Gently, he took her by the hand and guided her away. They would walk around the church. Do it slowly enough, with plenty of stops, and the service might be over.
The grave had been dug, a deep, dark hole in the ground that faced to the east. Come Judgement Day de Harville would be able to rise with all the rest of them and walk to his fate.
John rounded the corner. No weekday market today, just the drone of the curate’s voice from the church. Juliana took a few paces and tumbled over a stone on to the grass. He hurried to pick her up and soothe her before the tears began. As he scooped her into his arms he glanced across at the wall.
The face was only there for a moment before it vanished. But he saw the scar, pale against weathered skin, and he knew exactly who it was.
Roland.
With his daughter in his arms he couldn’t give chase. There was no one else out here, just a magpie that chattered wildly in the trees. Inside the church the curate’s voice rose.
There was only one thing John could do. He dashed back into the nave, handed Juliana back to Katherine, and shouted, ‘Hue and cry! The killer’s outside!’
Men poured out of the church, gathering by the porch. The women followed, curious and chattering; the service was over.
It hurt to do this at a solemn moment, but it was the only way to try and catch Roland. John explained quickly, then the men were on their way, clambering over the wall and spreading out.
How much of a start did the man have? Two minutes? Three? It couldn’t be more than that. The hue and cry vanished in a welter of shouting as he stood in the churchyard and watched. He was still there when the coroner’s wife appeared, her skin white and her cheeks stained with tears.
‘Mistress,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. But there was no other way...’
‘If they find him, it’s all worthwhile.’ She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘You did what my husband would have done. There’s no shame in that.’ With a brief nod she returned to the church.
‘You should go with them, husband,’ Katherine said. He looked at her. There was no rancour in her voice, only a look of concern.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. His knife was in his sheath and he touched the hilt like a talisman as he kissed her.
Walter was at his side as he set off at a run. Roland would do the unexpected, that was the only certain thing. The men had all rushed off to the north-east. He’d have gone in a completely different direction. Where? He stopped and tried to guess.
South, between the river and the lazar hospital. It was ground that the man seemed to know, that he favoured. He walked quickly, asking everyone he saw if they’d noticed anyone. People shook their heads. But Roland would avoid people; he’d try to pass unnoticed, scurrying and hiding. That would slow him a little.
‘Where are we going, John?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know. He could be anywhere. What do you think?’
The lad looked serious, frowning as he pinched his lips together. ‘Where we found the coroner,’ he said. ‘Or where they took you.’
That was plenty of ground to cover, too much for two people. Roland could evade them without even working up a sweat. An idea came to him.
‘Would you be willing to come back to the leper colony?’
‘Yes.’ Walter seemed surprised at the question. ‘But why? He won’t be there.’
• • •
‘I can’t, my son,’ the priest told him. ‘They have to remain behind these walls.’
‘Father,’ John said urgently, ‘we’re searching for a killer. Every moment we spend talking he could be slipping away. All I want are those who are willing to help. The ones who want to. It’s God’s work.’
The priest sighed. ‘The people in the town won’t like it.’
‘Now the coroner’s dead there’s no real authority in Chesterfield,’ he argued. ‘And we won’t even be close to the town.’ He hectored and pleaded, aware of sand trickling through the hourglass, until the priest finally gave way.
It was then he heard a shuffle of feet behind him and turned.
‘We’re ready, Master,’ the sexless voice croaked, face hidden by the cowl. ‘Just tell us what you need.’
‘Alison?’ he asked, to be answered by a small nod. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘We’re certain enough.’
There were five of them waiting. He couldn’t see a single face under the hoods. But they listened carefully and began their slow, painful walk down to the lane. With seven in all they stood a chance of finding Roland – if he was even here. If he was like most men, the sight of a leper would scare him. Men who panicked made mistakes.
‘Come on,’ he said to Walter. ‘We’d better join them.’
He tried not to think what he’d do if he found the man. It was safer to push that to the back of his mind. Instead they trod along the track to the clearing where he’d been held. Nothing. No sign that any person had been here recently. The same with the place where the coroner had been tied. The ropes that had bound him still lay at the bottom of the tree.
He cupped his hands and took a drink from the river, splashing water over his face and hair. His feet ached in their boots. John glanced at Walter; the lad was as impassive as ever, his expression showing nothing.
They plunged on. Another mile, but there was nothing to indicate a man had come this way. Some animal tracks, a dog perhaps, or a wild boar, but that was all.
‘We’ll go back,’ he said.
‘We should cut across the fields and find the lepers,’ Walter said. ‘They might have seen something.’
It made sense. They would be slow, none of them able to walk properly; they couldn’t have come too far. He judged the way, across the common open ground where a handful of scrawny cattle grazed, and around the edges of fields that the plough hadn’t touched. The quickest course was through a wood, with tall oak and elm and ash giving shade. They hadn’t searched here. Before they entered, John held up his hand.
‘Be very careful,’ he whispered.
He stepped carefully, trying to avoid even the snap of a twig. His head moved from side to side, alert for movement and danger, the knife in his hand and ready.
But all he saw was a sparrow that flew up suddenly, and a red squirrel that flitted from branch to branch.
It wasn’t too difficult to spot the lepers, moving slowly in their habits. They looked like a group of wraiths spread across the fields. It was a vision to terrify most men, like death walking among them.
They hadn’t come far; that they’d been willing to come at all seemed like a small miracle to him.
‘Did you spot anything?’ John asked after they eventually gathered around him. None had. Perhaps Roland hadn’t come this way after all; there were too many possibilities. He’d tossed the dice and lost.
He stood and watched as the lepers awkwardly made their way back to the colony that was their home. He only saw them as they were now, not the people they’d once been, loving, hoping, with dreams and ambitions and families. God had taken all that away from them, a death as certain as the plague, but one which took so much longer to arrive.
‘What do we do now?’ Walter asked.
‘We go home,’ he said with a sigh. ‘There’s nothing more out here.’
• • •
Men from the hue and cry were gathered outside the church. Someone had persuaded the alewife to donate a small barrel and they were drinking deep. John noticed the grave, filled in now, bare, dark earth against the brilliant green of the grass.
No one had seen Roland. He’d skittered out of sight and away. But he was still somewhere close; John was certain of that. Something had drawn him back here when he should have been far away. He still had something to do in Chesterfield.
What, though? Who was he after? Find that man and he could find Roland. He looked around the faces. Carefree, laughing. They’d done their duty, they had a tale to tell and some ale for their efforts. And if they didn’t catch anyone, what did it
really matter in the end? They’d never really expected to succeed.
As he entered the house on Saltergate and passed beyond the screens he saw the expectation on the faces. Katherine and Dame Martha looking so hopeful. All he could do was shake his head.
‘No sign of him.’ There was no point in searching further. The only way they’d catch Roland now was pure luck. He ate his dinner in silence, watching as Walter bolted his food and held out his bowl for more.
Luck against skill. That wasn’t any sort of fight he wanted.
In the afternoon he collected Alan. They worked together in the churchyard, well shaded by the tree. John kept glancing over his shoulder, constantly feeling that someone was watching him. But there was no one. He made a sign to keep off the evil eye and returned to the job.
Everything assembled well; only one joint needed a shim to keep it tight. That was very fair work and he rewarded Alan with a broad smile. The bench would look glorious once they’d finished, a fitting memorial to the coroner.
In pieces, it seemed like very little, no more than cuts of wood. Together, it became more than the sum of its parts. It was something new, useful, maybe even beautiful. That was the magic of wood, the way a pair of hands could transform it.
Polishing was a tedious task, nothing to compare with the shaping and the building. It was no more than movement. Mixing the polish, applying it, leaving it to dry, then rubbing it down again. Layer after layer until finally the surface was hard and shining, fit to use, fit for display. But it would take several days before that could happen. Then the final fitting and gluing and moving the bench into the church.
He knew better than to look ahead. He’d learned that lesson long ago. You grabbed each day and tried to hold it close. The plague might take them all before it happened, although there had been no new cases that day. But he had his hopes, his dreams. He wanted to live a long happy life, to see Juliana grown, and keep all his family around him.
His arm ached from rubbing. Alan was tired, he could see it in the boy’s eyes. Very carefully, he covered their work, leaving it room to breathe and dry. They’d have more of the same in the morning.
As he walked home, the feeling that he was being watched wouldn’t vanish. But even when he stopped suddenly and turned, there was no one. Only a few souls about their business and the long light of a June dusk.
The shutters were closed in the coroner’s house; a home in mourning. And what would they do now? Would the family stay in Chesterfield? Was there anything here for them now, beyond painful memories?
Idle thoughts and none of his business. He walked along the High Street, shifting the bag of tools on his shoulder. A voice called his name. The rasping voice he’d heard once before, the sound from the shadows.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was coming from the same small yard between two houses where he’d heard it the last time. John drew his knife and slipped between the buildings.
‘What do you want?’
‘I gave you good advice before, didn’t I?’
He hesitated. ‘You did. But why won’t you say who you are?’
A soft chuckle, like someone tossing pebbles down a well. The man stayed hidden, but this time John was more alert, trying to form an impression of him. Tall, broad perhaps. That voice had depth, it seemed to resonate from his chest.
‘Does it really matter who I am?’
‘Of course it does.’
‘Only to you, then. No one else will care. Do you still want Roland?’
‘He has to face justice. He’s murdered. He killed de Harville.’
‘If you want your justice, there’s only one way to get it.’
‘Catch him.’
‘Kill him,’ the man announced. ‘If you send him off for the law, nothing will happen. In your heart you know that.’
‘How can you be sure? He killed the King’s coroner.’
‘Believe me. I know. Believe me on this.’
‘Why are you telling me?’
The man gave a short, harsh laugh like a fox’s bark. ‘Who else would I tell? Who else would listen?’
This was going nowhere. John didn’t want to play games, to be led in circles by someone who wouldn’t even show himself.
‘If it’s that important, why not kill Roland yourself?’
‘I’d never get that close. Who do you think he’s looking for?’
Of course. It made perfect sense now. He should have realised it before.
‘Who are you?’ John asked.
‘Nobody you know. Nobody you need to know.’
‘Why does he want to kill you?’
‘Because he’s been well paid to settle old scores. And he’s never been one to leave a job undone.’
‘Then what do you want from me?’
‘Somebody has to kill Roland.’
‘No,’ John told him. ‘You won’t say who you are, you won’t let me see you. You haven’t even said what’s at the root of all this.’
‘Do you really want to know?’ the voice rasped.
A stupid question. Too many had died. John had come close to it himself. Of course he wanted the reason behind it.
‘Yes.’
‘Then listen,’ the man commanded. ‘It was five years ago. There were four of us. We all felt like young men then, immortal and brave, and we believed in the lord we served. He was a favourite of the King. We were up on the border with Scotland. He’d sent us to sweep away the Reivers who kept coming down; our lord owned land there. But you might as well try to stop a river. But there was another lord who didn’t feel as bound to the King. He talked about rebellion. Maybe they were just angry words, I don’t know. It’s too late to matter now. We spotted him out hawking with some of his followers one day. We kept watch on them, out of sight and unnoticed. Then he rode off on his own. Foolish in that part of the country. Perhaps he had the arrogance of rank. We saw our chance, killed him, and we were away before anyone could catch us.’
‘But someone found out.’
‘We drank and we boasted. And just after that, our lord fell out of favour. The son of the man we killed discovered our names. We knew he’d want his revenge. We disappeared. We had to. Two years ago this son became an important man at court and his rise became our death warrant. He hired a mercenary.’
‘Roland.’
‘Roland,’ the raw voice agreed. ‘We had friends who could give some protection. You must have already guessed that. We stayed in quiet contact; it could be a way to save our lives. And then Roland found Crispin.’
‘Blood demanded blood.’
‘Yes. And you understand why just catching Roland will do nothing. He’ll be pardoned and freed in a day. Then he’ll come back to take his revenge on you, too.’
‘It’s a good tale, Master.’ It fitted with all the rumours Dame Martha and de Harville had remembered. ‘But none of it is my business. I wish you well with Roland. A long life and God’s peace.’ He began to turn away.
‘He might choose to kill you anyway. Who are you? Just a carpenter, you’re nothing.’
‘Then why would he bother?’ John asked. Being nothing could sometimes serve as a shield. ‘You’re the one he wants. After he kills you, he’ll leave. You said he’s a mercenary, an assassin. He’ll do the work and claim his pay.’
‘Is that what you believe? How many others has he murdered here, him and that man who travelled with him? Your coroner, your bailiffs. One more death would mean very little to him. Go and think about it if you wish.’
That was all. The man had said his piece.
John walked home in silence.
• • •
‘A good afternoon, husband?’ Katherine asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied after a moment. The first thing he’d done was pick up Juliana and carry her around the house. He needed some life, some joy to banish all the death from his head. ‘A few more days.’
‘And no more cases of plague,’ she told him with a smile. ‘There haven’t been
any since de Harville’s death.’
That was coincidence. It had to be. Here they were in high summer with its heat and sun, days of sweat and work, and the pestilence had left them? Or maybe God had granted them a miracle. He didn’t know. He couldn’t trust that it had vanished yet.
Martha saw his doubt.
‘Have faith, John. It’s moved mountains before. That’s what the Bible says.’
He let his wriggling daughter down to the floor and watched her run towards the girls as they played in the corner. Each step firmer and stronger than the last. A few more years and she’d be tall like them. A few more after that and she’d become a young woman.
He heard a gravelly voice echo in his mind.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘Let’s pray it’s true.’
• • •
Another morning and more polishing. A first coat for some of the pieces, rubbing and more of the wax for others. There was nothing to this, just mindless work. But it was all a part of the whole, and as his arms ached he tried not to lose sight of the glory in it all, even in the smallest, mundane details.
Alan laboured hard, his arm making short, stolid strokes as he rubbed the wood down between coats. He was mastering his craft well.
‘Do you still have that money saved for more tools?’
A little, the hands said. Of course he did. He wasn’t going to spend it on anything else.
‘Good. Then we’ll definitely go to the market on Saturday and look for that hammer.’
The boy’s eyes widened with surprise and pleasure. Did he mean it?
‘Of course I do.’ There might be a bargain, or someone willing to take a little off the price in exchange for some work. John looked at his own tools. How had his father been able to afford them? He’d been too young to think of that question when the man died. And maybe it didn’t matter now.
The cookshop was quieter today. The only gossip was wonder at the end of the pestilence. Men were wary, but hope glistened in their eyes. He ate and drank his ale, half-listening to the words floating around him.
The Holywell Dead Page 21
