The Saltergate Psalter

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Dronfield again, Master?’ the head bailiff said good-naturedly.

  ‘If you’ve two big lads who fancy some exercise.’

  ‘I think I can find a pair for you.’

  Soon he was on the road, two brawny men at his side, armed with cudgels, knives and swords. This trip was becoming too familiar, he thought. A few folk were headed in the other direction, donkeys laden with early produce, milk, butter churned just that morning.

  The valley rose sharply on either side as they passed through Unstone. The wheat was growing tall, but it would need more rain to ripen properly. He chuckled at himself. He was thinking like a farmer, not a carpenter. And he didn’t have the faintest idea of how to raise a crop or even when to harvest it.

  The village of Dronfield seemed strangely quiet as they passed through. Women had spread their linen over bushes to dry, stark white against the green. But there was no sign of any people, no voices to be heard, almost as if they’d all abandoned the place.

  He walked up the hill to the manor house, following the twisting road out of the Bottoms, the tramp of the bailiffs’ boots behind him.

  The villagers were gathered outside the building, spread across the grass. Christian sat behind a table that had been carried from the house.

  The manor court. It explained why everyone was gathered here, to settle disputes and pay small fines for their indiscretions. Christian was the steward here; he had the authority to run it. By his side, a tonsured monk sat and wrote down all that people said.

  ‘We’ll wait until he’s finished,’ John told the bailiffs quietly. But Christian raised his head and saw them.

  ‘The court’s ended for this week,’ he announced suddenly, then people were complaining and arguing. He dismissed them with a sweeping gesture and strode off around the side of the house. John followed, the bailiffs on his heels.

  Christian was standing by the well, drinking water from the dipper. He stood tall as John approached, pushing back his surcote to grab his knife easily. No scrapes or scabs on his hands.

  ‘I told you not to come back here.’

  ‘I have some more questions for you.’

  ‘Do you?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘What if I don’t choose to answer them?’

  ‘Then the bailiffs will take you back to Chesterfield and the coroner will make you answer.’ He shrugged. ‘Your choice.’

  ‘Ask your questions,’ Christian agreed after a short hesitation. ‘But be quick. I don’t have time for your accusations.’

  ‘When did you last see Julian?’

  ‘The day he died. I told you.’ He kept his face stony and empty. ‘He was still alive when I left him. And no, I don’t know who could have killed him. What else?’

  ‘Who’s your father?’

  The question took him by surprise. The mask on his face slipped for a moment. He recovered quickly, but not fast enough. Very briefly the fright showed.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The rumour is that you’re the son of Timothy of Chesterfield.’

  Christian’s face reddened with anger. He took a step forward and the bailiffs reached for their swords.

  ‘You’ve been listening to old women,’ he scoffed. ‘You’re saying my father was a cuckold.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘I wouldn’t ask a man that if I were you. It’s a dangerous question.’

  ‘Was he?’ John repeated.

  ‘No,’ Christian answered firmly.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘He told me before he died. A man doesn’t lie on his deathbed.’

  He doubted that. It was the one time when a man’s words might be believed. But that wasn’t the same thing. Rumours fluttered on the wind, he knew that. They didn’t always have substance. But the look that flickered across the man’s face … that spoke of truth.

  ‘It would give you a reason to kill him.’

  The laugh sounded surprisingly genuine. ‘If I wanted to do that, wouldn’t I have done it years ago?’

  It was a fair question.

  ‘Maybe. But I believe it was your friend Julian who committed the murder.’

  Christian shook his head. ‘Why would he?’

  ‘Maybe acting for you. Claiming your inheritance.’

  ‘What would that be?’ He folded his arms, feet planted a little apart. He looked as solid as a church.

  ‘Do you read?’

  ‘What?’ It was a question from nowhere, taking him by surprise.

  ‘Can you read?’

  ‘I’m a steward. What do you think?’

  John shrugged. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘Yes, I can read. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘Timothy had a psalter. It had been in his family for generations. Very valuable. It would be natural for his son to want it.’

  ‘If he had one.’

  ‘If,’ John agreed. The man was never going to admit he was Timothy’s son. But his face had given him away briefly. There was nothing more to learn here, but he’d taken away food for thought. ‘I’ll bid you good day.’

  ‘Don’t come back,’ Christian said. ‘The warning still stands.’

  ‘I’ll go where I need.’

  ‘Then you’ve been warned.’ He gave a quick nod then walked away.

  ‘Come on,’ John told the bailiffs with a sigh. ‘We might as well go home.’

  • • •

  ‘Do you think he’s Timothy’s by-blow?’ de Harville asked. He was seated in his hall, feet up on the table, hand stroking his chin.

  ‘Yes. His look gave him away. He knows it.’

  ‘Where does that leave us?’

  ‘I don’t know, Master.’

  ‘Monk?’

  ‘If it’s true, he has a reason,’ Robert said. ‘But Christian’s right. Why would he wait so long for his revenge? And he’d be a cold man if he killed Julian, his oldest friend.’

  The coroner nodded. There seemed to be a new seriousness about him, giving the killings his full attention.

  ‘Revenge can do that,’ John said.

  ‘Perhaps.’ De Harville sighed. ‘What proof do we have?’

  ‘None. The only way would be to find him with the psalter.’

  That brought silence. Questioning Christian was one thing. Searching his quarters was another. His lord would object. Did the coroner’s writ even run that far?

  ‘What do you think, Carpenter? Is he guilty?’

  ‘Of something,’ John answered after a while. ‘But I’m not sure what.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Janette pushed her slate under his nose, Eleanor crowding behind her. He could see words scrawled on them and smiled approvingly. They were learning so quickly.

  ‘Martha’s teaching us sums, too,’ Eleanor said eagerly.

  ‘You’re going to know everything,’ he said with a grin. Martha smiled at him. He leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. She nodded quickly. ‘You girls are doing well,’ he told them. ‘I need to talk to Walter.’

  ‘He looks better,’ Katherine said from the door of the buttery. She was wearing a plain dress and an apron, a piece of linen over her left shoulder. John kissed his wife and went up to the solar.

  The boy lay there, one hand behind his head. The bruising looked even worse today. But it would go down, he knew that. Soon enough his face would return to normal and he’d be able to move without pain.

  ‘How do you feel?’ He settled on the joint stool by the bed.

  ‘I want to be up.’

  ‘Give it another day. There are plenty who’d love to have this long in bed.’ He could sense the boy’s restlessness. He was improving. But better not to move too fast. ‘Let me tell you what I’ve found.’ Maybe he’d see something that John couldn’t. A fresh mind, a new pair of eyes.

  Walter listened attentively. Twice he asked for something to be explained. When all the words had been spoken he stayed silent for a while.

  ‘You think it’s Christian, don’t you, John?’<
br />
  ‘Who else could it be?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ His eyes were open wide, his mouth pursed. ‘But if you think it was one person, won’t you try to make everything you find fit that? You told me that once.’

  It was; he recalled the words all too well. And the lad was right. He seemed to have made up his mind that Christian was guilty. And from what? Rumour and a feeling that it had to be that way.

  He’d forgotten Arthur, who’d run rather than answer questions. Who knew what else he’d ignored along the road?

  ‘Thank you,’ he said as he stood.

  ‘What for?’ Walter asked in surprise.

  ‘You’ve made me think.’

  • • •

  The garden was quiet. He found a spot out of the way, on the far side of the kitchen. Settling with a mug of ale, John began to go over everything he knew, all he’d learned from the moment he first saw Nicholas dead in his bed.

  He barely noticed the time passing, and when Katherine came to call him to supper he simply shook his head. Had he missed something? By the time evening arrived and the sun was falling behind the horizon he still wasn’t sure.

  He’d gone over everything, questioning himself each step of the way. Would things be different if he’d asked another question or tried a different path? For the most part he didn’t believe it would change anything.

  This was a story that seemed to start long before the first killings. Long before. But finding anything solid in the fog of history was almost impossible.

  Eventually he felt satisfied that he’d done everything he could. Things were coming to a head, he felt, although he didn’t really know why.

  ‘John,’ Walter whispered after he climbed to the solar, boots in his hand to make less noise.

  ‘What?’ He crouched by the boy’s pallet.

  ‘I think I’ve remembered something.’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked urgently.

  ‘Something about the man who hurt me.’

  Man, John thought. Just one.

  ‘Go on,’ he said softly. ‘Tell me what you see.’

  ‘His boots. The toe was coming away from the sole. I could see it when he kicked me.’

  It was a sad, chilling memory.

  ‘Do you recall his face? Anything else about him?’

  ‘No, John,’ Walter answered, disappointed. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He rested a hand on the lad’s shoulder. ‘What you’ve given me is a start. You rest now. Maybe tomorrow you can try getting up.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Why not? We can see if you’re ready. And Dame Martha thinks it would be a good time for you to learn to read and write.’

  ‘Me?’ He couldn’t see the boy’s face in the darkness but he could sense the smile.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You.’

  Katherine was already asleep with her back to him. A boot that needed mending. What could he do with that?

  • • •

  He was waiting outside the shoemaker’s shop when the man raised the shutters in the morning.

  ‘Master,’ the man said warily. ‘Is there something wrong with the boots?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’ He saw relief cross the cobbler’s face. ‘Just a question, that’s all.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘How many boots have you repaired in the last few days where the toe is coming away from the sole?’

  The man laughed. ‘Five or six of them a day, Master. It’s the most common problem. Only take a few minutes to mend. But your new ones won’t need that for years,’ he added hastily. ‘And I have your old ones ready. That’s the problem they had.’

  ‘Is it the same for all the shoemakers?’

  ‘Always. It’s been that way since I was an apprentice.’

  He’d hoped this might lead somewhere. But it proved to be a path that would lead nowhere. There would be too many names, and people unknown. He shook his head.

  ‘What’s wrong, Master?’

  ‘Nothing. I’d just hoped it might lead to something.’

  He had nothing to lose by explaining it. The cobbler might have some helpful ideas. The man listened attentively but began to shake his head even before John had finished.

  ‘It’s not possible, Master. I’ve never seen half my customers before, and it’s the same for all of us.’ He gestured around. ‘We spend our days in here. If we have an apprentice we can leave for a little while, but that’s all. It’s a solitary life, really. Why do you think I’m always happy to talk to my customers?’

  ‘Thank you anyway.’

  He’d been so hopeful when he left the house. Finally, it seemed, an idea that might lead somewhere. And now he had nothing, once again.

  At the top of the hill he glanced at the church. A few minutes of prayer and thought wouldn’t hurt. Maybe God would grant him some insight.

  The stone floor was cold against his knees; he could feel it through his hose. But today his supplications went unanswered and after a few minutes he stood again.

  The door leading to the tower stood open. John looked around. There was no one else in the church. Quickly and quietly he climbed the winding stone steps that spiralled up inside the walls. Past the belfry, going higher and higher, all the way to the room at the base of the spire.

  The last time he’d been here, everything had been different. It had still been open to the air then. He let his gaze drift upward, inspecting the frame of the spire. It was impressive, a testament to the skill of the carpenters who’d worked on it, and he felt a pang of regret that he hadn’t been one of them. This was work that would last for centuries.

  It still seemed impossible to believe that the only thing holding it in place was the spire’s own weight, but as he looked around he saw that it was true.

  The windlass used for bringing up materials still took up much of the floor, a heavy wooden wheel half as tall again as a man. They’d probably decided it wasn’t worth the time or effort to dismantle once the building was complete. A low door led out to a small walkway around the base of the spire. He followed it, grateful for the breeze that caught his hair; there hadn’t been a wisp of wind down on the ground.

  Up here he could see for miles in every direction. Dronfield to the north and many more villages he couldn’t even name scattered around the countryside. The fields looked green and lush, the sun was warm on his face. For just a moment he felt contentment.

  Back inside, he traced a hand along the beam he’d been putting in place when his arm was broken. He’d recovered fully, the injury not even a memory now. But it had been the end of his time here. Nobody needed a carpenter who could only use one hand.

  He stopped as his hand touched something sitting on top of the beam. Even stretching himself he couldn’t see what it was, but he felt around, curious, gasping and tugging and slowly pulling it towards him. His neck strained as he looked up. A small package, carefully wrapped in linen. Taking a breath, he pulled again, catching the object as it fell from the wood.

  It was almost square, not too thick. John coughed away the dust that had been raised, heart thumping as he sat on the floor. His hand was shaking as he unwrapped the package.

  A book. He could see the edges of the pages and the worn leather binding. Slowly he peeled away the last layer of linen to show the jewels on the front cover and the gilding in the shape of the cross.

  His hands were shaking so much that could scarcely hold the book long enough to open it, holding his breath as he turned the pages. Each one was filled with brilliant, sharp colours and design, the words neatly, lovingly written in black ink.

  He’d found the missing psalter.

  But why was it here in the church tower?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It was beautiful, no doubt of that. He wondered how long it had taken to make, every image so crowded, edged in vivid golds and greens. For several minutes he simply stood, trying to take it all in as his eyes moved from page to glorious
page.

  Finally he to force himself to snap it shut, bind it up in the linen once more and start down the staircase. It was the first book he’d ever touched and certainly the loveliest he’d ever seen. His mind was full of the images, reeling from the beauty and the sheer number of them. He’d seen the stained glass windows in York Minster, the pictures they formed, the vividness of them all. But this … to hold something like that. He’d never have believed it could happen.

  In his hand the book felt like a living thing, warm. But it was dangerous, too. Men had died for this.

  And he had no answer for why the psalter had ended up there, or who might have hidden it.

  His footsteps echoed off the tile floor of the nave. At the far end a figure that had been bending over the font straightened.

  ‘God be with you, Father,’ John called.

  ‘And with you, my son.’ Father Geoffrey’s face looked tight and worried. ‘I didn’t see you praying.’

  ‘I was up in the tower. I wanted to see what it was like now it’s finished.’

  The priest’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘Was it worth the climb?’

  ‘It was.’ He held out the package, covered again. ‘I found this.’

  The priest cocked his head. ‘What is it, my son?’

  ‘Timothy’s psalter. It was hidden in the tower room.’

  The priest blanched. ‘Here?’ he asked quietly. ‘Why would anyone do that?’ He reached out a hand to touch it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ John answered in frustration. ‘Not yet, anyway.’ For a moment he’d suspected Geoffrey, but he seemed shocked and surprised to see the book here.

  ‘May I?’ He took the book and unwrapped it with great reverence, drawing in his breath as he ran his fingertips over the jewels and leather of the binding. As he turned the pages, going slowly from one to the next, his lips moved in prayer and thanks. ‘This is wonderful,’ he said finally. ‘Where was it?’

  ‘On top of a beam. It was just luck that I found it.’

  ‘What are you–’ The priest coughed. ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Give it to the coroner for safekeeping. It’s evidence, Father. Too many have given up their lives for this.’ He reached out a hand to take the book back. Geoffrey was reluctant to pass it over.