Outside, the sun was shining, the air clear. He breathed deep.
‘Are we really going to catch Mark’s killer?’ Walter asked.
‘Maybe,’ he said cautiously. ‘We’re going to look for him, at least.’
‘How will we know who he is?’
He explained about the blood that would be on the man’s cote as the boy listened, his eyes growing wider. Walter was abuzz with excitement and the sense of responsibility. ‘We just look,’ John emphasised carefully. ‘Don’t do anything without me, you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘I mean it,’ he said and the boy nodded. ‘There’s little we can do today. It’ll soon be evening and people will be tucked in their beds. We’ll start tomorrow. Tell your sister I’ll keep you out of danger.’
‘I’m not scared John,’ the lad said firmly, his gaze steady and sincere.
‘I know you’re not,’ he told him with a smile. ‘But there’s no shame in a little fear. Remember that.’
‘I will. Do you want me to work with you?’
‘Of course I do,’ he assured the boy. ‘You’ve already helped me.’
He was rewarded with a grin before he sent Walter off home. It wasn’t the outcome he’d wished, but the monk was right; the coroner had outwitted him and put him in a position where he couldn’t refuse. He walked back along the High Street, then cut through Glumangate towards the house on Knifesmithgate. De Harville had presented the challenge, certain he would fail; if it was possible, he would prove the man wrong.
• • •
‘So you work for the coroner now?’ Martha asked as they sat with their ale and a supper of bread a cheese. The monk had sent the warrants, words John couldn’t read written on parchment. It lay next to him on the table.
‘Walter too.’
‘He’ll love that,’ she said, ‘although his sister might not be as happy. You’d better make sure you look after him.’
‘I will.’
‘Still,’ she chuckled, ‘it’s something for you to do while you’re a bird with one wing.’
• • •
He’d barely finished washing and dressing in the morning before there was a knock at the door. He looked at Martha, who was sweeping the rushes in the hall. She shrugged silently. Walter stood there, and beside him Katherine. The boy’s eyes gleamed, impatient to be about his task, but the girl’s face was closed and cautious, her eyes hooded and wary.
‘Master, Mistress,’ he said. ‘Welcome. Come in.’
Martha put up her besom. ‘I’ll fetch you some ale,’ she offered, and disappeared back into the buttery.
‘Are you ready John?’ Walter asked.
‘Soon enough,’ he answered with a gentle smile.
‘It’s true, then?’ Katherine asked. ‘The coroner’s given you both a commission?’ Her tone was sharp and disapproving.
‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘I didn’t ask for it,’ he told her, ‘and I don’t want it. But I couldn’t refuse it.’
‘Out of pride?’ she wondered caustically.
‘Out of justice,’ he answered, and her head dipped slightly.
‘What about my brother? Why do you have to involve him in this too?’
He spread the fingers of his good hand on the table, gazing down at them.
‘It wasn’t my choice. The coroner gave the order to both of us.’
‘You shouldn’t have taken Walter there.’
He’d thought about that during the night, in the long stretches when sleep wouldn’t come. He’d wanted to convince de Harville that Geoffrey was still in Chesterfield, and he’d believed that the lad’s testimony would tip the balance. He’d never foreseen anything like this, and he felt the guilt, the weight of it, strongly.
‘No,’ he agreed slowly, his head bowed. ‘You’re right.’
‘But I want to do this,’ Walter said.
‘What if you find the man?’ Katherine continued as if her brother hadn’t spoken. ‘How will you arrest him?’ She looked pointedly at John’s arm in its sling.
‘We’ll find a bailiff to do that,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll make sure Walter’s safe.’ John glanced at the boy; he had his fists clenched, a look of frustration on his face.
‘You promise that?’ she asked, her face softening, allowing the beginnings of a small smile onto her face.
‘On my life,’ he replied.
‘Thank you.’
Walter took his sister’s hand and turned her to face him.
‘I’ve told you I want to do this,’ he said. His eyes were glistening with tears. ‘I’ve told you and told you.’
‘I know,’ she said, stroking his cheek to soothe him. ‘I know you do. But you’re my little brother and I can’t help worrying about you.’
Martha bustled back in with the ale. John was sure she had heard it all and waited for the right time before returning, making all the tension evaporate from the air.
‘It’s a fresh brew,’ she said, looking around the faces and smiling. ‘It’s turned out well.’
John drank and nodded his satisfaction, glancing over at the girl. She looked back for a moment and gave him a smile, but it was tinged with sadness and he knew he’d disappointed her. He wanted to take her aside, to convince her that it wasn’t his doing, but this was neither the time or the place.
‘When can we start John?’ Walter asked eagerly.
‘After the ale,’ he said. ‘But all we do is observe and see if we can spot the man. Nothing more than that.’
‘Yes, John,’ he said, the corners of his mouth turning down.
‘I mean it,’ he said. ‘I don’t care what the coroner said, we’re not going to try and arrest anyone. That’s not our job.’ He was saying it for Katherine’s benefit as much as Walter’s, but repeating the warning would do no harm. Finally he put the mug on the table. ‘We should make a start.’ The lad jumped up, ready to leave. ‘Could you wait for me outside for a minute? I just have to do something.’
Once he had gone, the door closing loudly, John turned to Katherine.
‘I really didn’t ask for this, you know.’
‘I know,’ she said with a small sigh. ‘Just look after him, please.’
‘I will.’ He reached out and closed his hand lightly around hers. ‘I’ll make sure nothing happens to him.’
‘I’ve never seen him so excited about anything.’ She shook her head in wonder. ‘He could barely settle down to sleep. It’s the first time anyone’s treated him like a man.’
‘He’s old enough to be a man,’ John reminded her.
‘I know. But there’s still so much of the child in him. Ever since…’ She didn’t need to voice the thought. ‘He follows his heart too much. Watch him for me.’
‘I will.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll guard him with my life.’
‘I should go back, the girls will be getting restless.’
‘And your brother and I have a killer to find.’
They left together. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Martha grinning her approval.
• • •
‘What are we looking for?’ Walter asked as they made their way towards the church.
‘Someone with blood on his cote. He’d have that from what he did and from carrying the body.’
‘How will we know its blood?’
He considered his answer. ‘It’ll be dark red and dried.’ He decided to make a start at the weekday market in the area north of the church. There’d be a crowd in the small marketplace, plenty of folk for them to watch. It was close to the workers, too. He wanted to look at them, too; it could just as easily be a labourer who was guilty.
‘What if he’s got rid of the cote?’
John shook his head. If that had happened there was nothing they could do. But clothes were expensive; men kept them and mended them, and wore them until they fell apart, beyond any use. He was wagering that the murderer would take the risk of keeping the cote and hoping luck would keep him safe. ‘We’ll hope he hasn’t.�
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Walter pointed out every stain, wondering if it was blood, but he learned quickly enough, becoming more discerning. After an hour John had to admit the killer wasn’t there. He strolled over to the wall of the churchyard, leaning lazily against it and casting his eye over the men. Most of them were stripped to their shirts or bare-chested, skin gleaming with sweat.
‘We’ll need to come back later if we’re going to check them,’ he said. He noticed that no shipment of seasoned wood had arrived yet. They’d need it soon if they were going to make any progress with the spire.
The pair of them walked to Low Pavement, eyes assessing every man who passed. But there was none with a large enough stain. He’d have more luck in the evening, once most folk had finished with their work. He’d go to the alehouses then, mixing and mingling, and he’d go alone, too, saying nothing to Walter.
The sun broke through the clouds, the heat sultry. For their dinner he treated the lad to a meat pie from a cookshop, squatting against a wall to eat it, watching as Walter gobbled the food down. He remembered those years when he was growing so fast and always so hungry that one goodwife he lodged with joked that he had hollow legs.
‘Here,’ he said, pressing a coin into the lad’s hand. ‘Go and buy us a pastry and some ale.’
He threw his head back as he waited, relishing the feel of warm sun on his face. He opened his eyes when he heard footsteps stop close to him.
‘Not doing your work, carpenter?’ the coroner asked.
‘We’ve been looking all morning.’
‘Anything?’
John shook his head, watching the monk shuffle up slowly, favouring his left leg, the desk hanging by its strap from his shoulder.
‘Not so far. But we’re not giving up. Have your bailiffs spotted Geoffrey?’
‘No.’ Walter returned, his hands full. De Harville turned to him. ‘Are you enjoying working for me, boy?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he answered brightly. ‘We’ll find him for you.’
The coroner graced him with a smile before moving away.
‘Master.’ John stood. ‘You told me not to go out of Chesterfield. Does that rule still stand?’
‘Go where you want,’ de Harville replied. ‘Just make sure you come back here each night.’
He nodded his acknowledgement. As the monk passed, he said, ‘You’re limping, Brother. Is something wrong with the strap?’
‘Nothing like that.’ Robert told him with a wry grin. ‘That’s just age, and no one can fix that. But God bless you for asking.’
• • •
‘What now?’ Walter asked, after they’d finished the food and drunk the ale.
‘Nothing more today,’ John announced.
‘Why not?’ The disappointment was evident on the boy’s face.
‘We’ve looked for now and done what we can. You have money to earn, don’t you?’
The lad nodded.
‘A man has to work. He has to earn his bread.’
‘Can we look for him again tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘In the morning.’
He watched the boy leave, wondering what to do with himself for the remainder of the day. He could keep walking and searching for Mark’s killer, but that would be a fool’s errand before evening. He could go home and rest, but he wasn’t weary. Better, perhaps, to enjoy these last days of summer, especially now the coroner had granted him some freedom. He walked down Soutergate, then followed the riverbank by the Hipper, going west past the Lord’s Mill and the stench of the dyeworks, the tanners and the fulling mill. Soon the town, with its noise and bustle, was behind him and he was surrounded by the sounds of the country. The river burbled lazily and somewhere over the hill he could hear cows lowing.
After a mile he stopped, taking off his boots to dangle his feet in the water and let its coolness take the sting of heat out of the day. He lay back, closing his eyes, letting his thoughts drift. They might never find Mark’s killer. He knew Walter was eager and so proud to be part of the hunt, but he needed to learn that failure was always there, too, brooding at a man’s shoulder. Even if it angered him, he also understood the coroner’s reticence over sending the bailiffs in to roust Geoffrey from the streets behind the Shambles. A riot was hard to contain, and the damage costly to repair. He’d incur the anger of those running the town and of its good citizens, and all just to find someone who’d issued a threat long before, words he had probably forgotten after a day, once the fire of his temper had passed. In de Harville’s place he would have done exactly the same thing.
Slowly he roused himself, drying his feet on the grass then dressing. He meandered; there was no rush to anything – he’d go wherever his feet took him and relish the peace all around.
He stopped in Brampton, climbing the short hill up from the river and seeing a cottage with a branch nailed above the door, the leaves beginning to wilt, but the sign of the alehouse obvious. The floor inside was clean, lavender and thyme among the rushes to scent the air. He bought a mug of ale, the goodwife presenting it and taking his coin without a word, cautious around a strange face. He stood in the doorway to drink, tasting the malt and the wheat, the drink sliding down easily, then a second one to follow it and take away his thirst.
The village street was empty. The men would be at work in the fields, some at their own crops, some for their Lord, the women at their business in the cottages. It made him think of Leeds. The town was larger than this, but he could recall the same summer stillness about the place, as if the world was holding its breath for what might come next.
But what had arrived in Leeds had been the darkness, the sores and buboes that brought death, so that the silence in places all over the land was because no one remained. It was a time when no one could escape the cloying stink of decay, when the miasma hung low over the country.
He drained the mug, his mood soured, and started the walk back to Chesterfield. It was a poor road into town, unpaved, the ruts from the cart wheels dried into awkward peaks and valleys that made walking difficult.
In the distance he could see the tower of the church standing tall on the hill. Once the spire was built the building would become the landmark for travellers; it would draw people from all around as it pushed up into the heavens. He tried to imagine it, but he couldn’t. But with God’s good grace he would be a part of it, putting the timbers together and helping them climb in the sky.
The thoughts and hopes swirled in his mind. The work would last months, certainly through to the next year, and he began to see a little security in his life again.
Then he was falling. His boot caught on the edge of a rut and he was tumbling down. He put out his good hand, wincing as the impact jolted through his bones, but he was unable to stop his left arm crashing down on the ground. He screamed as the pain tore through him.
CHAPTER TEN
He lay in the road, taking short, shallow breaths. His right hand was bleeding where a stone had dug through the flesh. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and the sharp agony in his left arm. Very slowly he pulled himself upright, his legs shaking so badly that he almost fell again.
Upright, he stood still, gaining his balance, cold sweat on his face and down his back. The pain from the arm was intense and he knew he’d broken it again. Every slight movement jarred and burned through him so he had to bite down on his lip to keep from crying out.
Very carefully he took a few small paces, holding the arm to keep it still. Blood was seeping bright red through the cast. He breathed in and took another step, his sole slipping for a fearful moment on some gravel.
One more step, one more breath, then a second and a third before he halted. He looked up towards Chesterfield and suddenly it seemed so distant, like a place he might only reach in a dream. The sweat was dripping into his eyes, stinging them and making him blink; he stopped to wipe it away with his sleeve before moving on again, swallowing hard.
Each time his foot touched the ground a spike of pain shot u
p his arm and through his chest. Every few yards he had to stop and rest before carrying on again. There was no traffic on the road, no one to stop and help him, no one to even offer him a drink. He set his face grimly and walked, halted, then walked again.
The shadows were long by the time he reached the town, the linen around the cast a deep crimson. All he needed was to go a little further, stumble the final few steps to where the bone-setter lived at the end of the High Street. He waited until his breathing had steadied, tasting blood in his mouth where he had bitten through the skin. Finally he knocked on the door.
An old servant answered, a stinking tallow candle in her hand, crossing herself as she saw him, eyes widening at his bloody arm before gathering herself and showing him in.
• • •
He drank the ale gratefully, his throat parched, averting his eyes as the bone-setter worked carefully with his sharp scissors, cutting through the bandage and easing it away from his flesh. He winced as the old man removed the splint, all the blood that had pooled inside it spilling onto the floor. Then he drew his breath in sharply as he saw the white end of bone protruding through his flesh.
The bone-setter poured cold water over the arm before examining it with a light, confident touch, his fingertips cool. He finished and sat back on his stool, frowning.
‘How did this happen?’
‘I was walking and I fell.’ John held up his other hand. ‘I tried to stop myself.’
The man stood and stroked his chin thoughtfully.
‘You’ve broken it again, but at least it’s in the same place as the first break,’ he said slowly. ‘That’s something.’
‘Can you set it?’
‘Yes,’ the bone-setter answered, ‘but I’ll tell you the truth: I can’t say how well it will heal, how strong it will be.’
‘I need two arms to work properly,’ John protested.
‘Once I put the bone back in place, it’s with God,’ the man said quietly. ‘Prayer will help. Are you ready?’
He brought fresh linen, torn into strips, more of the mixture to harden the cast, and a clean splint, thicker and sturdier than the first. Finally he produced a piece of hard leather.
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