The Saltergate Psalter

by Chris Nickson

  ‘You could leave it here,’ he offered. ‘I’ll hide it. No one will be able to find it.’

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ John replied with a smile. ‘But I think it will be safer with the coroner.’

  After a small hesitation, the priest nodded. ‘Of course.’

  • • •

  ‘How did you find it, Carpenter?’ de Harville asked. He was seated at his table, a thin silk surcote draped over the back of his chair. He’d unwrapped the book and was idly leafing from page to page. Brother Robert sat close, staring at the psalter with hungry eyes.

  He explained it again. The third time. His throat was dry, but the coroner hadn’t offered him any ale from the jug. Far from being contrite, today the man was back to his usual, arrogant self.

  ‘The priest wanted to hold on to it,’ he finished.

  ‘I imagine he did,’ the coroner said with a chuckle. He slapped the book closed and pushed it towards Brother Robert. The monk crossed himself before opening it. ‘But I’ll keep it here for now. Do you have any idea who hid it there?’

  ‘No.’ He’d questioned Geoffrey. The church was always open. It was God’s house, available for prayer and contemplation. If the door to the stairs had been unlocked, anyone could have gone up to the tower.

  But, John thought, it would probably need to be someone who already knew what was up there and had an idea where to secrete the psalter. That was the only way, otherwise it would have just been blundering around and hoping.

  Still, many had been up there. Not just labourers working on the church, but those who wanted a view of the countryside all around. In the end, it didn’t help.

  ‘You don’t think the priest did it?’

  ‘No.’ The way Geoffrey reacted seemed too honest.

  ‘Is there anything that can help you?’ the coroner asked.

  John shook his head. It was the only answer he had.

  ‘Now you’ve seen the book, do you think it’s worth all those lives?’

  ‘No,’ he answered. ‘Words aren’t worth anyone’s life. Even holy words.’

  • • •

  Walter was up and dressed, sitting at the table. He was holding himself very still, wincing each time he moved. But it was a start. He was recovering.

  From the buttery, Katherine looked at him and gave a small nod of approval. John poured himself a cup of ale and drank thirstily.

  ‘A little better?’

  ‘Yes, John.’ He smiled.

  ‘Another few days and you’ll be running again. You won’t believe what I found today.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The psalter.’

  He had to tell it all again as the family crowded around, wanting to hear the tale. Janette and Eleanor wanted to know what a psalter was, and he tried to explain. When he finished, Katherine said, ‘I wish you’d brought it here first.’

  He looked at her, seeing the wishful, dreaming look on her face.

  ‘Perhaps de Harville will let me show everyone.’ He looked pointedly at the girls. ‘But if I can, no touching with dirty or sticky fingers.’

  He knew he’d have to go over the story at least once more; Martha would want all the details.

  Not yet, though. He could still make something of the day. John gathered up his satchel of tools and walked to Beetwell Street. It wasn’t a large job, just replacing a broken shutter for a family. He’d have the job done well before evening.

  The house was no more than a cottage really, made of well-packed wattle and daub, with a covering of good limewash and a solid timber frame. But it was scrupulously clean, fresh rushes scattered on the floor inside. The goodwife put up her broom and brought him a cup of ale as he began work, measuring with a piece of twine and cutting the boards to size. One of the woman’s children, a boy of maybe six, watched intently and silently.

  ‘You want to be a carpenter?’ John asked. The boy didn’t answer, just nodded his head.

  ‘You’ll get nothing out of him,’ the woman said cheerfully, tousling her son’s hair. ‘He’s mute. Never said a word in his life.’ She looked down at the lad with absolute love, as if speech meant nothing at all. The woman was short and round, with very pink cheeks and plump arms that stretched her old, patched dress.

  ‘Would you like to help?’ John asked the boy, seeing his eyes widen in excitement and nervousness.

  ‘His name’s Alan,’ the woman added. ‘He hears perfectly well, just doesn’t speak.’

  ‘Well, Alan.’ He held out the length of twine. ‘Hold this and you can work with me.’

  It became a game, the boy doing exactly as he was ordered, moving quickly and easily, understanding everything with hardly an explanation.

  It was good for the lad, and for him, too. Having to instruct meant he didn’t have time to brood too long over the mystery of the psalter. Sooner or later the man who’d hidden it would find it gone. What would he do then?

  He put it to the back of his mind, wrapping his hand around Alan’s small one as he sawed, making sure the line was straight and the cut smooth. It took him back to his father doing exactly the same thing with him and a pang of loss rippled through him.

  Would he be like this with his own son in just a few years? How would he feel, seeing his boy learn the trade?

  By the time they’d sanded the edges of the wood, Alan was grinning, proud of what he’d done. John demonstrated how he was going to put the boards together to make the new shutter and the boy nodded eagerly; he’d already understood how it should be. He was a natural for this, with the vision. Maybe even the touch, if it ever had a chance to develop.

  There was nothing the lad could do to help him hang the shutter on the window frame. He was too short for that, but he concentrated, taking in each action as John described what he was doing.

  He let Alan help with the cleaning of the tools.

  ‘Do this every day when you work,’ he advised. ‘That way your tools will last for years.’ He drew out a whetstone. ‘And make sure you always keep them sharp.’

  When the goodwife paid him, reaching into the purse that hung from her girdle, he passed one of the coins to Alan and wrapped his small fist around it.

  ‘You earned this,’ he said solemnly as the boy stared in disbelief. Most likely he’d never earned anything before. He turned to the woman. ‘If you want, he can work with me around town and learn what to do.’

  ‘You think he has some skill?’ she asked warily.

  ‘He might,’ John told her and saw the joy on Alan’s face. ‘There’s only one way to find out. If he does, I’ll teach him.’

  ‘That’s a generous offer, Master. I’ll need to talk to my husband first.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘If he’s willing, we’d be grateful.’ She paused for a moment. ‘How much do you want for his apprenticeship?’

  He smiled. ‘Nothing. It’s not an apprenticeship. Nothing proper.’

  ‘Then it’s a grand gesture.’ But she still sounded wary.

  ‘I’ll leave it with you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She looked at the new shutter. ‘You’ve done a good job. Both of you.’

  • • •

  He was in a good mood when he walked into the house on Saltergate, whistling as he walked, a song that had lodged in his head after hearing a minstrel play it at the market. But as soon as he entered he knew something was wrong. Katherine and Walter were sitting at the table, tension on their faces. He could hear the hushed voices of the girls out in the garden.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s Martha.’ Katherine turned her head slowly. ‘She sent a message an hour ago. She wants you to go there as soon as you can.’

  He didn’t understand.

  ‘What’s happened? Why didn’t she come herself if there’s a problem?’

  ‘She sent a boy. She told him that it has to be you, only you, that goes. I’m worried, John.’

  It wasn’t like Dame Martha. She’d always welcome any of them – all of them –
in her house at any time.

  ‘Right,’ he decided as he put down the old bag of tools and took a breath. ‘I’d better see what this is about.’

  ‘Husband,’ Katherine called as he left, ‘take care, please.’

  It was no more than a few hundred yards, just moments as he strode out. But long enough to loosen his dagger in its sheath and for all manner of thoughts to tumble through his mind. Something was wrong, it had to be. He closed his jerkin, making sure it was secure.

  He paused outside the house on Knifesmithgate, wondering for a moment whether to knock or simply enter. He placed a hand on the door handle, feeling it turn silently in his grip; he’d always made sure the hinges were well lubricated. Then he was inside and past the screens.

  The settle had been dragged away from the wall. She was sitting on it, looking up defiantly at him. A man stood behind her. Something glittered in the hand he held to her neck. He raised his head.

  ‘I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to arrive.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘I wish you God’s grace again, Father.’

  ‘And to you, my son.’ Father Geoffrey smiled, but it was a dark grin, no warmth behind it. ‘Has anyone told you that you’re a lucky man?’

  ‘At times.’ He let his arms dangle by his side; still easy enough to reach for his blade if the chance arose. He moved his gaze to Martha. She kept her face resolute, sitting completely still and showing nothing. ‘But you had me fooled. I never suspected you. What do you want?’

  ‘I’m sure you can guess. Go and fetch the psalter from the coroner and bring it to me. Do that and the goodwife here will live.’ He pulled her head back to expose her throat. ‘Any kind of trap and I’ll kill her.’ He shrugged. ‘After all, I’ve got nothing to lose now, have I?’

  ‘And if I refuse?’

  ‘The widow dies.’

  Her eyes gave nothing away. No fear, no pain.

  ‘That leaves you with nothing.’

  ‘But you won’t let that happen. I know you care about the old woman. I’m not a fool, Carpenter. You’d better go and fetch the book.’

  ‘What do I tell the coroner?’

  ‘That’s your business. Come up with whatever lie you wish. Do it wrong and you’ll be mourning her.’

  ‘All right,’ he agreed. ‘But you’ll need to give me a few minutes.’

  ‘I’ve waited all afternoon for you,’ the priest told him. ‘I can last a little longer.’

  He was sweating when he left the house, his hands shaking as he wrenched the door open. Moving along, he scarcely noticed anyone else as his mind raced. What could he say that would make de Harville part with the psalter?

  None of this made sense. If Timothy was leaving the book to the church, why had Geoffrey needed to kill for it? And why so many? He’d left a long, bloody trail.

  The coroner was sitting with the monk, hunched over his accounts, the glazed window opened to draw in some air. A thin silk coat in bright turquoise with vast belled sleeves had been idly thrown over a bench.

  ‘What do you need, Carpenter? Do you have some news?’

  ‘I do, Master.’ He told it all in a few short sentences. When he finished there was just silence. ‘What about Timothy’s will?’ John asked. ‘Did he leave the book to the church?’

  ‘It looks like he’d never intended to,’ Brother Robert answered eventually. ‘The lawyer in Derby had a copy of the will delivered here a few minutes ago. Timothy hadn’t altered it in years.’

  ‘Who gets the psalter?’ His mouth was dry. He was scared to ask. Or to know the truth.

  ‘Christian in Dronfield,’ the monk told him. ‘Timothy still didn’t openly acknowledge him as his son, but this is as close as he’s going to come.’

  ‘I sent a bailiff out to give him the news,’ de Harville added.

  ‘I still need the book,’ John said urgently. ‘Dame Martha’s life depends on it.’

  ‘Geoffrey.’ The coroner shook his head. ‘He always seemed so reasonable. He can’t believe he can escape with it, surely?’

  ‘I don’t know what he’s thinking.’ His voice became urgent. ‘I need the book now, Master. He’s waiting.’

  ‘It’s in the chest over there,’ de Harville said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘I’ll have bailiffs at the front and back of the house.’

  ‘Just make sure nothing happens to Martha if he takes her with him.’

  ‘You have my word, Carpenter.’

  The psalter was still in its linen wrapping. He picked it up, hoisting it in his hand and started to leave.

  ‘John,’ Brother Robert said quietly, ‘I’ll be praying for Martha. We all will.’

  • • •

  He ran along the street, feet pounding on the ground. The psalter was clutched close to his chest, eyes scanning around for any trouble or obstacles. John turned the corner on to Knifesmithgate, twisted the knob on the door and tried to catch his breath as he entered the house.

  Martha and the priest were in the same position, his knife at her neck. She wasn’t going to let herself show any of the terror she had to be feeling.

  ‘I’d expected you to be quicker,’ Geoffrey said. There was no emotion in his voice. It was just words, empty.

  ‘I had to persuade the coroner.’

  ‘Then it’s as well you have a silver tongue. Put it on the table.’ The priest nodded in the direction. ‘And your knife with it,’ he added.

  John did exactly as Geoffrey ordered, with slow, deliberate movements, keeping his hands in sight.

  ‘Very good,’ the man told him. He darted over, pulling the book towards him, on to Martha’s lap. John’s knife tumbled noisily to the floor. ‘Open it,’ Geoffrey told Martha.

  She tried to hide the tremor in her hands as her fingers moved, but it was obvious. Yet as she saw the cover of the psalter, its jewels twinkling in the light, she couldn’t stop a gasp of wonder. Martha ran her hand over the leather and stones, then opened the book.

  He could see the longing and satisfaction in the priest’s eyes as he gazed at the beautiful illustrations.

  ‘Was it worthwhile?’ John asked.

  ‘Was what worthwhile?’ Geoffrey’s head jerked up, annoyed by the distraction.

  ‘Killing all those people for this.’

  ‘All?’ He smiled. ‘I killed two, that’s all.’

  ‘Does that excuse it? You persuaded others to kill for you. That makes you responsible for the other deaths.’

  ‘Do you know what Timothy used to do? Whenever I went to visit him he showed me the psalter. And each time he’d taunt me and say he wasn’t leaving it to the church.’

  ‘Did he ever tell you who’d get it?’

  ‘No.’ The word came out curt and abrupt. ‘He wouldn’t say.’

  ‘Tell me, Father. How did you persuade Edward the Butcher and Gilbert to kill Timothy and his servant?

  ‘I didn’t have to.’ Geoffrey smiled. ‘Julian did that. I’d promised him, and anyone who helped him, absolution for it. I said he was helping the church by returning something that rightly belonged with God. He snatched at absolution for his sins, and he arranged everything. I told Timothy the men were coming to do some work he needed out of Christian charity.’

  What would God think of that, he wondered? Precious little charity in a knife blade.

  ‘And then you killed Julian.’

  The priest shrugged. ‘He’d become greedy. He thought a pardon for his sins wasn’t payment enough. He wanted silver, too.’

  ‘You beat Walter, too. My brother-in-law.’

  ‘The boy was getting too close. He saw something he shouldn’t. I’m surprised he survived.’

  ‘Be grateful he did or I’d have killed you myself. Was it you who tried to set the fire in my kitchen, too?’

  Geoffrey shrugged again. ‘In the panic it might have been easy enough to go in and smother the lad. Just to be certain.’

  ‘And when I was attacked out along the riverbank. A ma
n on his own who wanted to kill me.’

  ‘No,’ the priest told him. ‘Maybe you have more enemies than you know.’

  ‘And the bishop’s man? What about him?’ He hadn’t been able to understand how all these things fitted into the puzzle; there seemed to be no place for them.

  ‘It muddied the waters,’ Father Geoffrey told him. ‘I knew who they were and why they were here.’

  ‘And why was that?’ It was something he wanted to know. Needed to know.

  ‘There had been … complaints.’

  ‘About you?’

  ‘About my conduct with some of the women in the parish. The bishop sent them to investigate.’

  ‘Were the complaints true?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘I’ve kept my vows. I’m celibate. But there’s always tittle-tattle. Gossip has wings.’

  ‘Those vows you took. Do they include killing, and coveting something that’s not yours?’

  The priest raised his head. His eyes were shining. ‘Sometimes a thing is worth the world. You’ve seen it. Isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘Very,’ John agreed. ‘But it’s still just a book, a thing. How can it be worth one life, never mind so many?’

  ‘Then you don’t understand.’ He reached down and took the book away from Martha, clasping it tight in one hand. The other still held the knife to her throat.

  ‘What are you going to do now? You can’t get far. As soon as you let her go the bailiffs will be on you.’

  ‘We’ll see. Change places with the woman.’

  He did as he was ordered. Better him at risk that Martha. As they passed he took her hand for a moment and squeezed it lightly.

  ‘Go outside,’ Father Geoffrey told Martha. ‘Tell them to clear a path from here to the church. If anyone tries to stop me, I’ll kill your friend. Come back when it’s ready.’

  She fled. As the door opened he could hear a host of voices. Then it closed again and it was just the two of them.

  ‘Going to claim sanctuary?’ John asked.

  ‘It’s my right.’

  ‘You can’t stay there forever.’

  ‘Forty days and nights. A great deal can happen. There’s time to talk and agree. Plenty of chance for things to be forgotten.’