The Saltergate Psalter

by Chris Nickson

  Praise for The Crooked Spire by Chris Nickson

  ‘The author powerfully evokes a sense of time and place with all the detailed and meticulous research he has carried out for this very suspenseful and well plotted story of corruption and murder.’

  Eurocrime

  ‘[A] convincing depiction of late-medieval

  England make this a satisfying comfort read.’

  Publishers Weekly

  ‘[Nickson] makes us feels as though we are living what

  seems like a fourteenth-century version of dystopia,

  giving this remarkable novel a powerful immediacy.’

  Booklist (starred review)

  For Shonaleigh and Simon of Dronfield,

  the couple who have all the best stories.

  CONTENTS

  Praise

  Title

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  Anno Domini 1361

  In the late May light he walked home along the dusty road. The old leather bag of tools slapped against his thigh with every step. His muscles ached from a long day’s work, but John the Carpenter felt content.

  The job at the farm in Newbold was going well. A barn to complete, another four weeks of steady money, fourpence and a gallon of weak ale each day for his labours. At home his wife, Katherine, was waiting. They’d been wed during the winter, standing in the church porch while the snow fluttered down outside. A few words from the priest and it was done, then they walked back through a white Chesterfield to the house on Saltergate that would be their home.

  Now the air was heavy with the smell of wild flowers, their bright colours dotting the copses and the hedgerows. The scent of honeysuckle caught his nostrils. He was happy, he thought. For the first time since he was a child, he believed he had a place where he belonged.

  He glanced up and saw the tower of St Mary’s, the timbers of the spire rising higher and higher. It would be complete in just a few weeks and visible for miles around. It was work he could do quite easily, but there’d be nothing there for him. Not after last year.

  Still, this was better. He took what carpentry work came along, big jobs or small. It was enough to get by. In the autumn of the year before he’d been offered the stewardship of a manor. A steward. A man of rank and position; how proud his father would have been. And yet … He’d thought long and hard about it, discussed it with Katherine and with Dame Martha, the widow woman who owned the house where he lodged before his marriage. In the end he’d turned it down, with his gratitude to Coroner de Harville for the offer.

  In his heart he knew it was the right decision. What did he understand about farms, of crops and cows? He’d spent his whole life working with wood. He could feel the shape in a piece of lumber and bring it out with his hands. It was what he could do well. It was the thing he’d been born to do, his gift from God.

  Since his refusal of the steward’s position the coroner had barely spoken to him, snubbing him when they passed on the High Street or on Saturdays in the market square. Let him be, John thought. The man had his own troubles, his wife still not recovered after the difficult birth of a son, according to all the gossip of the goodwives.

  A cart passed, heading away from the town, and he paused to exchange greetings with the driver, then scooped up water from a stream and drank. It had been a warm, dry spring, and he was grateful: more time to earn money.

  Back in March he’d begun cutting and shaping the timbers for the barn, choosing aged, good oak. It was a long, slow task, day after day with the saw and adze. He’d finally drilled and pegged the beams together, then put them up at the end of April, with the help of Katherine’s younger brother, Walter.

  In the early evening, Chesterfield was quiet. The traffic of the day had passed. A pair of young girls hurried by, heads together as they spoke quickly. Noise came from the houses, but it seemed distant, muted and drowsy. A bee droned close to his head, then hummed away, out of sight.

  He stood in front of their house on Saltergate. It still needed a little work, a patch of limewash to be replaced, a shutter to be re-hung in one of the windows. Nothing immediate; there’d be time for that later in the year, after his paid work was finished. Satisfied, he lifted the latch and walked in, past the screens and into the hall. Katherine had put fresh rushes on the floor, sprinkled with thyme that released its smell as he walked over them.

  Her young sisters, Janette and Eleanor, were perched on the settle, one on either side of Dame Martha as she told them a story, the tale of an outlaw who only stole from the rich and gave what he took to the poor. They were listening, rapt, not even noticing as he passed.

  Martha smiled and winked, never pausing in her words. He grinned at her and walked through to the buttery.

  Katherine stood with her back to him, concentrating on stirring something in a bowl. Quietly, he crept up, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her close to him.

  ‘John,’ she warned him with a gasp. But she didn’t resist, leaning her head back against his shoulder and giving a small sigh. ‘I didn’t know when you’d be back.’

  It was true enough. As the days lengthened, he often worked until dusk had passed.

  ‘I missed you,’ he said, and she turned to kiss him. Sometimes, when he looked into her eyes, it was difficult to believe she was his wife, that this wasn’t some long, beautiful dream. Her lips tasted of cream; a tiny spatter of it remained on her cheek.

  ‘Martha came to see the girls so I asked her to stay for supper.’

  That was the reason the old woman always gave, but he knew it was really to spend time with all of them. Somehow or other, she’d become a part of their family, welcome and wanted in this house. Katherine’s own mother had died the year before, her passing a blessing after her mind had gone. And his parents … his mother buried when he was young, and his father one of so many taken by the Great Pestilence, the leather satchel of tools all he had to leave.

  ‘Where’s Walter?’

  ‘He’s still out delivering messages.’ It was how her brother earned most of his money, delivering things and passing word around the town. She pulled back until he was at arm’s length, his hands still on her shoulders.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘The coroner was here after dinner. He wants to see you.’

  He grimaced; whatever de Harville needed, it wasn’t good news. And after dinner? That was more than eight hours ago. The man would be waiting impatiently. The previous autumn John had helped solve a killing. He’d had no choice; he was still new in Chesterfield, a suspect in the murder himself. Finding the murderer had been the only way to clear his name. They’d invited the coroner to witness their marriage. He never came, but his clerk, Brother Robert, had slipped away to say a blessing over them.

  And now de Harville was back with his demands.


  ‘Did he say what he needed?’ John asked warily.

  A strand of dark hair had escaped from her veil. He brushed it back gently with his fingertips.

  ‘Old Master Timothy has died. That was the talk at the market this morning. They’ve raised the hue and cry for his servant.’

  Timothy only lived a hundred yards away, in a grand house at the top end of Saltergate, a beautifully constructed building John admired for its jetting upper storey. But he’d never seen the man who owned it. People said Timothy been on the earth for eighty summers, surviving the plague and the famine many years before. He was supposed to be so frail that he could barely walk around his grand house.

  The servant was the only one who ever came out of the front door. He was no young man either, the skin on his hands mottled with the dark spots of age, not a hair left on his head. But he carried himself erect and proud, as if he was happy to serve such a master. Nicholas; he recalled the man’s name. He didn’t seem the type to kill and run off.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he told Katherine. ‘It’ll be fine. He probably only wants to annoy me.’ He didn’t believe it, but saying the words lightened his mood. He placed a hand over her belly. A small life was quickening there. She’d told him the week before, when she was far enough along to feel certain that the child wouldn’t vanish in a clout of blood. The only other person who knew was Martha, who’d beamed with delight when she was asked to be the baby’s godmother. ‘I won’t let him take all my time. I promise,’ he said.

  ‘Make sure he doesn’t.’ Her eyes flashed. Marriage hadn’t dulled her spark, and he was grateful for that. During her mother’s illness she’d run the house, fiercely protecting her family. Katherine was no scold, but she expected as much of others as she gave of herself. A few times he’d felt the sharp edge of her tongue when he’d been thoughtless. But making up after had been an even greater pleasure.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And please, John, keep Walter out of things.’

  ‘If I can.’ It was the only answer he could give. Walter had helped him before, and the coroner knew it. If the man expected it … He looked at her helplessly. She smiled and stroked his cheek.

  ‘Try, please.’

  He squeezed her hand and put his arms around her. He knew what she meant. He was a man with responsibilities now. And more on the way. He kissed her tenderly.

  John placed his bag gently on the floor, out of the way so young feet wouldn’t trip over it. Before he’d left the job he’d cleaned and oiled all his tools, the way he did every day. They were a part of him, they’d served his father well, and with God’s good grace he’d be able to pass them to his own son, if he had the gift of working with wood.

  He kissed his wife again, wiped the smudge of cream from her face, and walked down to the High Street.

  The coroner’s house faced on to the market square, set at the back of a small yard with a stable to the side. He knocked on the door, waiting until a servant showed him through to where de Harville sat at his table, dictating notes to old Brother Robert, his clerk.

  The coroner finished his sentence before looking up. His face had grown leaner and harder in the last few months, leaving him looking careworn and troubled. His fair hair was even more pale, his eyes colder.

  ‘About time, Carpenter. I’ve been waiting all day. I have a job for you.’

  John stared at him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Master. People have ordered my services until the autumn.’ Whatever the task, he didn’t want it. He had his real work to do. If God smiled, perhaps the coroner would have some pity.

  De Harville’s expression didn’t change. In the heat he’d stripped to his linen shirt, hose and boots, a thin green and yellow surcote tossed carelessly over a stool in the corner.

  ‘If I want you to do something, you’ll do it, Carpenter,’ he said bluntly. He picked up a knife lying on the table and stabbed the point hard into the wood. ‘You understand? I’m the King’s Coroner in this town.’

  It was a battle he’d never had a hope of winning. He’d put up his small resistance, for whatever it was worth.

  ‘As long as you pay me,’ John said.

  De Harville put his head back and roared with laughter. It was an ugly scourge of a sound.

  ‘You hear that, Brother? He thinks he can make demands.’

  The monk kept his head lowered, his gaze fixed on the parchment in front of him.

  ‘King’s Coroner or not, Master, I need fourpence a day and my ale.’ If he had to do it, he’d be damned if he was going to lose money on this.

  ‘Done,’ de Harville agreed quickly. ‘Make a note of that so we can claim it later.’ He looked at John and shook his head. ‘You should have asked for more. The crown would have paid. Too late now. Be here first thing in the morning. We can let Timothy sit overnight. No one can do him any more harm now, anyway.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  John was up before first light, slipping out of the room quietly, leaving Katherine and the girls asleep up in the solar. He could hear Walter moving around in the buttery, preparing his food for the day. Bread, some cheese.

  ‘Can I come with you?’ he asked as John entered, yawning.

  ‘Not this morning,’ he answered kindly. The lad had helped him in the past, and even saved his life once. But he’d do what Katherine wanted, as long as it was in his power.

  ‘Why, John?’ Walter was smiling as he asked the question. He’d grown tall during the winter, bigger than his sister now although he was a few years younger. His dark hair was wild, his face so open it showed all his thoughts. The lad was still thin, not much more than a stick, but quick on his feet as he delivered messages around town. No one knew Chesterfield better. People thought the lad had turned simple after a blow on the head when he was young; in truth, he was anything but. Quick to learn and eager to please, he might stumble over words, but there was nothing wrong with his mind.

  ‘De Harville just wants me for now.’ He put a hand on the lad’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll need you soon enough.’ He hoped that wasn’t true.

  But it was enough to make Walter smile.

  ‘I’m glad, John.’

  For some reason the boy looked up to him. He was always eager to help, the way he had on the barn in Newbold and other jobs that needed a second person. John had tried to teach him carpentry and he’d mastered the basics. But no matter how willing, he didn’t have the natural feel for it.

  He liked Walter’s company. On Sunday afternoons, as the church bell faded into memory, they’d often walk in the country, talking, discovering things. The lad had a sharp eye, he could identify the birds and the animals, where to find them and how to watch them unseen.

  ‘Stop,’ he whispered when they’d been out one day, halting John with a hand over his chest. ‘There.’ Slowly, he raised a hand and pointed. It took a while, but after a few moments John had been able to make out the stag in the trees, almost hidden in the branches. Yet Walter had spotted it straight away.

  • • •

  The coroner led the way through to the top of Saltergate. It was early, the sun barely risen, still a breath of coolness on the land.

  John lagged behind, strolling beside Brother Robert. The old monk was limping, a small portable desk with its quills and parchment hanging from a strap on his shoulder.

  ‘How are you, Brother?’ He nodded at the coroner. ‘He won’t let you go back to the monastery yet?’

  Robert shook his head. ‘He tells me I’m too valuable. I keep saying that he needs someone younger to keep pace with him, but he still won’t let me leave. With his wife ill, he’s prickly all the time.’ He gave a pointed glance. ‘I’d advise you not to test him, John.’

  ‘But the other way round …?’ He smiled.

  ‘Power does what it likes, you know that.’

  ‘How’s the child?’

  ‘Strong and healthy, praise God. He’s with the wet nurse.’ Robert’s eyes twinkled. He paused before adding, ‘You’ll
be a father yourself, I believe.’

  ‘What?’ John stared in surprise. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I’ve seen Dame Katherine,’ Robert said gently. ‘The glow on her face tells its own story.’

  For a moment he was nonplussed, unsure what to say. Finally he just smiled and nodded.

  ‘October, she says. Pray it’s a safe birth for mother and child.’

  ‘I will,’ the monk assured him. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  The coroner was waiting outside the house. The building looked as if it needed some work, as if it has been neglected too long.

  ‘I don’t have all day to spend here,’ he said sharply. ‘Old women move faster than you two.’

  De Harville brought out a key and unlocked the door. Inside, the shutters were closed tight, just a little light coming through the gaps. The hall smelt of neglect and the sweet stink of death. John blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom before he moved.

  A rich man’s house, that was certain. A long table, a settle of good, carved oak, and a pair of fine tapestries hanging on the walls.

  ‘Up in the solar,’ the coroner said, and they climbed the stairs.

  Here the shutters had been thrown back, showing a man propped up in a bed, a pillow behind him. The smell of putrefaction was stronger in the room; John held his breath and put a hand over his mouth as he approached the corpse. Maggots were already doing their work around the mouth, nose and eyes. Flies buzzed relentlessly. He swept them away, but as soon as his hand passed they returned. Brother Robert stood with his hands together and eyes closed, lips moving as he silently said prayers for the dead.

  Timothy’s eyes stared sightlessly. Old hands rested on the blanket, the flesh wrinkled, dappled and gnarled by time. A full head of white hair, his linen shirt so ancient it had yellowed.

  But there was no sign of violence. He looked as though he’d died in his sleep. John stepped back, still staring at the body. Then he turned to the coroner.

  ‘It looks like he died naturally.’

  ‘I agree,’ de Harville nodded. ‘But if he did, why would his servant flee? Tell me that, Carpenter.’