The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  ‘No enemies?’

  The man hawked and spat.

  ‘You know what it’s like. There are always people who don’t get along in a place like this. You saw what happened to me.’ He held out his arm to display the wound. ‘Nothing serious enough for murder, though, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ He paused. ‘Mind you, there was a man in the spring who swore he’d come back and kill Will when he was dismissed. But it was just words.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  Stephen thought then shook his head. ‘I can’t even remember now. You’d best ask Thomas over there.’ He pointed, and John followed the finger with his eyes. ‘The tall, bald one. He’s been here longer than me and has a mind for things like that.’

  He marked the face, a quiet man he’d noticed before who kept himself to himself; and when the day was done he’d seek him out.

  The afternoon passed as swiftly as the morning. A few clouds rolled in to take the sting from the heat, but the rain he’d sensed at dawn never arrived. Finally he put the tools in his satchel and walked into the yard.

  Thomas was alone under the oak, sipping slowly at his ale. John poured himself a mug and joined him.

  ‘A good day?’ he asked.

  The man turned his head slightly. ‘Good as any,’ he said slowly, ‘bad as most.’

  ‘They tell me you knew Will.’

  ‘Not really.’ He was thrifty with his speech. A worn bag of tools lay between his feet, and there were scars on the back of his large hands.

  ‘I heard he dismissed someone in the spring who threatened to come back and kill him.’

  Thomas gave a short laugh. ‘Anyone can be brave with words.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Geoffrey,’ the man answered without hesitation. For a moment it seemed as if he might say more, then he closed his mouth again.

  ‘Is he still in Chesterfield?’

  ‘Not that I’ve seen.’ With a curt nod he picked up the bag and walked off.

  John finished the ale and began to make his way home. The evening was quiet and thoughts filled his head, but he remained alert, catching the quiet footfalls that followed him and easing the knife blade from its tight sheath.

  He waited until he could hear the man breathing, then stepped aside and turned quickly, drawing the weapon and holding it in front of him.

  ‘I wondered how long it would take you.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  John held the knife loosely, jabbing forward a few inches to make the other man move back. The man held a thick cudgel, his eyes flickering between the blade and John’s face, the hood drawn up over his hair.

  ‘If you want to hurt me you’ll have to do better than that, Mark. Or is it your way to attack from behind?’ He took a single step forward, watching carefully, keeping his voice low and calm. He was close enough to smell the sour ale on Mark’s skin and see that the drink that had given him courage had been replaced by fear now he was facing a weapon.

  Mark tried to feint to his left, but John saw it coming, swinging the dagger in a small arc to cover it.

  ‘Go home,’ John told him. ‘Sleep it off, pretend you just dreamed this.’ He advanced another pace. Mark fixed him with a look of terror and fury mingled, then hared off down the street, stumbling at first before gathering speed, his footsteps echoing off the buildings.

  He’d known the man would come, understood that he’d want revenge for the humiliation John had inflicted on him after the fight with Stephen. But that was done now, and Mark wouldn’t return. No one else had seen, none had heard. What had happened had been purely between the two of them. He sheathed the knife, surprised to find he was breathing hard and his hands shaking a little.

  ‘You made him run away.’

  He turned quickly, his hand slipping back to the blade, then stopping as Walter crept out from the shadows. ‘How did you do that?’ the boy asked in awe.

  ‘He hurt you, didn’t he?’ John asked and the lad nodded slowly.

  ‘But I don’t know why he did it,’ Walter told him.

  ‘People like Mark have madness in them,’ John explained quietly. ‘It drives them. But they’ll only fight if it’s against someone weaker or they can surprise them and win.’

  ‘He didn’t surprise you.’

  ‘No,’ John admitted. ‘I went with the coroner to see him about the murder. We had some words. After that and the churchyard I expected he’d come for me sometime.’

  ‘You weren’t afraid.’

  John shrugged. ‘He’s only a man. He preys on fear.’

  ‘I’m scared of him,’ Walter admitted in a small voice.

  ‘I know,’ John said. ‘I know.’

  ‘I thought you were going to stab him. I wanted you to.’

  ‘There wasn’t any need for that. He was scared. That’s why he ran away.’

  ‘But …’ He saw the boy’s jaw working, his fists curled in frustration at words he didn’t possess. ‘Will you be my friend and teach me to do that?’

  He smiled. ‘I’m already your friend, Walter.’

  ‘But will you show me, John? So I’m not afraid.’

  ‘I don’t know if anyone can teach that,’ he answered.

  ‘Then teach me to be like you, John,’ Walter said.

  He gave a small, sad laugh. ‘I’m not sure you want to be like me.’

  ‘I do,’ the lad insisted.

  ‘Then if I can, I will,’ he promised. ‘Why are you out in the night, anyway?’

  ‘I like walking in the dark. It’s quiet then. When there’s no noise I can think properly.’

  ‘Aye, it’s a good time for that,’ John agreed. ‘I tell you what, come after church on Sunday. We can talk then.’

  ‘Do you mean it, John?’ he asked eagerly. ‘People say things they don’t mean, I know that.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  • • •

  Martha was waiting at the foot of the stairs. She glanced up at him, her mouth turned down in concern, her hands clasped together, clutching her paternoster beads.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked with worry.

  ‘I was in the solar,’ she said finally. ‘I heard a voice outside.’

  ‘It was just a drunk,’ he told her, trying to keep his voice light. ‘I sent him on his way.’

  ‘There’s a good moon tonight, John. Don’t lie to me.’

  He smiled. ‘It was nothing, Martha, I promise you; someone who thought to try his luck by robbing me. There wasn’t even a need to spill his blood.’

  ‘I might be old but my eyes are clear enough,’ she continued. ‘It was Mark, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Aye,’ he admitted with a sigh. ‘It was.’

  She reached out and stroked his cheek. It was a gentle touch, a mother’s caring touch. Her face softened and she said, ‘I told you he was a dangerous man.’

  ‘There was no harm done in the end. He left and he won’t be back.’

  ‘I saw that. I saw what happened after with Walter, too.’ She moved to sit on the bench, adjusting an embroidered cushion behind her back. Her gown rustled as she walked, and he noticed the sheen of the fabric and the dark blue colour. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked as she saw his glance, her lips curling girlishly.

  ‘I do. It suits you.’ It was more than a mere compliment, it was the truth. The deep indigo of the silk set off her clear blue eyes.

  ‘My husband loved me to wear this. He picked the material for me.’ Sorrow flickered across her eyes. ‘It’s eight years ago today that he died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Don’t be, John. God’s blessing is that the pain fades but the good remembrances stay strong. That’s why I wear this every anniversary. It makes me feel closer to him.’

  ‘He must have been a good man to have your love.’

  ‘We were well-suited, even though the marriage was one to please our parents. He left me well provided-for, and our daughter will want for nothing after
I’m gone.’ She arched her eyebrows. ‘But don’t you go thinking a little flattery will make me forget what I saw tonight.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her, ashamed of himself even though he’d only tried to spare her the truth.

  ‘Did Walter see it all?’

  He nodded.

  ‘He’ll look up to you now, you know,’ she warned him. ‘He’s terrified of Mark after what happened.’

  ‘He’s a good lad. There’s kindness in him.’

  ‘There is that,’ Martha agreed, then her voice turned harder, ‘although most folk around here think he’s a bit simple.’

  ‘I don’t pay much mind to what folk think,’ John said.

  She chuckled softly. ‘It shows.’

  ‘He asked me to teach him.’

  ‘Teach him what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered with a small shake of his head. ‘I don’t know what I can offer him.’

  ‘If he wants to be like you, he could choose worse things in the world,’ she said. ‘But I’m only telling you this once. My husband never lied to me and I won’t let any other man do it, either. I don’t even know why you’re involving yourself in this murder.’

  ‘Truth to tell Martha, I’m not sure myself.’ He hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘But Will took me on, he seemed a fair man; perhaps because I was the one to find him?’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘There’s a flagon of wine in the buttery,’ she said, ‘and two goblets beside it. Would you fill them and bring them in, John?’ He did as she bade him, noting the elaborate work on the York pewter cups. ‘I’d be glad if you’d drink with me to my husband’s memory. He’d have approved of you.’

  He drank slowly, sipping at the dark red liquid and letting it roll over his tongue before swallowing it. He knew nothing of wine, but he could taste the cost in its smoothness and the deep ruby colour that glittered in the light.

  ‘This is excellent,’ he said. ‘I thank you for your kindness, Martha. God grant you health.’

  ‘The pleasure comes in having someone to share it with. But you’ll be out of that door if you tell me less than the truth in future. I’m not a fool, John.’

  ‘I promise.’ He paused. ‘How would I send a message to the coroner?’

  ‘You should ask Walter,’ she suggested. ‘He’ll do it for a coin.’

  ‘I’ll be at work before he’s awake.’

  ‘I can ask him for you,’ she offered.

  He dug into his purse. ‘I’d like to meet the coroner tomorrow evening at the church.’

  ‘I’ll see he remembers properly and passes it on. I still think you’re a fool, John.’

  ‘Most like I am,’ he agreed with a sad smile, ‘but this seems to have chosen me.’

  • • •

  The heat remained sullen and brooding all day, so heavy that at times he believed he could almost taste it. The sweat ran off him in rivers, down his chest and back and soaking his hose. No matter how often he stopped to drink, a thirst raged through him, and his muscles tightened with cramp.

  The others in the tower room were the same. At dinner they sat together outside in the shade, scarcely talking in the close air. Late in the afternoon a small breeze came out of the west, enough to make them all stop working and raise their heads to the sky, breathing deep and feeling the wind on their flesh.

  He packed up the tools, wiping each one carefully, wearied beyond measure. The satchel felt heavy on his shoulder as he descended the stairs and walked through the nave, as if someone had filled it with stones when he wasn’t looking.

  The coroner was pacing just outside the church porch, looking clean and crisp in brown hose with a thin cote of sweet Lincoln green. He fell in beside John as he headed to the ale barrel, Brother Robert trailing a few steps behind, still awkwardly carrying the small desk under his arm.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ de Harville asked. ‘I hope it’s worth my time, carpenter.’

  ‘I do, but let me drink first.’ He downed two mugs one after the other, the small beer like balm on his throat. Finally he put the cup aside and wiped a hand across his mouth.

  ‘Mark came looking for me last night.’

  The coroner cocked his head in curiosity. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘What do you imagine?’ John asked in a tired voice.

  ‘From the look of you he didn’t have any joy.’

  ‘In the end he ran off.’

  ‘Wounded?’

  John shook his head. ‘Untouched.’

  De Harville said nothing for a few moments, stroking his chin lightly. ‘You didn’t ask me here just to tell me that, did you?’

  ‘No, there’s more.’

  ‘Let’s go to the alehouse, then.’

  The tiny place on Low Pavement was busier than on their last visit. They had to crowd themselves onto the end of a bench, Robert leaning against a wall close by. The harried alewife had someone to help her, a girl who bantered with the customers, slapping their exploring hands away from her skirts.

  Finally the coroner was able to order ale and a bowl of pottage. They waited until it arrived, and he pushed the food across to the carpenter.

  ‘You look like you need it.’

  ‘I’ll not say no,’ John said, stirring it with the wooden spoon then tasting the liquid, a mix of flavours that teased his tongue and went down easily, filling his belly so he sat back with a contented sigh when he finished.

  ‘Now…’ de Harville began with a smile.

  ‘I asked a few questions at the church yesterday. It seems that back in the spring Will dismissed a man who threatened to come back and kill him.’

  ‘Does this man have a name?’ the coroner asked with interest.

  ‘Geoffrey,’ John told him.

  ‘What else do you know about him?’

  ‘Nothing really.’ He drained the mug and raised his arm to signal for more. ‘I don’t even know if he’s still in Chesterfield.’

  De Harville glanced quickly at the monk. ‘We can discover that,’ he said. ‘If he’s here I’d look at him for the killing.’

  ‘Odd that he had wait so long,’ John said, then shrugged. ‘But maybe not. According to his widow, Will had no enemies he ever told her about.’ The girl arrived with the ale and he paid her, smiling and winking as he placed the coins in her hand.

  The coroner raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You’ve been busy,’ Brother Robert said quietly. ‘I wonder why.’

  John looked at him. ‘Not because I killed him and I’d have someone else seen as guilty.’

  ‘I believe that,’ de Harville told him quickly. ‘And your help’s useful, no matter the reason.’

  ‘I’d like Will to have some justice.’

  ‘He will, if I have anything to do with it,’ the coroner promised.

  ‘God thank you for that.’ John tilted the mug and downed it in one before standing. ‘It’s been a long, hot day. I’ll try to find out more for you at the church.’

  ‘You do that, carpenter. Find out what the people are saying.’

  Before he could push his way out, he felt a light touch on his arm.

  ‘Master,’ Brother Robert said, ‘you said you’d help with a strap on the desk.’

  ‘Of course,’ John replied.

  ‘I found some leather.’

  ‘Come to the church at dinner tomorrow,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘I’ll attach it for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  • • •

  The hour had turned late, and his body was tired and dirty. There was no sound from the solar and he walked quietly through to his room to bathe his face, hands and feet, then soap his chest and back before lying down to sleep.

  An hour later he was awake again. He had ridden the nightmare, and now the images of death were etched behind his eyes. He rose, hoping to walk them away, to clear his mind, but they refused to leave, lingering in snatches, flickering as elusive as smoke. He drank a little mor
e ale and settled again, hoping for sleep, but rest wouldn’t return to him.

  It had happened often enough before, coming without rhyme or reason to torment him and steal his nights. All he could do was count the hours, each minute stretching like a long, treacherous week. It had begun after the plague took his father, when it seemed as if God had taken His love from the world and all would die in pain during that never-ending devil’s season. Cast on his own devices, he’d been afraid to seek out anyone, scared that they too would disappear from his life – that he had death in his touch. He’d been eleven then, a boy with no sense of the world, with nothing more than the bag of tools that had belonged to his father and the clothes he wore.

  He slept in woods and hedges, took food from the houses that stank of decay, and tried to convince others that he was a carpenter. Times were desperate, men with any kind of ability scarce on the face of the earth, and he found work here and there. He earned a little money, enough to keep body and soul together. The jobs lasted a day or two, then a week, a fortnight. He grew taller and stronger and began to understand the wood, to feel it, to work with it rather than use it.

  His feet took him around the kingdom. He had laboured on the high magnificence of Lincoln Cathedral, lying far above the nave to fit roof trusses and bosses in place, where the touch of each breath seemed to echo forever. He had worked on the colleges in Oxford and Cambridge, watching the scholars process like kings down the streets. But each time, from every place, he’d moved on, finding fault with the town, with the master, even with the weather, his soul restless and unsatisfied.

  York had been different. There he’d come closest to the happiness he’d known as a child and the dreams hadn’t come to him. He had stayed two years, relishing his work on the minster, making good friends among the other workmen there. He’d even courted a girl; she had been eager enough to jump into his bed – and many others, too, he learned later – turning shrewish and demanding as soon as she had his affection. The child she was carrying might have been his, but might well not, as he’d been told, although her father insisted otherwise. But he knew he couldn’t trade brief moments of nightly pleasure for a lifetime of misery. Instead, he’d collected his wages and stolen away on a summer’s night while the city slept, taking the road out past Monk Bar with no destination in mind beyond where the wind might carry him.