The Saltergate Psalter

by Chris Nickson

  ‘The coroner won’t forget murder. You can believe me on that.’

  ‘We’ll see, won’t we? Right, they’ve had time to move people. Stand up.’

  The priest stayed close enough for his dagger to touch the skin without piercing it.

  ‘Don’t take any fancy ideas,’ he warned, his voice hissing in John’s ear. ‘Before I took to the priesthood, I was a soldier. I know how to use a knife.’

  ‘You could give up. Claim benefit of clergy and they can’t hang you.’

  He should have felt terrified, but he didn’t. The priest wasn’t about to kill the man who could get him to the church. He was safe enough. And once Geoffrey reached sacred ground he’d let him go.

  ‘Then spend my life in a monastery?’

  ‘They have books there,’ John said. He tried to think. What else could a man who’d claimed sanctuary do? Leave the country by the nearest port. ‘Even if they let you abjure the realm, they’ll never let you take the psalter.’

  ‘Then I’ll destroy it. Burn it.’

  Would he, John wondered? Could he put the pages of something he loved so much, something he’d killed to own, in the flames? Probably not. But that was another argument, one that would never concern him, God willing.

  One minute became five, then ten, time dragging out very slowly.

  ‘Where is that woman?’ Geoffrey said. ‘Maybe she’s left you to die with me.’

  ‘No.’ Martha wouldn’t do that, he knew that. All he could do was wait. The time here was affecting Geoffrey more than him. The priest was nervous, scared. Twice the point of the knife had dug deep enough to pierce his neck, leaving a small trickle of blood.

  The man’s hands were sweating. He could see the discolouration on the linen as he clutched the book against his chest.

  Finally the door swung open and Dame Martha appeared. She was breathless and red-faced, fanning herself with one gnarled hand. Her eyes looked at John and he could see the question in them. He gave a small nod: he was fine, no real damage done.

  ‘They’ve cleared a path for you,’ she said.

  John heard the priest shift behind him.

  ‘Come on then, Carpenter. It’s time we took a short walk.’

  The knife pricked the back of his neck as he walked across the tiled floor, his boots ringing out with each step. He paused at the doorway. The light seemed too bright. Unreal. He had to blink a few times before his eyes could take it all in.

  People had crowded around. Word must have spread like a blaze. It looked as though half of Chesterfield had gathered to watch. The bailiffs held them back, forming a corridor. Men and women were shouting, their faces contorted by anger and curiosity, creating a sea of noise.

  John took a breath and stepped out into the dust of the road. He could feel the priest behind him, the knife touching his skin lightly. The man was close enough for John to smell his sour breath.

  As he walked, John gazed around. It wasn’t far to the church. Just a few hundred yards. But it looked like miles. The steeple seemed to rise like a mountain in the distance. The coroner was standing by the porch, Brother Robert just behind him.

  He could see the Holywell Cross, old worn stone catching the sunlight. Katherine stood there, holding on to the girls. Her eyes were begging. He smiled and winked at her. All would be well. This would be done soon.

  No Walter, though. That was a shock. Maybe the lad was still too weak. It didn’t matter. Everyone would be talking about this for days.

  He kept walking, fixing his eyes on the church. Soon. Just a few seconds and he’d be there. John felt every step. Each one seemed like a great effort, as if his legs weighed more than he could lift. He had to force each one up then down again.

  A bead of sweat trickled down his back, running along his spine, chilling him on a hot day. Geoffrey had to be scared. The people here would tear him apart if they had the chance.

  Suddenly John halted in mid-stride. Just ten yards ahead Walter had appeared. He’d slipped past the bailiffs. Now he stood there, the bruises and cuts covering his flesh. The crowd shrank back from him. Maybe it was fear, maybe horror; there was nothing handsome about him in this state.

  But the lad didn’t move.

  ‘Get out of the way, boy,’ Geoffrey called. ‘If you want your brother-in-law to live.’ The knife jabbed against his neck.

  It was now or never at all. Walter had all of Geoffrey’s attention. John took a breath and let himself fall to the ground. As he tumbled, his hand reached into his boot and grabbed the knife he kept there. It was a lesson he’d learned years before. A weapon out of sight was often never found.

  He pulled the blade out. As his shoulder hit the earth he reached around and sliced through the tendon at Geoffrey’s heel, then rolled away before the man could collapse on top of him.

  He heard a loud cry of pain, and the priest was down in the dirt. He’d dropped his knife and clutched at the wound with one hand. But the other kept a tight grip on the psalter.

  It was over. Done. John kicked the man’s weapon away. Geoffrey was writhing, screaming and bleeding. Safety was less than fifty yards away but he’d never reach it now. He’d probably never manage to walk properly again.

  John wiped the knife on his jerkin, suddenly aware of the voices all around, as if he’d just emerged from a dream. But before he could say anything or do anything, someone pushed him roughly out of the way.

  He stumbled, finding his balance after a moment, then turning, knife ready to strike again. Christian was kneeling heavily on the priest’s chest. He had his thick hands around the man’s neck, banging his head down and down against a rock.

  A pair of stout bailiffs took hold and dragged Christian away, cursing and yelling as they pulled him off. The priest was dazed, gasping for breath. But he’d live.

  John glanced and saw Walter still standing there, in the exact same position. He turned his head and picked out Katherine by the Cross. She was watching him, one hand clasped over her mouth in shock.

  He left Geoffrey there and walked up to the boy, placing his hands on Walter’s shoulders.

  ‘Thank you.’

  The lad was looking beyond him, at the figure still on the ground. ‘It was him. As soon as I saw him I remembered.’

  ‘I know,’ John said quietly. ‘He admitted it.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to him?’

  It was the coroner who answered. He came, Brother Robert at his shoulder. Someone had handed him the psalter, still in its grubby linen wrapping.

  ‘We’ll keep him a while, then he’ll go down to Derby,’ de Harville said bitterly. ‘When he’s tried he’ll plead benefit of clergy so we won’t be able to hang him.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Walter asked.

  ‘All he has to do is read a verse from the Bible. Psalm fifty.’ He kept his gaze firmly on the priest. Two of the bailiffs were lifting him to his feet. ‘He’ll just end up with a lifetime of penance.’ He raised his voice. ‘Take him away. Put him in the jail for now.’

  Geoffrey hobbled away, supported by his guards, his useless leg raised off the ground.

  ‘He’ll always need a crutch,’ John said. It didn’t seem like much of a punishment.

  ‘Good.’ The coroner’s voice was hard. ‘He deserves to hang, if there was any real justice. You did well there, Carpenter. You took him by surprise.’

  ‘If Walter hadn’t been standing there I wouldn’t have had the courage to stop.’ He looked at the lad and smiled.

  De Harville raised a questioning eyebrow. If the man didn’t want to believe, so be it. But it was true.

  ‘Do you always carry an extra knife?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve done it for years. Geoffrey said he’d been a soldier. Unless he was lying, he should have thought about a second weapon.’ He shook his head. ‘Too late now.’

  Two bailiffs brought Christian. He’d been stripped of his sword and dagger, but he was still struggling in their grasp. The coroner nodded to them to release him. Th
ey obeyed, still standing ready, untrusting.

  ‘I didn’t think my men had arrived soon enough for you to be here so quickly.’

  ‘Your men?’ Christian asked. ‘I never saw them. I’ve been here since early morning. I had business to attend to.’ Christian’s eyes were blazing. ‘Ask Adam the wool merchant if you don’t believe me. I rode in this morning. I was about to leave when I heard the commotion. I saw the priest with that.’ He nodded at the package. ‘I wouldn’t mourn if he killed the carpenter, but people were saying he’d murdered Julian. I couldn’t let that lie. Not my friend.’

  Rumour, John thought. It flew on the breeze here.

  ‘What about the book?’ de Harville asked. He held it up.

  ‘What about it?’ Christian snorted.

  ‘Do you know who it belongs to?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s yours. Timothy left it to you in his will.’

  ‘What?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re his son,’ Brother Robert said quietly. ‘It’s his way of acknowledging you.’

  The silence lasted a long time. Finally the coroner held out the book in its linen wrapping.

  ‘This is yours.’

  He didn’t reach for it at first. Christian simply stood, staring at the psalter. Finally he extended a hand and took it, not even removing the covering.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ the monk told him. ‘Keep it well.’

  ‘I don’t want it. I’ll give it to the church in Dronfield.’

  ‘Look at it first,’ Robert counselled. ‘Take your time before you decide.’

  ‘I don’t need time,’ Christian answered. ‘Timothy wouldn’t call me his son while he was alive. Now he’s dead I don’t want his apology.’ He nodded his head, said, ‘Good day, Masters, may God go with you,’ and walked away.

  The coroner sighed. ‘At least the priest there will gain something from it all.’

  So many deaths, all for a book. God’s words, every one of them tainted with blood now.

  ‘Come and see me in the morning,’ de Harville ordered, then left.

  John turned. Katherine and the girls had gone. He put his arm around Walter’s shoulders.

  ‘There’s someone we need to see.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Brother Robert walked with them. The crowd had vanished, the road dusty under their feet. On Knifesmithgate John didn’t pause to knock at the door, just entered.

  Dame Martha had her head in her hands, sitting with her elbows on the table. Her body shuddered with the silent tears that were flowing. Katherine was next to her, comforting the older woman with an arm tight around her shoulders. Even the girls were sitting quietly.

  John looked at his wife. She smiled briefly then whispered something in Martha’s ear. The woman raised her gaze. Her wimple was askew, and the red eyes from crying made her look old and vulnerable.

  ‘I’m sorry, John.’ The words croaked out of her. ‘Can you forgive me?’

  ‘What for?’ He squatted beside her and took hold of her hands. The joints were knotted, the skin covered with the brown spots of age. ‘You did nothing wrong.’

  ‘I almost got you killed.’

  ‘He was never going to do that, Mistress.’ He smiled at her. ‘All he wanted was a safe passage to the church. I don’t know what was on his mind, but it wasn’t death. Not this time.’

  ‘Is that the truth?’ she asked him.

  ‘Before God,’ he replied solemnly.

  She seemed to spy the monk for the first time.

  ‘Is he right, Robert?’

  ‘Yes.’ The pair of them gazed at each other and all the years seemed to fall away from their faces. They were young again, the boy and girl who used to play together. Before the Church called him and marriage claimed her. Back when there was innocence in the world.

  She nodded eventually.

  ‘I’m sorry you were caught in this,’ John said. ‘I never expected that.’

  ‘He couldn’t hurt me.’ There was iron in her voice. ‘I’m old. I’ve had my life. Your time is just starting.’

  ‘And yours isn’t over yet.’ He leaned close and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll get the girls back to their lessons.’ Martha turned to look at Walter. ‘And you, too. It’s time you learned to read and write.’

  • • •

  By the time they left, Martha and Robert were sharing a jug of good wine, memories making them both laugh. Good medicine, he thought.

  ‘Why do they have benefit of clergy, John?’ Walter asked as they walked.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe because they’re men of God.’

  ‘But he broke the commandments.’

  ‘I know.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t say they were all good men. But priests have power. These days maybe that’s the same as having justice.’ He shook his head. It was a country of two laws, it had been since long before he was born.

  The girls were in bed, rushed whispers and stifled giggles coming from the solar. Kit had settled between them, already purring in his rest. Walter was asleep on his pallet. He was recovering, but not fully mended yet; the day had taken its toll on him. The slates were stacked on the table, one each for Janette and Eleanor, a third for Walter.

  Katherine was sewing in the candlelight, delicate, tiny stitches on a piece of needlework. They’d talked over supper. Since then she’d been quiet, caught up in her thoughts.

  He finished the dregs of ale and pushed his mug away.

  ‘I was never in danger from Father Geoffrey,’ he told her again.

  ‘He had a knife to your neck, John,’ she reminded him. ‘He’d killed before.’

  ‘He needed me. Without me he’d have never reached the church.’ He stretched across and placed a hand on her belly, on the child inside. ‘I wasn’t taking a risk. I swear it.’

  ‘How was I to know that? You’ve blundered your way through this as if we don’t mean anything to you.’

  ‘You know you mean more than anything. More than the world.’

  ‘Do we?’ She stared at him. ‘Do I? Then please, show it in future. Prove it.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised.

  The silence lasted a few long seconds, then she opened her mouth again. ‘What would you think about asking Martha to come and live here?’

  ‘What?’ The question took him by surprise. ‘Why?’

  ‘She’s on her own in that house. She doesn’t need it all. And she spends half her time with us already.’

  All of that was true. But …

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There’s that good room by the buttery. Plenty of space for a bed and chests for her gowns.’ She smiled. ‘Janette and Eleanor would love it. And she’s growing more frail. You’ve seen that.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was all true. But Martha was a woman who guarded her independence. She might not want to give it up.

  ‘I’ll talk to her,’ Katherine said. ‘Would you be happy with it, husband?’ There was a gleam in her eye. She’d already made up her mind.

  ‘You know I would.’

  ‘Then I’ll see her in the morning.’

  • • •

  The wet nurse sat quietly on the joint stool, tucked away in the corner, almost out of sight. De Harville bounced his son gently on his lap, the baby laughing and making joyful sounds.

  ‘You did well yesterday, Carpenter.’

  ‘Thank you, Master.’

  ‘That was a clever move. Dangerous. Brave, too.’

  He shrugged. He’d felt safe enough with the priest. He just didn’t want him to escape the law.

  ‘Not really.’

  The coroner turned to stare at him. ‘What can I do to repay you?’

  It was a straightforward question, and he had a simple answer.

  ‘Don’t ask me to do this again. I have my trade and this isn’t it.’

  De Harville shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Ask me something I can grant.’

&n
bsp; ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHRIS NICKSON is the author of the Richard Nottingham and Tom Harper series (Severn House), as well as the Dan Markham mystery series, set in 1950s’ Leeds (The Mystery Press). He lives in Leeds.

  Cover photograph: © iStockphoto.com

  COPYRIGHT

  First published in 2015

  The Mystery Press is an imprint of The History Press

  The Mill, Brimscombe Port

  Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

  www.thehistorypress.co.uk

  This ebook edition first published in 2015

  All rights reserved

  © Chris Nickson, 2015

  The right of Chris Nickson to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  EPUB 978 0 7509 6669 6

  Original typesetting by The History Press

  Ebook compilation by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk