The Saltergate Psalter

by Chris Nickson

  ‘I think we’re done here, Walter.’

  His heart seemed to beat so loud as he walked away he thought the whole town must be able to hear it. He pushed his hands into his belt so no one could see them shaking.

  ‘How did you do that, John?’ Walter asked in a voice filled with wonder.

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Make him fall.’

  ‘Something I was shown once.’ He let out a breath. ‘You’d better be careful. He’s going to want his revenge.’ The lad nodded. ‘And not a word to your sister. I don’t want her worried.’

  ‘Yes, John,’ Walter promised solemnly.

  ‘No gossiping about it either,’ he warned.

  He watched the boy lope away. The day was as warm and sunny as it had been a few minutes before, but it felt different, as if there was danger in the air. He’d humiliated Julian, and the man wouldn’t stand for that. He was the type who’d demand vengeance. Not a clean, fair fight, but at a time and place where he had the advantage.

  But it also made him wonder just how deeply Julian was involved in all this. He wouldn’t threaten unless he had something to hide. Could Edward and Gilbert have been working for him, and he’d killed them before they could be arrested and talked? That made sense, there was logic in the chain of it all.

  Proving it would be another matter.

  By the time he reached the weekday market on the north side of the church, he felt exhausted. The fear and anger had drained away, leaving a hole inside. All he wanted was to lie down somewhere quiet, to sleep and forget for a while. He might be recovering from his injuries, but he wasn’t all the way back to himself yet.

  The stalls were full of goodwives and servants shopping for milk, butter, eggs, and the produce on sale – young onions and wild garlic, the first fresh greens of the seasons, pulled from the ground before sunrise and carried into town.

  He nodded good day to one or two he knew and raised his gaze to the spire. The oak tiles rose higher each day. Men climbed, held fast by harnesses, to nail them in place on the cross beams. It was a remarkable creation, tall enough to touch heaven. As impressive in its own way as the great minsters in York and Lincoln, the beautiful stone castles of God.

  In the house, the girls were spinning with the type of playful concentration only children could manage. The kitten kept pawing at the thread, and they kept pulling it away. He paused to kiss them on the tops of their heads and stroke the cat. No one was going to hurt them, he promised himself. No one.

  Katherine was working out in the garden, hoeing the weeds out from a line of crops. The first shoots of this and that, the soft fern tops of carrots, more he couldn’t identify. He held her close for a moment and told her he needed some rest.

  She eyed him doubtfully. ‘Has something happened?’ she asked him.

  ‘I’ve bought new boots,’ he answered with a grin, pointing to the ones on his feet. ‘These have had their day. Spending money leaves a man weary. We’re not like women.’

  She swatted at him and he ducked back. With luck she’d never hear about the incident with Julian. Walter had been the only witness, he believed. And that was best for everyone.

  The bed brought sweet comfort to his body. He’d rather have been working. Real work, with wood. But things were as they would be. Another day or two and he’d be ready. Before then he could indulge himself in dreams.

  He woke in the middle of the afternoon, refreshed, his mind sharp and alert. He’d promised the man Gabriel that he’d come and mend his door. It was satisfying to put on the leather satchel of tools and feel the weight slapping against his thigh as he walked along Knifesmithgate and crossed the empty market square.

  It was simple work. A moment to see the problem, no more than a quarter of an hour to repair it and see that the door opened and closed smoothly. As he was wiping the tools clean, Gabriel brought two mugs of ale.

  ‘You could have done it yourself,’ John told him.

  The man shook his head ruefully. ‘The last time I tried I only made it worse.’

  ‘People have different skills.’

  ‘I bought and sold.’

  ‘A merchant?’ he asked as he put the tools back in the bag.

  ‘It’s as good a word as any,’ Gabriel said with a shrug. ‘Bits of this and that.’

  ‘A pedlar?’ he guessed.

  ‘No. I couldn’t afford this place on a pedlar’s income. I let Luke stay because he always has good stories and the gossip from all over.’ He smiled. ‘He brings the world to me. What do I owe you?’

  ‘We’ll say a penny. Is that fair?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ He took a coin from the purse on his belt.

  ‘Were you born here?’ John asked idly.

  ‘Born here and this is where I’ll die.’ He stroked his white beard, a glint in his eyes. ‘But I’ve seen plenty in between. As far north as York and all the way down to London.’

  ‘Business?’

  The man nodded. ‘I had the chance to go to France but I didn’t take it.’ He sounded wistful. ‘You’re a young man. Always take your opportunities when they come. If you don’t you’ll only regret it later.’

  ‘I’m a man with a wife and a child on the way.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve seen enough of the world for my tastes. I worked in York for two years.’

  They fell into idle, easy conversation, whiling away the time. The warmth was lulling, the ale strong, and the company pleasant. They exchanged reminiscences and tall tales until John finally stood and picked up the leather bag.

  ‘I knew your wife’s mother,’ Gabriel said. ‘Long ago. She was just a lass then. It’s funny. You see them grow and have children of their own. My sons are scattered now. The two who survived the plague, that is.’

  ‘You must have known Timothy.’

  ‘Never that well,’ Gabriel said slowly. ‘Not at all after his accident. It was a shock to hear he’d been killed, though. And his servant.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Quiet, I suppose,’ Gabriel answered after some thought. ‘When he wasn’t working he was always off hunting and hawking.’ He shrugged. ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Did you ever hear any talk of him having a book?’

  ‘A book? No–’ He stopped himself. ‘Maybe there was something. I don’t know, it was so far back. Why?’

  ‘He owned a psalter. He’d promised it to the church when he died.’

  ‘And it was gone?’

  ‘Yes,’ John replied.

  ‘It seems to me I remember something about a book, but I don’t know what.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’ll tell you when there’s more work to do here.’

  • • •

  Outside the air was balmy. It had felt good to be using his hands again, to mend something that was broken. Another two days and he’d be back in Newbold, to see the barn take shape.

  On an impulse he crossed over to the High Street, enjoying the satisfying weight of the tools as they banged against his leg. De Harville was in the yard outside his house, talking to his groom and preparing to mount a roan. When the servant looked and muttered a word, he turned. He was elaborately dressed in a black velvet jerkin over his linen, with hose the colour of dark red wine. His riding boots shone, and a shimmering peacock feather rose from his cap.

  ‘Carpenter. And with your tools. Are you looking for business? There’s nothing I need doing here.’ He put a foot in the stirrup and pushed himself up into the saddle. ‘What do you want? Be quick.’

  ‘I don’t think Edward and Gilbert killed each other. They might have murdered Timothy and Edward, but there’s more going on.’

  The coroner gave a weary sigh and patted the horse’s neck. ‘Why do you have to make trouble? We have them, they’re dead. That’s an end to it. If you’re trying to wheedle more money to continue, I won’t pay it.’

  ‘What was missing when they were found?’

  ‘Their purses,’ de Harville answered.


  ‘And the book, if they were the killers.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ He dismissed it. ‘It’s over.’

  Then he realised the thing he’d missed, the doubt that had gnawed at him since he’d seen the bodies.

  ‘If they were leaving Chesterfield, where were their packs?’

  It was enough to halt the coroner. Reluctantly he dismounted and threw the reins to the groom.

  ‘Take her out and exercise her,’ he ordered as he began to stride off to the stable. ‘Maybe those were stolen, too.’

  ‘It’s possible, but I don’t think anyone would dare walk around here in their clothes. People would recognise them.’

  De Harville chewed at a thumbnail as he thought, a scowl on his face.

  ‘I went to Dronfield and asked a few questions about Julian the Butcher,’ John continued.

  The coroner stared at him. ‘And why would you want to do that?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘There’s something about him. I hear you’ve had problems with him before.’

  ‘For a carpenter you listen to a lot of gossip.’

  ‘The people I talked to out there didn’t have a good word to say about him. Someone told him; this morning he threatened me and my family.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I threw him on his back and held a knife to his throat.’

  ‘There’s still some fire about you, then,’ the coroner chuckled. ‘So you believe Julian’s behind it all?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Even if he is, I don’t know how I can prove it.’

  ‘The truth becomes very slippery around that man.’ He flexed one hand into a fist and opened it again. ‘I’d like to see Chesterfield rid of him.’

  ‘I can’t promise that.’

  ‘No?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘You disappoint me, Carpenter. You did so well last time.’

  ‘He has a friend. Christian, the steward in Dronfield. They’re cousins.’

  ‘I’ve met him,’ the coroner said. ‘A surly sort. Yes,’ he agreed thoughtfully, ‘I could see the two of them as close. But what about it?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I just want you to know in case Julian kills me,’ John said plainly.

  ‘Do you think he’ll try?’

  ‘He might. I humiliated him.’ John shrugged. ‘A man like him can’t let that lie.’

  ‘Then you’d better watch out for yourself.’

  ‘I will,’ he said with a grim smile. For all the threats and bluster, Julian would come after him, not his family. Even if John stopped investigating the murders. It was a matter of pride now. Julian needed to avenge what had been done. That was the way he’d think. It was a very personal matter, one to be settled man to man.

  He’d make sure he was ready and alert. Julian had killed before, they said. Another death wouldn’t trouble him too greatly.

  ‘Do you need men to help you?’ the coroner asked, his voice serious.

  ‘No, they wouldn’t do any good,’ he answered. ‘It would help me if you let people keep thinking you’re satisfied that Edward and Gilbert were the killers.’

  ‘Easily done.’

  ‘Julian’s arrogant. He’ll make a mistake.’

  ‘He hasn’t yet,’ de Harville said.

  ‘How closely have you looked?’

  ‘Perhaps not close enough,’ he admitted. ‘If he’s guilty, I want him, Carpenter.’

  ‘It might take time.’

  ‘Make sure you’re careful.’ It was the first time he’d heard the coroner express any concern. He studied the man’s face. His gaze was intense.

  ‘Yes,’ John replied and walked away. Now to pray God that Walter hadn’t said a word. He didn’t want Katherine to have worries on top of everything else.

  But no one muttered when they saw him. No strange glances from folk as he walked along the street. In a town like this gossip passed like breathing. The lad had kept quiet. Much safer that way.

  He was aware of everything as he moved. Faces, movement, sounds, taking it all in with a hand ready on the hilt of his knife. He’d need to be on his guard every single moment. And it would be better to stay clear of the Shambles.

  How could he find any evidence? He didn’t know where to begin. Even how he could begin. Julian must have friends, there must be a weak link in the chain around him. Finding it would be the problem.

  By the time he reached the house on Saltergate he was none the wiser. The others were already seated at the table, eating a supper of bread and cheese, a jug of ale standing between them.

  He glanced at Walter, but the lad was intent on his food.

  ‘I’m sorry, I started talking to Gabriel after I finished the job.’

  When they’d eaten, the girls wanted to show him what they’d learned from Martha. They scraped shapes on to their slates, explaining what they letters were and how they sounded. They were bright and so eager to learn.

  He saw Walter crowd close, saying nothing but drinking it all in. Later, after Janette and Eleanor had gone up to the solar to sleep, John wandered out into the garden, relishing the evening air with its soft smells and quiet, contented sounds.

  Walter was out there, scraping at the dust with a stick, concentrating on every movement. The same shapes he’d seen the girls make earlier. The boy’s lips moved silently. John watched for a moment then gave a quiet cough. Walter turned quickly, scrubbing out his work.

  ‘I didn’t hear you, John,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ He drew close and said quietly, ‘You remember what happened earlier.’ The lad nodded quickly. ‘You didn’t tell anyone, did you?’

  ‘No, John.’ His eyes were guileless. He never lied.

  ‘It’s probably better if your sister never hears about it.’ He was putting a weight on Walter, an obligation. He knew that. He knew it wasn’t fair. But he didn’t want Katherine fearful and fretting every time he left the house.

  Women were hardy, even more than men. Martha had told him that. They’d been having babies for centuries. It was natural. But so was losing the infant or dying in childbed. He was the one who was scared – for her. A small lie now might make her life easier.

  But the only way to be truly safe was to find evidence that would put Julian on the gibbet.

  ‘I saw you go over to the coroner’s house.’

  He smiled. Walter might not say a great deal, but his eyes didn’t miss much that happened.

  ‘He wants us to look at Julian.’ He almost whispered the words and saw the lad smile and nod. ‘We’ll talk about it in the morning.’

  • • •

  In the bed, Katherine cuddled against his back. Her breath was warm on his neck as she said, ‘When are you back to work?’

  ‘Another day,’ he told her and cautiously moved his shoulder. ‘Or the one after that.’

  ‘There’s nothing else, is there?’

  ‘No. Why would there be?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She kissed his skin.

  He lay there, hearing the rhythm of her breathing gradually change. All around him the family was asleep. There was even the gentle night purr of the cat from the bed the girls shared. He wished it would come so easily to him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  He was up early and on his way back to Dronfield before the sun had topped the horizon. He’d only managed to sleep in fits and starts, disturbed by wild dreams until rising was better than trying to rest more. He was outside, not even fully awake, letting his feet lead him wherever they would.

  The sky was clear, stars bright over his head, the air light with the scents of dawn. It was past daylight when he arrived. He’d seen no one on the road, just the occasional distant figure of a woman trudging to the barn to milk the cows.

  The River Drone was little more than a beck, lost in its trickle through the valley bottom. He continued through the village, past an inn to where the road curved up the hill. Three men were gathered, hoes and picks on the ground beside them. They watched him approach, standing s
ilent. Labourers by the look of them, led by a bondman in old hose and muddy boots, shirtsleeves rolled up to show weatherbeaten arms.

  ‘God be with you,’ John said.

  Warily, they nodded their greeting.

  ‘I’m looking for Christian.’

  ‘He’ll be along when he’s ready,’ the man in the shirt answered. He had a thick growth of bristles on his cheeks and dark, suspicious eyes. ‘What do you want with him?’

  ‘Just some business.’

  ‘He’ll still be at the manor house,’ the man said grudgingly. ‘Top of the hill.’ He looked at the others and they began work. It was slow, digging down and drawing the sludge from the stream. Two of them were stripped to their braies, standing in the water, hunched over and straining. The one still fully dressed spread what they dug up on to the field.

  Backbreaking labour, and they moved slowly and methodically. This was some of the service they owed their lord, he guessed, so there was no rush to complete it. So many days each year. They ploughed and planted his land, harvested his crops and did whatever else was demanded. In return they had a house and strips of land for themselves. Their fathers and grandfathers had done it, their descendants would do it in the time to come.

  He settled back on his haunches, watching and thinking. He couldn’t have ordered anyone to do that. Just as well he never became steward of the coroner’s manor. He didn’t know country ways, all the tasks that needed to be done.

  He was still musing when he heard the footsteps and a shadow fell over him.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m John the Carpenter.’ He stood, facing a broad man in good clothes. Expensive leather boots, a jacket of tight-woven wool and sturdy hose.

  ‘What do you want?’ The man had his hands on his hips, a sword hanging by his leg.

  ‘If you’re Christian, I’m looking for you.’

  ‘Why?’ He had a hard face with a long, thin nose, pale lips, and nervous blue eyes. His long hair lay lank on his shoulders.

  ‘A few questions for the coroner in Chesterfield.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Christian gave a cruel smile. ‘Then he can come and ask them himself.’

  ‘I don’t think you’d want that,’ John said quietly. From the corner of his eyes he could see the men staring. ‘He’s not a good man to cross.’