The Saltergate Psalter

by Chris Nickson

  The old men had the benches, sitting and supping quietly. The young stood, louder, eager to drink themselves senseless and think of it as a good night. The stout alewife stood by the barrels, a heavy cudgel dangling from her wrist as a warning. Her veil was stained, the old dress shapeless on her body. She looked at him as he ordered.

  ‘You’re the carpenter,’ she said. It came out like an accusation.

  ‘I am, Mistress,’ John admitted. Maybe she needed some work doing here.

  ‘Investigating for the coroner.’

  He nodded his reply.

  ‘You’d better not be causing trouble here,’ the woman ordered him.

  ‘I won’t.’

  She kept her eyes on him. ‘See you don’t.’

  Not that there was much chance of it. People were huddled in tight groups, not looking for strangers to join them. He moved around, squeezing between people. But there was nothing for him here, no one who seemed to fit what he sought.

  People walked up and down the street. A pair of whores touted listlessly for business. Their time would come later, when the men emerged, reeling, not ready for their own beds yet.

  The last of the alehouses stood at the bottom of the hill, close to the bridge over the River Hipper and the Derby Road. Downstream, he could see the fulling mill silhouetted in the moonlight, and he could hear the flow of the water as it passed close by.

  The place was as packed as the other two, but it seemed different. There was nothing friendly about it. The man who took his order was surly, and the groups of folk seemed to talk in quiet voices, as if they didn’t wish to be overheard.

  No one resembled the man he was seeking, though. He moved around, asking his quiet questions. Someone believed he remembered the man, but couldn’t give him a name. Others just shook their heads.

  Finally, he emerged. He’d hoped for more, but life wasn’t always generous. On Monday he’d go to the tannery; there hadn’t been time today. He’d wager they’d know the man there.

  The fresh air felt glorious against his face. Just cool enough. John stood on the bridge and stretched. Tomorrow, at least, he’d have some peace.

  He heard the rush of footsteps and turned quickly, reaching for the knife in his belt. Before he could pull it the blow landed and the world became black.

  • • •

  He came to with the shock of cold water, blinking his eyes quickly, unsure where he was. He felt cold. Small waves rippled against his face, making him splutter.

  The river.

  The moon was strong enough to show the bank and he paddled towards it. Each stroke felt like an effort, but he knew he had to do it. It was that or drown. His left arm was weak, not even able to support him as he dragged himself out. He was close to the fulling mill. Two hundred yards he’d been carried.

  On hands and knees, crouching on the grass, he began to retch, trying to get the water from his lungs. He was dizzy, he couldn’t stand yet. His arm felt as if it was on fire.

  He tried to look, but his clothes were sodden, stuck fast against his skin. He tried to crawl and gave up. He had to; he didn’t even have the strength to move. If his attackers came to finish him off, he’d be simple enough to find. With his right hand he drew his knife. Perhaps he couldn’t put up much of a fight, but he wouldn’t die easy.

  Time passed. He couldn’t even begin to say how long. The cold seeped through to his bones and he started to shiver. John breathed slowly. Even the smallest movement made him dizzy and sent waves of pain through his arm.

  Up at the top of the hill, the church bell tolled eleven.

  Finally, gritting his teeth, he pushed himself to his feet. The world seemed to spin around him. He stood for a moment, then forced himself to take one step, then another. It seemed like the hardest thing he’d ever done. A pause, then a few more staggering paces. John closed his eyes until everything seemed even. Why did his arm hurt so much?

  They’d hit him. He remembered that. Nothing more.

  A few more steps, each one agony. His foot pushed against a heavy branch on the ground. Taking a deep breath, he squatted and picked it up, leaning heavily against it as he moved on. Five steps, six.

  They must have thrown him in the river, thinking he was done for.

  Another few steps. He wanted to scream from the pain in his arm.

  The bridge was close now, just the slope up to the path and then the road. What if they were waiting?

  No, John told himself. They’d gone. They must have gone. He prayed they’d gone.

  The bell rang for midnight as he turned on to Saltergate. The walk should have taken no more than ten minutes. But he’d been forced to stop, to lean against the houses as he climbed the hill. Just long enough to regain his breath, to have enough strength to go a little further. Whenever he heard footsteps he hung back in the shadows. Just in case.

  He was shaking with cold. Freezing. So stupid, he thought; it was a warm night. With his right hand he scrabbled for the key in his scrip, taking four attempts to force it in the lock then pushed the door open.

  Inside was safety. Nothing could hurt him here. He hobbled into the hall and passed out on the floor.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The ringing of a bell seemed to hammer in his skull. He opened his eyes, no idea where he was. But everything seemed to swim in front of him, nothing clear. John tried to raise his head, but the pain was so sharp that he fell back.

  He remembered a blow, the river, the long, hard walk home.

  Home. He took in a shallow breath and tried to open his eyes again.

  ‘John?’

  He turned his head slowly, blinking against the pain it brought.

  ‘I’m in bed?’ he asked. His voice was a raw croak.

  ‘You’re at home,’ Katherine told him softly. Her hand stroked his cheek. ‘You scared me to death. What happened to you?’

  ‘I was attacked. They dumped me in the river.’ A sudden memory came. ‘I need to see the coroner,’ he said urgently. But as he tried to struggle up the pain overcame him.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ Her voice was firm. ‘I’ll send Walter and he can come here. For once it won’t hurt him.’

  Very carefully, John raised his right hand to his head. He could feel a bandage. But when he tried to raise his left hand, he barely managed an inch. The pain was too great.

  ‘What’s wrong with my arm?’

  ‘You were stabbed.’ She fussed with the blanket, pulling it up around his neck. He could see her properly now, just one of her, her face full of worry. ‘And you had a blow to your head. You collapsed inside the door. Walter and I brought you up here, and I sent him for Mistress Wilhelmina.’

  The wise woman.

  ‘She made a poultice for your head and dressed your arm. She said you were lucky, but you’ll be fine.’

  Katherine put a hand behind his head and lifted it tenderly. She gave him a few sips of ale from a mug. The liquid felt like balm in his throat.

  ‘Tell Walter to fetch de Harville,’ John said. He lay back again, exhausted. He only meant to close his eyes for a moment.

  • • •

  ‘Wake up, Carpenter. I don’t have all day to stand here.’

  He opened his eyes, waiting a little until the coroner came into focus.

  ‘Master,’ he said. He could make out Brother Robert standing in the corner, whispering with Katherine.

  ‘You wanted to see me.’ De Harville sat on the edge of the bed. He wore an elaborate leather jerkin over a heavily embroidered linen shirt. ‘Well?’

  ‘I know who attacked me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Edward the Butcher from the Middle Shambles. He was with the man I was looking for last night. I don’t know his name.’

  ‘I’ll send the bailiffs out for him.’ He ran a hand through his hair.

  ‘I don’t understand it,’ John said. ‘When I talked to Edward he didn’t seem to know Nicholas was dead. Why would he try to kill me?’

  ‘Maybe h
e was helping this other man. Maybe he’s a good play actor.’ De Harville dismissed the concern. ‘One way or another we’ll find out when we catch him. When will you be working again?’

  ‘When he’s ready,’ Katherine said in a tone that brooked no objection, her eyes fiery. ‘Not until he’s fit enough.’

  The coroner stared at her, then finally shrugged and shook his head.

  ‘Already under her thumb, Carpenter?’ He stood up. By the door he gave an exaggerated bow, saying, ‘Good day, Mistress.’ The monk gave an apologetic glance as he trailed behind.

  ‘I loathe that man,’ Katherine said softly after they heard the men leave.

  ‘It’s just his way. And he’ll have Edward arrested.’

  ‘You didn’t mention him to me.’

  ‘It only came to me when we were talking. I could see his face …’ His voice trailed away as the bell began to ring again. ‘You should go to service.’

  Katherine shook her head. ‘I’m not leaving you.’ Her words had the tone of an order. ‘When I saw you last night I thought you were dead.’

  ‘I …’ he began. He hadn’t expected anything like that. He tried to see a clear picture of it all through the fog in his mind. It had to mean that Edward and the other man had murdered Timothy and Nicholas. That was the only way the attack on him made sense. But when he talked to Edward the man had believed Nicholas was the killer and still alive. That was no play-acting, he’d swear an oath on it. But perhaps he was wrong, too trusting, and the butcher had been too clever for him. He raised a hand to his head, moving his fingertips gently over the bandage around his skull and wincing when he found the tender spot. Now the bailiffs would find them, they’d be tried for murder and hung. ‘Did Wilhelmina say how long before I can be up?’

  ‘Once you’re ready,’ she chided. ‘She’s coming back later to see how you are.’

  He reached out with his good hand, taking hold of her fingers. ‘I never thought anything would happen. Honestly.’

  ‘It’s too late now,’ she told him stiffly.

  ‘At least I know who did it. Let the bailiffs catch them.’

  ‘I hope they do.’

  He tried to smile. ‘I’ll be back to working with wood again. And Walter to his messages.’

  ‘Pray God.’ She gasped sharply and put a hand on her belly.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, worried, but Katherine’s face held a wondrous smile.

  ‘The baby. It moved. It … kicked.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ Was this how it should be? He had no idea, surprised by her laugh.

  ‘John, it’s natural. It means the child is healthy and alive. I’m going to leave you to rest. Wilhelmina said you’d need plenty of it.’

  Her footsteps faded on the stair. The shutters were open, the sun shining warm on him. He wanted to sleep, his body ached for more of it, but his mind was tumbling. Who was the man with Edward? He’d only caught the smallest of glimpses before the blow stunned him. Small, with a feral face. Wild eyes, his mouth set in a snarl. He’d been the one with the knife; John remembered that now. He could recall the way the moon shone on the blade.

  The pair of them had meant to kill, no doubt about that. It was just God’s good grace that he hadn’t died.

  He could hear the muffled sounds of the house below. Katherine’s voice, and the girls chattering away. The soft beauty of home. He tried to lift his left arm again, but it defeated him. The pain was too sharp.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think.

  • • •

  ‘He has his colour back.’

  John stirred as he heard the words, seeing a woman bent over him. Her fingertips were light against his arm. He turned his head to watch as she untied the bandage on his arm.

  ‘You look better than the last time I saw you,’ she said with a smile. He’d expected the wise woman to be old, but Wilhelmina still had an air of youth about her, with warm grey eyes, hair tucked into a crisp veil as white as January snow.

  He realised his head wasn’t pounding. There was a heavy ache, but he could move it, and his vision was clear.

  ‘Rest helped,’ he said with a thick voice.

  ‘It always does,’ she said gently. ‘Nature’s best physic.’ With a soft touch she removed the rag and peered at the wound. For the first time he could see it, jagged and ugly at the top of his arm. Above the muscle, close to the pit of his arm.

  ‘This should heal well,’ the woman said. ‘The cut’s clean enough.’ After a little thought she reached into her scrip and took out a small jar of ointment, spreading a little on the wound. It felt deliciously cool on his skin and he breathed in gratefully. ‘That will help. It’s going to ache and it will be a while before you can move it fully. But there’s no great damage.’ She bound the injury again.

  ‘Thank you,’ John said with relief. It wouldn’t affect his work. His real work.

  Very carefully she touched his eyelids, pulling them apart and studying what she saw. Her hands had the summer smell of herbs.

  ‘Your eyes are clear,’ she said slowly. ‘How many of me do you see?’

  ‘Just one,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘That’s good. You should give thanks. I don’t know what happened, but you took a heavy blow. You must have a thick skull.’

  ‘That’s what my wife tells me.’ He smiled.

  ‘She’d know,’ Wilhelmina said with a bright laugh. ‘Rest today, as much as you can,’ she ordered. ‘After that, if your head hurts, stop what you’re doing. Lie down. Don’t try to do too much. Our bodies talk to us. The trouble is that most people don’t listen.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised.

  ‘You have plenty of bruises and cuts, but they’re nothing,’ she assured him.

  ‘The coroner will pay you,’ John said and she raised an eyebrow. ‘I was working for him.’

  ‘I won’t spare his purse, then.’ She grinned impishly, then her face turned serious. ‘Be careful. Next time God might not smile so kindly on you.’

  • • •

  He dozed and drifted, letting the day glide over him. Katherine came up, sitting silently with him for a few minutes and holding his hand.

  Alone, his thoughts wandered hither and yon. Edward and the leather man. They likely believed he was dead, carried away by the Hipper, and they were safe. By now the bailiffs should have them, maybe the psalter, too. They’d be in jail, awaiting transportation to Derby to stand trial for murder.

  Or they might have taken to the roads. A hue and cry might track them, but he knew how many were never found. A new town, a new name, and the past might never have happened.

  Finally, as the afternoon was beginning to wane, birds calling on the breeze, Walter came up to the solar.

  ‘Are you all right, John?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘The wise woman says I’ll recover. What’s the news? Have they arrested Edward?’

  ‘No.’ The boy looked worried. ‘I saw the bailiffs go in to the Shambles, but they came out without him.’

  So they’d fled, or they were hiding. John grimaced. He’d like to have seen them. He owed Edward and his friend a few blows. But that debt could gladly wait.

  Even now, though, he could make neither head no tail of it. When he’d questioned Edward he’d paid close attention to the way the man reacted. He couldn’t have misjudged the man so badly, could he? Perhaps he had.

  ‘Last night … I thought you were going to die,’ Walter’s voice shook him from his thoughts.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not that easy to kill.’ He grinned. ‘They didn’t know that.’

  ‘What are you going to do, John?’

  ‘I’ve been ordered to keep to my bed today. Tomorrow?’ He tried to shrug, but the movement hurt his arm. ‘Whatever happens, it’s over for us. Coroner de Harville can deal with the hunt for them.’

  He could see the disappointment on Walter’s face. It was done so quickly, before he’d had a chance to show his value.

  ‘Trust me,
we’re better out of it,’ John assured him. ‘It’s not worth it. We’re not fighting men.’

  ‘If I’d been with you last night …’

  ‘Then we might have both ended up in the river. Or worse,’ he said.

  ‘But, John …’

  He shook his head. The sharp movement made him wince a little, a reminder that he’d hurt for a while yet.

  ‘No. There’s enough danger in life without going out to court it.’

  The lad hadn’t even been born when the pestilence came. He couldn’t know what things had been like then. More death than life, everywhere in the country. There was no excitement or pleasure in hunting killers. Not when God had shown them the greatest killer of them all in a time when life had no value. There wasn’t even a need to go hunting for it. Insatiable, the plague took all the life it wanted.

  ‘If you say so, John,’ Walter said hesitantly.

  He smiled. ‘I do,’ he answered. ‘You did a good job. Maybe you’ll have another chance.’ But pray God not, he thought as the lad beamed in anticipation.

  He must have slept right through the evening, struggling half-awake as Katherine came to bed. From the edge of his vision he saw the glow of a candle, the scent of tallow, and then darkness. The night was silent as he felt her curl up against him, the warmth of her body close to his.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As he opened his eyes he could smell the dawn. The freshness of it all, alive and new. He felt rested, all the tiredness purged from his body. Carefully, he eased himself out of bed. But he wasn’t dizzy when he stood. His head throbbed, but he’d felt worse after a night of ale.

  When he tried to put on his jerkin, though, he could barely raise his arm high enough to go through the hole. Tying his braies after going to the jakes, his fingers felt large and fumbling, like an old man.

  With a bowl of bean and barley pottage in his belly, he left the house. People were already up and around, workers gathered round a fire outside the church. He passed in the shadows of first light, his boots light on the ground as he walked down Soutergate in his shirt and hose. By the time he reached the bottom he was out of breath.