allow the water to drain, then the earth packed tight around the wood, checking each of the posts stood straight and true. A little water, then tamp the dirt even tighter.
‘Now it needs time to dry,’ he told Alan. ‘Then it will stay solid when we nail on the boards.’ He showed what he meant and the boy grinned as he understood.
Nothing more they could do here today, other than hope there was no rain. Instead they walked across town to a house that overlooked the weekday market. The roof beam was beginning to sag.
‘How would you do it?’ he asked Alan.
The boy stared up at the wood, then walked around. His small feet tested the floor under them, locating the joists. What it needed was a new beam, his hands said. That was the proper solution.
‘That’s good,’ John agreed. ‘But we can’t do that, they won’t pay for it. We need to put in something upright to shore it up.’
Alan looked doubtful, and well he might. Eight years old and he already naturally understood more of construction than the man who owned this house.
‘It’s not up to us.’ John shrugged. ‘I told him about the pressure it would cause but he insisted. We’ll use two beams, a little distance apart. That will help to spread the load. A broader pad of wood under each post will help, too.’
The measuring and cutting needed to be exact, but the trick was putting the wood precisely in place. Inch by inch with gentle pushing and hammering to make the posts completely straight, then securing each one to the roof beam to give yet more strength.
It was close to dusk when they finished. His arms and shoulders ached. All he wanted was to wash off the dust and dirt of the attic and sleep. Some supper in his belly, a scrub in cold water out in the garden and he was ready to rest.
Next day, the shed. First checking the sturdiness of the framework, then nailing planks to the posts, starting at the bottom, each one overlapping the one below to help keep out water and weather. Alan measured and cut, then John worked quickly and eagerly, teased by the prospect of the bench ahead. The sides were complete by the time the light began to fade. Two more days of work here and then they could move to the church.
First thing that morning he’d ordered the wood, taking Alan with him as he selected it. Trunks of matured oak, straight and true, cut two years before. The boards would be waiting in the churchyard. He was eager to shape them, to make the bench he saw in his mind.
• • •
The evening brought a short shower of rain, leaving the earth smelling dark and sweet. He kept the shutters open to draw in the fresh air and settled down in bed. The family was all asleep, the doors locked. The only thing he couldn’t keep out was the pestilence. There’d been another during the afternoon, a child of three. What god claimed an innocent like that? No matter how much John thought, he couldn’t see the justice or love in it.
It seemed he’d barely closed his eyes when the banging on the door woke him. Quietly he slid out of bed, holding the knife against his thigh. John drew back the bolts quietly. He’d expected a bailiff but it was the coroner himself, eyes glistening in the light of a full moon.
‘I’ve had word of where Roland is.’ He ran his tongue around his lips. ‘I thought you might want to be there at the kill, Carpenter.’
‘No.’ He never wanted to see Roland or hear his name again. He’d learned his lesson well enough. ‘You said you wouldn’t pursue it, Master.’
‘I kept that vow,’ de Harville said. ‘I haven’t searched for him. The information came to me. He and Malcolm are camped out by Holymoorside. I’ve assembled the bailiffs, we’re going to catch them in the darkness. Come and join us, you can have your revenge.’
‘No,’ John repeated.
‘Why not? Do you think that men like that should be allowed to live?’
‘You kill them and another pair will spring up in their place. Then another and another. There will always be men like those two. You can’t rid the world of their type.’
‘I only want to rid the world of these, Carpenter. Let someone else take care of the others.’ He licked his lips.
‘Then I pray that God keeps you safe, Master.’
‘As you wish, Carpenter. You can see them when we bring them back, bound and ready to die.’
Did the man believe it would be easy? The bailiffs might be young and strong and eager, but they’d be pressed hard against two seasoned fighters with good weapons who’d always be ready for a surprise attack.
• • •
He slept in fits and starts, no more than a few minutes at a time, it seemed. There was the first sense of morning on the horizon when he woke fully and dressed. The town was still silent, but that would change soon enough as men set out for their work.
No lights at the jail, no commotion at the coroner’s house as he passed. The few faces he saw had no news and for a moment he wondered if he’d dreamt de Harville’s visit. But it was real enough, he remembered every detail. No matter; he’d learn more later. Word would pass soon enough.
He worked steadily through the morning. At dinner he treated Alan to a pie from the cookshop. Not from generosity; he wanted to hear the gossip. By now they all seemed to know about the raid. Three of the bailiffs seriously wounded; one was unlikely to survive. And no one captured.
Jesu, but the coroner was a fool. Now he looked it, too, and that would hurt him deeply. Two men defeating a force and escaping, all to satisfy a man’s pride.
John stayed silent, listening to the accounts. Each a little different, every one a bit more exaggerated. Alan ate, then began to sign his questions.
The Holywell Dead Page 18
