As he walked down the street he could hear people moving around behind their doors, the day already beginning. Over in the churchyard small groups of men stood together, some going over to the barrel to fill their mugs with ale.
He looked around in the gloom, finally spotting Will by the church, staring up at the tower.
‘Good morning, Master,’ he said. ‘What do you want me doing today?’
‘There’s work up there,’ Will told him. ‘We need to finish reinforcing the ceiling in the top room. Next week we start work on the spire.’ John followed his gaze, trying to picture it. Already it seemed tall enough. ‘It’ll be more than two hundred feet high when we’ve finished. People will see it for miles around.’
‘What’s going to hold it in place?’ He couldn’t even start to imagine what would be needed to keep a structure like that sturdy.
Will grinned broadly. ‘That’s the beauty of it, lad. It’ll be heavy enough that its own weight will keep it there.’
‘What?’ John looked up again. It seemed impossible. Any strong wind would topple it if it wasn’t attached. But if it worked, if it could stay, it would be one of the wonders of the world.
‘That’s what the engineers tell me, any road.’ He scratched at the dark stubble on his chin. ‘And they’re the ones who are paid to know. So that’s why we need the ceiling strong. Good cross-bracing.’
The dawn had lightened enough for John to make out Will’s features and see the glimmer of doubt that flickered across his mouth and troubled his eyes. If anything went wrong it would be the master carpenter and his men who would take the blame first. Will drained the mug in his hand.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘off you go. One of the engineers will tell you what to do. Can you read a plan?’ John shook his head. ‘Then just do exactly what he tells you. There’ll be some others up there. I’ll come by later and see if you’re as good as you think you are.’ He gave a wink and strode away.
John entered through the porch and made the sign of the cross. The stairs were close to the screen, and he stopped for a moment to look around. It didn’t compare to the great Minster in York, but nothing could; that was a building as large as any castle. This church had a pleasing symmetry in its shape, though, and he ran his hand along one of the decorated pillars, feeling the sharpness of the mason’s cut in the stone before climbing the winding staircase.
The room stood open to the sky, tall enough to catch the faint morning breeze. Already there was the scent of heat in the air, and he knew that in another hour he’d be covered in sweat and stripped to his shirt. He put the satchel carefully in a corner and examined the area. Some beams were already in place, a basic structure that was solid when he pushed against it.
He heard footsteps and turned. A man in a cote of expensive wool topped with a dark blue surcote entered, followed by three others. He carried a piece of vellum rolled in his fist, while one man carried a bag, the others were empty handed. They were big men with thick hands and muscled arms.
‘You’re the new carpenter?’ the man asked without any real interest. He was short, with a hawk nose and weary eyes, carrying his air of self-importance like a crown as he unrolled the plan. His fingernails were clean, his hands as smooth as if he had never used them more than was needful.
‘I am.’
‘Have you done any cross-bracing before?’
‘Aye, some,’ John said. He’d done most everything in his two years in York, but he listened closely as the man explained everything in his haughty voice, his mind’s eye seeing each piece go into its place to ease the weight and spread the stress of the spire.
He set to work with the other carpenter, a thin, dour man named Robert who spoke little, and with hair the colour of iron cropped close against his skull. The labourers did the hardest work, shifting the heavy beams and helping to keep them steady.
By the time the bell sounded for dinner the linen of his shirt was soaked through. The sun burned down hot, not a cloud in the sky, the room trapping the warmth like an oven.
Outside, he found a place in the cool shade of a birch tree and took a long draught of ale and began to eat. He had almost finished when Will came by. John had watched him going around his men, talking to them, asking interested questions. A good master, he decided, one who cared about the job and those under him.
‘How are you getting on up there?’ he asked.
‘Slow but steady. It’ll take a few days to have everything secure.’
‘There’s time yet. Just make sure it’s right. What do you think of the engineer?’ John turned his head and spat. Will roared with laughter. ‘Aye, he’s an arrogant streak of piss, but he knows what he’s doing. That’s more than you can say for some of them.’
John nodded and watched idly as Will passed a moment with a group of men. He stood and stretched before returning to the room at the top of the tower.
They worked hard all day, never as fast as the engineer wanted, but John didn’t care about that. If he was going to do a job he had do it properly and at his own speed. He had pride in what he did; no one would ever need to go over it.
He finished as the shadows fell and it became too difficult to see. Carefully, he wiped the tools with the oiled cloth, slung the bag over his shoulder and walked down the stairs, the leather rubbing noisily against the stone as he moved. His arms ached, but that was a good feeling. Along with the others he lined up to be paid, making a mark with a quill before slipping the coins into his purse.
The dying of the day had always been his favourite time, the sounds muted, the night scents appearing on the air, a suspicion of magic in the sky. He leaned against the wall of the churchyard, looking down the slope towards the river that moved sluggishly in the distance and felt the satisfied weariness of labour done well. A man was his work, and the ache in his muscles felt as rich as any full coffer.
It was full dark when he returned to the house on Knifesmithgate, opening the latch quietly in case Martha was already asleep. But a rushlight burned bright and she was seated on the bench, her back straight, eyes bright and alert. She had a needle and thread in her hand and a small pile of sewing at her side.
‘Good evening, Mistress,’ he said, then corrected himself with a smile as she gazed steadily at him. ‘Martha.’
‘There’s ale on the table for you,’ she told him, ‘and a coney for dinner tomorrow, if you’ve a mind.’
‘I’d like that. Thank you.’ He drank and settled himself on the joint stool. ‘I’m surprised you don’t have a servant here. I thought all women did.’
She chuckled and shook her head. ‘Shows how much you know. Most of the ones I’ve had couldn’t do anything right, I always ended up doing it myself anyway.’ She caught his grin. ‘Besides, if I had a servant, what would I do all day? You men have your work, but what do I have?’
‘You don’t have any children close by?’
‘There’s only one still alive,’ Martha said with a gentle sigh, ‘and she’s up in Sheffield with a brood of her own. Married to a cutler, of course, and he’s doing well in his guild. They come twice a year to see me.’ She paused, as if she was embarrassed to tell him so much. ‘I left the bread and cheese in your room.’
‘Thank you.’
• • •
The next morning was Sunday, and John escorted Martha to the church as the bell rang, leaving her to stand at the side along with the widows and crones, where they could exchange gossip behind their hands. He took his place at the back among the workmen, nodding a greeting to the few faces he recognised.
Close to the front he spotted the lad Walter, there between women he assumed were his mother and sisters. The boy smiled to see him and leaned over to whisper to one of the girls. She turned to look, a promise of mischief and flirtation in her eyes and a bold smile on her bonny face.
He hurried away after the service, glad of his own company to wander around Chesterfield on the quiet streets, taking a path down to the marshy area around the river a
nd staring back up to see the church tower standing proud and tall. What would it be like with the spire on top of that, he wondered.
He made sure he was back at the house on Knifesmithgate for his dinner, an edge to his hunger, ready for the tender rabbit that Martha had cooked in a heady pepper sauce with other spices he couldn’t name. He ate slowly, relishing each mouthful, spearing the food with his knife and chewing slowly, trying to remember when he had last had a good meal in someone’s home. For so much of his life his food had come from cookshops or charity as he walked between towns.
In the afternoon he did some small jobs for the widow, adding a thin shim to a joint in the settle to stop it wobbling, then planing down the bottom of the back door where it stuck on the stone of the step. It took no more than a quarter hour and it was repaymeny for the woman who had just fed him so well.
• • •
He entered the churchyard in the half light, pausing for a quick drink of ale from the barrel before climbing the stairs to the tower. The stars stood bright, clear in the still sky. He had heard once how some men claimed to understand them and what they meant, but he knew nothing of that and never would.
He started to ease the bag from his shoulder then halted as he breathed in. The room stank of decay. He coughed, tasting the bile as it rose in his throat, then put a hand over his mouth.
In a few moments he could make out enough to see the shape on the floor. It was large enough to be a man – a corpse. He took the steps at a run, gasping for clean air, and rushed out of the church.
‘In the tower, quick!’ he shouted. ‘Someone’s dead up there.’
CHAPTER THREE
Men dashed from across the churchyard, pressing into the building and up the stairs to the tower. John stayed outside, leaning against the stone, breathing in the clean air deeply and letting the sweat of fear cool on his skin. He had seen too many bodies before, many of them with the agony of the plague on their faces; he had no wish to see another.
He could hear the hubbub of voices, then the sharp, distinctive sound of someone striking a flint to light a candle.
‘Christ’s blood, it’s Will,’ a voice said, the words carrying in the dawn. ‘The crows have been at him, too. Go for the coroner.’
John slid down the wall, resting on his haunches and sighing. With the coroner coming and the inquest in the tower there’d be no work done today. And as first finder he would have to give his evidence then pay a fine to make sure he stayed in the district.
It was full morning before the coroner finally appeared, a tall man with thick, pale hair, wearing polished boots, red hose and a blue cote buttoned up tight, a monk for his clerk limping behind him and carrying a small, portable desk.
The man must have selected his jury on the way. Six men trailed along, some looking around curiously, others try to hold back, reluctant to be there but knowing they couldn’t refuse.
‘Where’s the body?’ the coroner asked.
‘Top o’ there,’ someone told him, pointing to the tower.
‘Who’s the first finder?’
John stood slowly.
‘I am,’ he said.
‘You come too, then,’ and motioned for the jury to follow him.
The room seemed cramped and airless, the stench more powerful than before. Men were packed together in the space, gagging and retching; two went to the corner and vomited. John stayed back, hating all this but unable to keep his eyes from the body.
It was Will, no doubt about that. Enough remained of his face to be sure of that; the birds and rats had taken the rest and now flies were thick on his skin. He lay crumpled in the middle of the floor, so much smaller in death than he had seemed in life. A lake of blood had bloomed under him, dried now to a thick, dark stain on the wooden boards.
The coroner turned Will over gently with his boot, an expression of distaste on his mouth. Maggots crawled around the deep wound on his back; the shirt soaked a deep red.
‘I’ll hold the inquest in the nave,’ the coroner announced, then turned to the monk. ‘Arrange for some of the women to prepare him for burial.’
The jury assembled near the font, the clerk sitting with the desk on his lap, quill ready.
‘Who was he?’ the coroner asked.
‘His name was Will,’ John said. ‘He was the master carpenter.’
‘English?’
‘As much as you and me, aye.’
‘You found him?’
‘I did,’ he answered with a brisk nod.
‘And who are you?’ the man wondered. ‘You’re not from here.’
‘I’m John. Will hired me on Friday. I’m staying with Widow Martha on Knifesmithgate.’
He felt the coroner’s pale eyes on him.
‘What were you doing in the tower?’
‘Getting ready for work. We’re putting cross-bracing in there for the spire.’
‘Who told you to go up there?’
‘No one.’ John took a breath. ‘I’d been working up there on Saturday and there was still plenty to do.’
‘What did you do when you found him?’
‘I came down to raise the alarm.’ The memory came back to his throat and he swallowed. ‘I could smell him, but it was too dark to see who it was.’
‘When did you see this Will last?’
‘Saturday evening, when he paid the men. All the men,’ he added.
The coroner turned to the clerk.
‘Fine him a shilling as first finder.’
Head bent, the monk nodded.
‘What do you think, jury?’ the coroner asked.
‘Someone killed him,’ a man at the front said. ‘Knifed him in the back. It’s obvious to anyone.’ He turned to glance at John. ‘Could have been him for all we know.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘He’s been there a while,’ an older man added thoughtfully. ‘A man don’t end up like that in an hour, stinking and pecked to buggery.’
The coroner nodded.
‘I pronounce Will unlawfully murdered.’ He looked around the men. ‘I charge the jury with finding his killer.’ Finally he turned to the clerk again. ‘Take their names before you let them go.’ Then he strode off, gesturing to John to follow him.
They stood in the porch, looking out at the groups of men gathered in the yard.
‘How well did you know him?’
‘Not at all,’ John answered.
‘Do you know of anyone who’d want to kill him?’ the coroner persisted.
He thought back to Friday and the fight Will had broken up.
‘I saw him dismiss a man just after he had hired me.’
‘What happened?’ The coroner stared at him curiously, his pale eyes intent.
‘A couple of the workers were fighting. One of them cut another.’ He shrugged. ‘From what I heard, the man with the knife had been a troublemaker and Will sent him on his way without his wages.’
‘Was it reported?’
‘I don’t know,’ John told him, seeing the doubt on the other man’s face.
‘Do you know the man’s name?’
John shook his head. ‘Stephen, I think. He was the one who was hurt.’
‘Where is he?’
John inclined his head. ‘He’ll probably be out there somewhere. Look for someone with a bandage on his arm. He can tell you more.’
‘You’re not a helpful man,’ the coroner said, his voice bemused. ‘Didn’t you like Will?’
John was slow to reply. ‘He seemed liked a good master, he looked like he cared about the people working for him. But like I said, I didn’t know him.’
‘Go and pay your fine. You’re a stranger here; that makes you a suspect in the death.’
He had known those words would come. No one knew him here; there wasn’t a soul to speak for his good character.
‘Most of the people working on the church aren’t local,’ he countered.
‘They didn’t find him,’ the coroner said firmly. ‘You did.’ He tu
rned and strode away, out of the churchyard.
John sighed. He leaned against the wall, waiting until the jurors had filed out, their faces set, two of them glancing angrily at him as if they blamed him for their task. Then he returned to the nave, the flagstones solid under the sole of his boots, to the clerk slowly packing away his vellum and ink.
‘My fine,’ he said, counting out coins from his purse and passing them over. He hated to lose the money, but knew he had no choice. He was better off than many; he had worked steadily for a long time and spent little of his wages. Most of his small wealth he had painstakingly sewn away in his cote, safe from the eyes of thieves and cutpurses.
The monk took the money with a nod, sliding it into the scrip that hung from his belt. He had a long face with all the lines of age but a lively mouth that twitched into a smile.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘he doesn’t think you did it.’
John raised his eyebrows. ‘How do you know?’
‘If he’d had any doubts about you he’d have arrested you straight away. I’ve seen him do it before.’ The man stood, smoothing down the black habit that had been patched and mended many times. A shaft of sunlight through the window of the church shone on his tonsure.
‘How long have you clerked for him?’
‘Five years come Michaelmas. He’s a good man, is Richard de Harville.’ He picked up the small desk wearily and put it under his arm. ‘He’s thorough in his duties.’
‘You need a strap on that,’ John told him. ‘That way you could carry it on your shoulder. Find some leather and I’ll put one on for you.’
‘That would be a kindness,’ the monk said, inclining his head. ‘I’ll do that.’
‘How does a Benedictine come to work as a clerk?’
‘There’s a tale in that, right enough,’ the man said with a grin. ‘I taught Richard his letters when he was little, before he inherited the manors from his father. When the king appointed him coroner around here, he asked the abbot for my services. So I was called to God but I end up serving man once more,’ he finished with a sigh.
The Crooked Spire Page 2
