The Holywell Dead

by Chris Nickson

  He’d just drained the last few drops when a man came running. Every eye turned to watch.

  ‘A body,’ he called out. ‘There’s a body.’

  Without thinking, people crossed themselves.

  ‘Is it plague?’ John asked. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s in a shroud.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Out along Holywell Street. In a ditch.’

  No coroner in Chesterfield any more. No one to view the dead and pronounce. Without that, they shouldn’t be buried. But in the summer heat the bodies would stink and putrefy in days.

  He ought to go. If only to see the face; everything else he knew or guessed. But this way he’d know who talked to him and told him about Roland. A face outside the shadows now. Beyond life.

  For a moment John didn’t move. He gazed in the mug for a few dregs that might remain, then set it down.

  ‘You go back to work,’ he told Alan. ‘I’ll be there later.’

  • • •

  A small crowd had gathered. Bailiffs guarded the corpse. Their swords were drawn and they wore the cuts and bruises from Roland like badges.

  John walked past them. Someone had dragged the shrouded body out of the ditch so it lay at the side of the highway. He pulled out his knife, took a breath, and slit the winding sheet open.

  The man had a wizened, ugly face, pitted and scarred by the years. Long hair hung to his back, turning from dark brown to grey. He had the powerful shoulders of a fighter, broad hands now crossed over his chest.

  He’d never seen the man before, but he knew him. This was the one who’d kept in the shadows and told his tale. He’d known Roland would find him eventually. He carried no fresh wounds, but John knew what he’d find even before he rolled the body on to its side. The small bloom of blood from the nalbinding needle on his back.

  He’d wanted to pass on the burden of justice. But it wasn’t a load John could carry, not one he was willing to take. He already had enough with his own family, with people he loved. God would take Roland when He was ready and the man would spend his eternity in Hell. That was judgement enough.

  ‘You might as well put him in the ground before the smell becomes too bad,’ he told the bailiffs and walked away.

  • • •

  Polishing, rubbing. That was how the afternoon passed. But his mind couldn’t stay on the work. It kept slipping away to the man left in the ditch. John had no authority. He was a carpenter, he was nothing; the man had said so himself. He could issue no orders, make no proclamations. He didn’t want to. This time the dead could bury the dead. It wasn’t his business.

  The house was in uproar when he returned to Saltergate. Chests had been dragged into the hall. He heard Katherine up in the solar giving instructions to the girls.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked Dame Martha as she came out of the buttery with a jug of ale for the table.

  ‘William’s widow left my old house today,’ she answered. There was dust on her gown and smudging her wimple. ‘We’ve been over there cleaning. Your wife talked to the carter. He’s moving everything tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ He’d thought he had more time.

  ‘Why wait?’ She stood, hands on her hips, assessing him with her old eyes. ‘What about you? You must have heard the news.’

  ‘I did, and I saw the body. It’s not my business any longer,’ he told her, and was rewarded with a smile.

  ‘No,’ she agreed, ‘it’s not, and Katherine will be pleased to hear it. Anyway, you have plenty to do. Walter, too, as soon as he comes home.’

  No rest for the wicked, even as they tried to be good. Katherine greeted him with a wary look that only turned soft after he shook his head.

  • • •

  Supper was quick, bread and cheese; there was too much to do. John and Walter carried more chests down the stairs. Martha and the girls packed up the kitchen. Finally all that remained were the beds; they’d have to wait until morning.

  ‘Hugh promised he’d come early,’ Katherine said. ‘It’s going to take a few trips.’

  He looked at everything waiting neatly for the next day. How could they have so much? But he knew the answer. This had always been Katherine’s home, her mother’s before her. It was the accumulation of generations, all the lives and memories she wanted to keep close and pass on to Juliana.

  Their daughter was happy, tottering around, touching everything, discovering it all. He licked his finger and wiped some dirt from her nose, enjoying the excitement in her eyes. Something was happening and she didn’t know what. They’d have difficulty getting her to sleep, he was certain.

  Finally, though, she was down, eyes closing as she tumbled into her rest. He was exhausted too, muscles aching from all the lifting and carrying. More of it tomorrow, too. Much more.

  He was the first awake, dressing and moving softly to find bread and cheese and ale. There was an hour before Hugh would arrive; it was barely dawn. John unlocked the door and stepped out into the day. Already warm. By noon the heat would be shimmering off the dust.

  He walked across the market square until he reached Alan’s house.

  ‘Not today,’ he told the lad and saw disappointment weigh down his face before the fingers began to move. Could he go and carry on working? He knew everything that needed to be done, the polishing and the rubbing.

  He was so earnest, so eager, that it was impossible to refuse. The boy wanted to know that he was trusted to do a good job.

  ‘If your mother allows it,’ he said.

  She was willing. ‘If you think he can do it, Master. He can’t come to any harm in the churchyard.’

  ‘You know what to do,’ John said. ‘I should be ready tomorrow. You’ll be the one who makes all the money today.’

  All of it? the fingers asked. John nodded.

  ‘Of course, you’ll be earning it.’

  ‘You’re very generous, Master,’ Alan’s mother said.

  ‘I have an apprentice who deserves what he’s paid.’

  • • •

  As soon as Hugh arrived, John began lifting the chests. It was just as well he’d done the work on the cart, he thought, with all this load. Then the short trip to Knifesmithgate, where Martha was waiting, and he was unloading again as she told him where to put everything.

  ‘How can you do this every day?’ he asked Hugh as they hauled down the last of the chests. ‘I’m surprised your back doesn’t break.’

  The man laughed. ‘It’s like anything else. You get used to it.’

  Walter took charge for the next trip, as John took the beds apart and carried them down the stairs. Sweet Jesu, moving a house was work; he’d rather have been with Alan in the churchyard. At least there was no talk of more plague cases. Maybe God had truly given them their miracle.

  But finally it was over. The house on Saltergate was empty save for dust and the one on Knifesmithgate was chaos. He knew his first task: putting the beds back together. He’d barely finished when he heard the knock on the door. A neighbour to welcome them?

  He began to clean the tools and Katherine called, ‘John, you’d better come down here. Now.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘What is it? Can’t you find something?’ He came down the steps brushing dust out of his hair. Then he saw Alan’s mother.

  ‘Is something wrong? Is he hurt?’

  The woman had been crying. She was shaking, Katherine’s arm around her shoulders. The words juddered out of her.

  ‘I went to take him some dinner, Master. He’d rushed out without anything, he was so eager to start. He wasn’t there. I’ve been looking for him all afternoon.’

  ‘Maybe he went off to play and forgot the time.’ But even as he said it, he knew the words weren’t true. Alan was a boy who’d keep at his work until evening.

  ‘Not without this.’ The woman held up the boy’s satchel. ‘He wouldn’t go anywhere without this.’

  ‘Walter,’ he called. ‘Come on.’ He took hold of the
woman’s hands. A hot day and they felt like ice. ‘We’ll bring him home.’

  As soon as they were outside he began talking to everyone on the street. Had they seen Alan? Blank stares or shakes of the head. In ten minutes he’d assembled a group of men ready to search. They knew what a missing child meant. He sent some to go through the town, others down to scour the riverbank and the water.

  ‘What about us, John?’ Walter asked as the others left.

  ‘We’re going hunting.’

  Alan wasn’t missing. He’d been taken. His mother was right; the satchel would never leave his side. He’d learned that lesson well. Yesterday Roland had killed a man. Today Alan had vanished. This was no coincidence. He knew exactly what it meant. Roland wanted him and Alan was the bait. Where would he take him? A moment’s thought and he knew.

  ‘With me,’ he told Walter.

  They crossed the bridge over the Hipper and followed the road by the leper colony before following the track that led through the fields to the woods. They’d barely taken a few paces when he stopped.

  ‘Do you have your slingshot?’

  ‘Yes, John.’

  ‘Collect a few stones and circle around to the far side of the wood. Stay out of sight but be ready.’

  ‘Who’s in there?’

  ‘Roland. I believe he is, anyway.’ And hoped he was. ‘How long will it take you?’

  Walter assessed the distance. ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘Off you go, then.’ He watched the lad vanish into the undergrowth with barely a sound.

  He didn’t want to involve Walter, but he had no choice. If he went against Roland on his own he’d be dead in a blink. This way he had a chance, however faint.

  The minutes passed. John looked around. There were footprints in the dust. A man’s and a boy’s. They’d come this way; he was sure of it now.

  He didn’t try to be quiet. It would be far better if Roland expected him; he might not be looking for anyone else. Evening was falling and the shadows were long. As he walked into the wood the birds seemed to grow silent and the bushes and trees rose around him.

  There was still the long twilight. Midsummer all too soon. And would he be alive for that? With God’s good grace...

  The path twisted until he was at the edge of the clearing. Roland stood in the centre with Alan sitting at his feet. The boy looked up, pleading. All John could do was give him the smallest of nods and hope he could keep the vow to his mother.

  ‘I expected you before now, Carpenter.’ Roland’s voice rang out, haughty and mocking.

  ‘I’m here. You can let the boy go. It’s me you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. Time to cut off the last loose end before I leave. At least the boy can’t speak. He can’t tell anyone about me. I don’t know why you use him.’

  ‘Then you’ll never find out, will you?’ He took a pace forward, feeling the sweat on his palm as he gripped the knife. ‘You can let him go now.’

  Roland grabbed Alan’s hood and pulled him to his feet. He had his other hand at the boy’s back.

  ‘Can you guess what I’m holding, Carpenter?’

  ‘Your nalbinding needle. It’s a clever way to kill.’

  ‘You’ll find out for yourself soon enough. Come closer.’

  One pace. A second.

  ‘Drop your knife.’

  ‘When you let the boy go.’ He hoped Walter was close enough to use the slingshot and was as good an aim as he’d been before.

  The man shook his head. ‘You do as I say.’ He jerked on Alan’s hood again, lifting him on to the tips of his toes.

  Very slowly, John extended his arm and opened his palm. Now, he thought. Now.

  A buzzing sound seemed to stop time around them. Then came the soft hum of the stone whispering through the air. It caught Roland on the point of his shoulder, enough to make him jerk back and let go of Alan.

  ‘Run!’ John shouted but Alan was frozen to the spot. Another stone. It battered the man in the middle on his back and he dropped the needle. ‘Run!’ John yelled again, and this time the boy obeyed. ‘Run back to town.’

  More stones, one after another, each one finding its target until Roland was ducking and running for the shelter of the trees.

  ‘You can stop now,’ John shouted, and a few moments later Walter emerged.

  ‘Did I do it right, John?’

  ‘You did. You saved Alan’s life. And mine. Again.’ He stooped and picked up the needle. It was as long as his hand and thinner than his smallest finger. The point had been honed to a beautiful, deadly sharpness. It would pierce a man’s skin with hardly any pressure.

  It was the perfect weapon to kill up close, so easily hidden up a sleeve, ready to slip into a man’s hand. He put it in his scrip.

  ‘We should go looking for him,’ Walter said.

  But night was closing in. Roland would have his lair somewhere, too well hidden for them to find in the darkness.

  ‘Not now,’ he answered. But it wasn’t over yet.

  • • •

  Alan was home long before John knocked on the door. He must have run the whole way, terrified.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Scared out of his wits, Master,’ the boy’s mother told him. ‘What happened?’

  How could he begin to tell her the truth so she might understand it?

  ‘Does he have any injuries?’

  ‘No.’ She set her face. ‘Someone took him. He told me that. Was it this man everyone’s been looking for?’

  ‘Yes, it was. He was using Alan to get me.’

  ‘And did you catch him?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘He escaped.’

  She stared at him for a long time.

  ‘I’m sorry, Master. But as long as he’s out there I can’t let Alan work with you. I know you’ve been very good to him, but this...’ He could see she didn’t own the words to express what she was feeling. ‘We’ve escaped the plague, thanks be to God, and I won’t lose him to this. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I understand.’ He’d do exactly the same for his child.

  • • •

  It was full velvet night as he walked back through the town. John kept his knife in his hand. Roland might be close; the man was bold enough.

  At first he almost walked past the house, too used to the old home on Saltergate. He recalled just in time.

  Katherine and Martha were still awake. Walter had told them his part of the tale and gone off to bed.

  Things were still awry in the hall, piles of this and that gathered on the floor and the settle. He poured a mug of ale and drank as Katherine looked at him. She knew the truth as plainly as if he’d told her.

  ‘You’re a good man, John,’ Martha said. ‘There are plenty who wouldn’t have gone after the boy.’

  ‘I had to.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’ She smiled and all the deep lines crinkled on her face.

  Katherine reached out, took his hand and squeezed it gently. To most people, it was done. Alan was home. But they understood that the ending still had to be written.

  • • •

  Later he stood by Juliana’s bed.

  ‘She wore herself out,’ Katherine whispered in his ear. Around them, everyone else was resting, the air filled with the snuffles of night. A tiny sliver of light came through a crack between the shutters. He’d gone round and barred all the doors and windows. Chesterfield was safe enough, but he would take no chances with his family. Until Roland was dead he’d stay on his guard.

  • • •

  He could see Alan had worked hard the day before. He missed the boy’s company and the sight of him so eager for another day’s labour. For now, though, he was on his own. Polishing, rubbing down. Mindless tasks that let his thoughts drift.

  But that was dangerous. He needed to be aware every moment. His hand moved to the knife, easing it in and out of the sheath.

  John took each task methodically. He’d forgotten what it was like to do the jobs alone. Even th
ough Alan couldn’t say a word, his hands spoke loudly, and his presence, his willingness to learn, made everything go more quickly.

  By the late afternoon he’d done all he could. The final coat of polish glistened on the wood. Tomorrow he’d warm the glue over a small fire and fit the pieces together. One day for it all to dry and then it would be ready to go into the church. He turned his head, craning to look up to the top of the spire. This would do justice to the building, he knew that. And to the memory of the coroner.

  Carefully, he wiped all the tools with an oiled rag, slipping them one by one into the old leather satchel before he stood and hoisted it on to his shoulder. Going home with his muscles sore and aching, it could have been the end of any day.

  But it wasn’t. Roland was still out there and he was going to demand his reckoning. Sooner, rather than later. The man had taken Alan; he wouldn’t hesitate to go after John’s family. He couldn’t keep them all safe, not every moment of every day. There could only be one answer: he had to go to Roland. It wouldn’t be difficult. The man would be watching somehow, waiting for his chance.

  But John would do it on his terms. Man to man he had no chance. But there were ways to give himself an advantage of sorts, to even things.

  First, though, he had to talk to Katherine.

  • • •

  ‘Do you believe he’d really do that?’ she asked.

  ‘I do.’ They were sitting in the garden, the sun on their faces. John cradled a mug of ale, staring down at the ground. ‘I brought all this on us by working for the coroner.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it? You can’t change anything. Are you sure he hasn’t just gone? It sounded as if you and Walter ran him off.’

  ‘Only for a short time. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants.’

  ‘Husband, he wants you dead.’

  He tried to grin, but it was a weak effort. ‘No one’s managed that yet.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she told him sharply. ‘Fate’s too easily tempted. What are you going to do?’

  He told her, watching her lovely face darken.

  ‘Will it work?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But it’s the only thing I can think of.’ He took her by the hand. ‘Come on. I want to see Juliana and the others before I go.’