The Holywell Dead

by Chris Nickson

  ‘No, I didn’t go,’ John told him. ‘I value my skin more than that.’

  Another question.

  ‘What will de Harville do now? I don’t know, but it probably won’t be the sensible thing.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Come on, let’s go back to work. We still have plenty to do.’

  • • •

  One of the wounded bailiffs died during the night. No more cases of plague.

  The only task remaining on the shed was to make and hang the door. He let Alan do much of the work to see how much he’d learned. It took time. The boy was careful, knowing it was a test. But it was one he passed easily. By the shank of the afternoon, when all the heat seemed to gather close to the ground, the job was complete. The shed still needed a roof, but that was work for a tiler. John accepted his payment and gave Alan his share. The boy’s hand curled proudly around the coins and he slipped them into his scrip.

  ‘You have ample for a hammer now,’ John said. ‘On Saturday we’ll go to the market and buy one, shall we?’

  Alan nodded his agreement eagerly. He had money to buy more than a hammer, his fingers said. He’d been saving his pay.

  ‘A hammer will do for now,’ John told him. ‘Good tools aren’t cheap, but they can last you a lifetime.’ And pray God he’d have a long enough life to use them. ‘Tomorrow we begin at the church. Are you ready?’

  The boy nodded. He would do his best.

  • • •

  On the way home he spotted de Harville in the distance. But the man was striding briskly away from him. No sense in calling out; John had made it clear the night before that he wanted no part in this business. To say anything would simply salt the wound. But he wondered what would happen next. Would Roland and Malcolm let things be, or would they want retribution?

  • • •

  He rose before dawn, as excited as a child about the new job. Alan had to rush to be ready when John arrived early. Together they walked through town, only a few minutes across to the church.

  Was it true about the spire, Alan signed. He craned his head back to stare upwards.

  ‘It is. It’s held on by its own weight.’

  The boy blinked, trying to understand. John knew; it seemed impossible, but he’d seen it with his own eyes. John looked around. No one was watching. A few farmers were setting up at the weekday market on the other side of the church.

  ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

  They walked through the nave, genuflecting to the altar. Then John opened a small wooden door and they started up a spiral staircase made of stone. Up, up, up. He’d made this walk often when he first arrived in Chesterfield and worked on the church. It felt like another lifetime, though, as if a different man had done all that.

  The windlass they’d used for hauling up timber was still in place, crowding out the chamber. There was the heavy beam that had broken his arm. Still the faint stain on the floor where he’d discovered a body. A room filled with bad memories.

  ‘Look up now,’ he said. ‘You can see.’

  Alan walked slowly around the room gazing up at the inside of the spire. A latticework of beams supported it as it rose, the careful jumble taking the strain. At the base, though, it was exactly as he’d said. Only the spire’s own heavy weight stopped it from crashing down.

  How, Alan wondered. But John had no answer. It had been explained to him but it still seemed more miracle than anything else. Finally the boy was sated. Eyes filled with wonder, they made their way back down the stairs.

  By the door, John halted and held up his hand. Voices in the church and he knew one of them. Malcolm. But what was he doing here, in the middle of Chesterfield where anyone might spot him?

  He pressed himself against the wall, motioning Alan to do the same. And he listened.

  ‘It’s a good idea,’ Malcolm said. ‘With no priest, no one will search his house.’

  As best he could judge, the men were in the vestry.

  ‘Safe enough if we only go out at night and don’t have a fire. At least it’s summer.’ He didn’t know the speaker. Was it Roland? He couldn’t imagine who else it might be.

  ‘I don’t see why we’ve come in here,’ Malcolm said softly. ‘It’s dangerous. Anyone could come in.’

  ‘They won’t. I told you, I need to search for something. It wasn’t in Crispin’s house. It’s about the only thing that can damn us.’

  ‘It was still a shock seeing him as a priest.’ A short, quiet laugh. ‘He almost looked the part.’

  ‘He was always a bloodthirsty bastard. Shocked him when that needle pierced his skin.’ A frustrated sigh. ‘It’s not here. We’d better go.’

  ‘I wish I could have reached that coroner,’ Malcolm said as they left. ‘I owe him for what he did to me in jail.’

  Only when he heard the soft click of the latch did John move.

  ‘Go out to the porch and start looking over the wood,’ he ordered Alan. ‘I’ll be there very soon.’

  I can come with you, the boy signed.

  ‘No. Do as I tell you.’

  He needed to see for himself, to inspect the vestry. He was scared, although he knew they’d gone. But fear was good. It kept a man alert and alive. He moved silently into the room.

  They’d been careful; everything looked in place. What had they been looking for? What could damn them? Whatever it was, they hadn’t found it. Was that the reason they’d stayed in Chesterfield?

  He should tell de Harville what he’d heard. That was his duty. But if he did the man would blunder off immediately. He would never take any counsel on it. Better to pass word later, so the coroner would wait until night when Malcolm and his companion were sleeping. A better chance of not dying.

  The wood was waiting for him, but he found that his eagerness had palled. Hearing them had ruined it, at least for now. But it was work he’d wanted, something he’d designed himself. Time to begin.

  He took the parchment from his scrip and unrolled it.

  ‘This is what we’re making,’ he explained to Alan. ‘It’s simple enough. One board to sit on, another for their backs. Those bigger pieces are the sides. We’ll put joints through to keep it secure, and another board right at the bottom, where it meets the floor, so it’s stable. Cut and glue everything well and it should last a hundred years.’ He brought out a ball of twine. ‘We’re going to start by measuring and we need to be certain it’s exact. Do you remember what I taught you?’

  Alan grinned and his fingers moved rapidly. Measure twice, cut once.

  ‘Today we’ll measure three times, just to be sure.’

  • • •

  It was the coroner’s offering of thanks, but the execution of it was John’s prayer. He wanted it to be exact, as beautiful as he could make it. He worked slowly, everything certain and checked as he sketched out his design in charcoal on one of the end pieces, then stood back, looked and made some small changes.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked, and the boy pointed to two small areas. ‘Well spotted.’ He altered them and thought. ‘Yes. That’s it.’ He knew the wood would look right in that shape; he simply sensed it. ‘Finish measuring and marking the boards while I cut this.’

  A rough cut only. Most of the shaping would come with the chisel, not the saw. That was fine. As he worked and the sawdust flew into the air he could already feel the wood talking, ready for this. After each step he stood back and looked, picturing it as it would be when he was finished. By evening he’d even begun the more demanding task of executing the curls and curves that he’d drawn.

  It was a fair start. He was determined not to hurry this job. It would be on display to all for years to come, God willing, a real testament to his craft. It might even bring more work if people admired it.

  No more victims of the pestilence today, no one dead.

  Come the morning he would set to again with fierce concentration as he wielded the chisel. Alan knew enough not to suggest that he do some of the work. Instead he cut and smoothed the boa
rds that would make the seat and the back.

  • • •

  ‘They were in the church?’ De Harville almost shouted the words. ‘Why didn’t you come and tell me straight away?’

  ‘What would you have done, Master?’ He stood his ground. This man would not cow him any longer. It was evening, a wax candle illuminating the table in the coroner’s hall.

  ‘Taken the bailiffs to the priest’s house and cut them down.’

  There was no mention of capture this time, only death.

  ‘And you’d have found them both awake and alert. They’ll be sleeping soundly tonight, thinking they’ve been clever. Isn’t that a better time? You have a key to the place, you can take them by surprise.’

  The coroner acknowledged it with a curt nod. ‘And you, Carpenter, are you coming with us?’

  ‘No, Master. I’ve told you before.’

  ‘Yes, your wife has made a coward out of you.’

  Let the man think whatever he chose; John wasn’t going to be baited. Fighting men could battle for their beliefs. He’d keep his distance.

  ‘You said they were looking for something?’ de Harville asked.

  ‘Yes. But they hadn’t found it in the house and it wasn’t in the vestry. Something to damn them.’

  ‘What is it? Have you thought? Where can it be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He hadn’t even spared a moment to consider it. ‘I came to tell you, that’s all.’ He turned to leave.

  ‘Wait,’ the coroner ordered. ‘I could use you tonight. Not to fight,’ he added hastily. ‘To watch and make sure they can’t slip away. That brother of your wife’s, too.’

  ‘No, Master.’ With a quick glance at Brother Edmund’s worried face, he closed the door behind himself.

  • • •

  ‘Thank you,’ Katherine said when he told them all. ‘I feel better with you out of all that. And Walter, too.’ She looked down the table at her brother; his head was bent as he ate with his spoon.

  ‘She’s right,’ Dame Martha agreed. ‘This is nothing to risk the lives of ordinary folk. If it all started with a lord, then let lord’s men take care of it.’

  ‘I made my vow,’ he said, ‘and I’ll keep it.’

  But he still listened closely for noises in the darkness and wondered what was going on. Whatever happened tonight, he’d helped set it in motion. And something was certain to occur. De Harville would never let it lie, and the bailiffs would be eager for their revenge. By the time he removed his hose and put his arm around Katherine in bed he’d heard nothing.

  It came later, deep into the night, a time when honest men should be sleeping. Metal against metal, a shout, a scream. Instantly he was sitting upright and reaching for the knife at the side of the bed.

  But it was distant. Someone else’s fight. He might not sleep again before daylight, but he’d stay safe behind these walls and keep the doors locked and barred tight. In the faint light he could make out the heads of his family. Silently, he crept out of bed and stood over Juliana, standing silently until he could make out her soft breathing.

  Martha was sitting at the table. There was a rushlight in front of her but the flame wasn’t burning.

  ‘You heard it, too?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’ He poured ale from the jug and settled next to her. ‘There’ll be some sorrow in the morning.’

  ‘Then be grateful we don’t have to worry about you.’

  ‘I am.’ He didn’t want to dwell on it, all the blood and death. And he didn’t mention all the times he glanced over his shoulder, fearful that Roland might be behind him. ‘Are you ready to move back into your old house?’

  She gave a small, tinkling laugh. ‘You know, I never expected to set foot in it again. It will seem strange, I’m sure. After all, the place will have a new mistress.’

  ‘We’ll always defer to you.’

  ‘John, I hope you won’t. It was mine for so long and now it’s yours. I want you to make your own mark on it.’

  ‘We all will,’ he told her. Before he could say more there were footsteps outside and a fist hammering against the door.

  ‘You’d be safer in your room,’ John said. He waited until she was out of sight, then drew his knife. ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘Bailiff,’ a voice answered in a croak. ‘For the love of Jesu, open up, Master.’

  He lifted the bar and turned the key. The man almost tumbled in. There was blood on his jerkin, more on his face.

  ‘Sit,’ John ordered and put his ale into the man’s hand. He struck a flint and the rushlight flared.

  ‘What is it?’ Katherine called. She was at the head of the stairs, hurriedly dressed.

  ‘A wounded bailiff,’ John answered. He turned to the man. ‘How bad are you?’

  ‘Better than some,’ the man replied grimly. Quickly enough the women were working with water and cloths. The girls stood by the solar and stared until they were sent away. Walter came down, fully clothed, a dagger stuck in his belt.

  ‘Did you take them?’ John asked.

  ‘We took them by surprise, for all the good it did.’ He winced sharply as one of his wounds was bathed. ‘But the pair of them fought like devils, Master, and that’s no lie. I think one of them might be dead, but I’m not sure. The other escaped, I’m certain of that.’

  ‘What about the coroner?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. We were fighting just to stay alive.’

  Martha brought a small jar of salve and rubbed some on the deep cuts. The man’s face eased and he slowly drew breath.

  ‘I ran, Master, and I’ll admit it. It was that or die, and I have a family.’

  ‘Rest here a while.’ He saw Martha nod; the man would be well. John picked up his jerkin. ‘I need to go and see how many are hurt.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Men sat, dazed, as others wandered with burning torches that spread a few feet of light. John looked around for de Harville.

  Inside, the priest’s house looked like devastation. Table were overturned, the prie-dieu smashed. Broken dishes littered the floor of the buttery. The back door hung open, the garden behind it a deep black mystery.

  John took one of the brands and went out. At the far corner he could pick out two shapes and moved cautiously towards them, knife ready in his other hand. Malcolm, one hand clutching his belly, trying to push everything back inside. But too late; his life was over. And next to him, sword still in his hand and a look of triumph on his face, de Harville.

  John reached his fingertips to the man’s neck. A faint beat there, enough that he might survive.

  ‘Back here,’ he called out. ‘The coroner’s wounded.’

  He squatted by the man, tearing away at his collar, holding the flame high to try and inspect the wounds. He’d barely finished when two men appeared with a hurdle and eased de Harville on to it.

  ‘Take him home,’ John ordered. ‘How many others?’

  ‘Three dead, Master. One doesn’t even look like he has a mark on him,’ one of the men replied, wiping sweat away from his face. ‘Another hurt so bad he’ll likely join them.’

  ‘We need to raise the hue and cry. Pass the word.’

  He watched them carry de Harville away. There was nothing more he could do for the man. It was in God’s hands now.

  It was impossible to track Roland in the darkness. But if they didn’t try, he’d have the chance to escape. Men started to gather, wondering what to do next.

  ‘How many people can we assemble?’ he asked one of the bailiffs. The man had a small cut on his face, another on his sword hand.

  ‘Maybe forty by daylight, Master.’

  ‘Go to all the houses. Rouse them so they’re ready to go as soon as we can see. Does anyone have a dog that can track?’

  ‘Old Edward has one he uses for hunting.’

  ‘We’ll need that. Have everyone meet by the church porch.’

  He stalked off, seeing Walter standing in front of the priest’s house.

>   ‘Come with me.’ He led the way home.

  The wounded bailiff was dozing. His arms were a pillow for his head as he rested.

  ‘How bad is it?’ Katherine asked.

  ‘Three dead. Four if you include Malcolm. De Harville’s wounded. With God’s mercy he might live.’ He filled a mug with ale and drank it down; his throat was parched. ‘I’m going over to his house. The hue and cry’s setting out at dawn.’

  She nodded. Katherine understood he had to be a part of this; it was his duty as a townsman.

  ‘Be careful, John,’ Martha told him.

  ‘I will.’ He glanced down at the bailiff. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Exhausted,’ Katherine said. ‘But he’ll heal. His wounds aren’t bad. We’ve dressed them. As soon as he wakes I’ll send him home.’

  ‘I want to come with you,’ Walter said.

  John looked at his wife. Slowly, sadly, she nodded. Her brother was old enough now; she couldn’t refuse him.

  ‘Fine. Be in the church porch at first light.’

  • • •

  Candles were burning in the coroner’s house. His wife came down from the solar.

  ‘We’re waiting for the wise woman,’ she said. Her face betrayed no emotion, none of the fear that must be churning inside. ‘Brother Edmund is praying over him.’

  ‘How badly is he hurt?’ John asked. ‘I couldn’t see out there.’

  ‘Three wounds,’ she replied. ‘One of them is deep.’

  ‘I’ll pray for him, too. Mistress, if it helps, he killed Malcolm.’

  ‘That won’t seem like any consolation if I lose my husband.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And how many dead now, Master?’ There was ice in her voice.

  ‘Too many.’

  ‘Do we even know what it’s all for?’

  ‘No. Perhaps lords revenging themselves on each other.’

  ‘We end up caught in business that’s none of our concern. You men and your pride.’ She turned and climbed the stairs back to the solar.

  • • •

  The dead were laid out in the church. Candles burned around them. Men were muttering quietly, crossing themselves again and again.