The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  ‘What are you thinking, John?’ Walter asked as they reached the road.

  He shook his head and gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘That I’m a fool to my own ideas. I thought I’d find something out here to show how clever I was.’

  ‘But there wasn’t anything to see,’ Walter said, confused.

  ‘I know. Perhaps the coroner’s right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Roger’s going to hang for killing Mark and Geoffrey’s already dead. Maybe I’m just seeing confusion where there’s really none.’ He leant on the staff as the rocky path wound downhill, taking each step cautiously and carefully. Dear God, was he going to be like this for the rest of his life, afraid to stride out? He was like an old man, creeping along, scared of everything life might bring. If he left Chesterfield it would takes him weeks to reach anywhere else at this pace.

  • • •

  In his room he put the bag of tools on the bed, taking each one out and hefting it in his good hand. Working slowly, he rubbed the metal with the oiled cloth, the smell familiar and welcoming and he worried whether he’d ever use them again. The thought of his father came unbidden into his mind and he wondered if he would ever have a son of his own, someone to teach and pass the tools on to. They were his legacy and his livelihood, more than most men had. God had given him this gift with wood. He had used it well, he believed, and prayed that He wouldn’t take it from him.

  He packed the tools away again, feeling the arm itch under the cast, a torment he could do nothing to ease. The bone-setter had warned him that it might become worse, but that it was a good sign; it meant the bone was knitting together well. With the Lord’s good grace, in a few weeks he’d be back at his trade.

  He hefted the satchel before returning it to the chest in the corner, the weight comfortable and natural. In the buttery he poured himself an ale and wandered through to the hall. Martha was sitting on the bench, a cushion plumped at her back, her wimple crisp and white over her hair. She had fabric stretched over a hoop, her needle moving deftly, a frown of concentration on her face.

  Finally, after finishing a row of stitches, she looked up.

  ‘You have a strange face on you,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve just been thinking.’ He sat on the joint stool.

  ‘I can see that.’ She set the embroidery aside. ‘Not good thoughts, by the look of you.’

  ‘Not all of them, no. Sad.’

  ‘Thinking about the future?’ she asked sympathetically.

  ‘If there is one.’

  ‘There’s a reason God doesn’t let us see what’s ahead of us, John,’ she told him quietly.

  ‘I just want to know what to expect when this comes off.’ He held up the sling.

  ‘You have time to plan. He’s given you that blessing.’ She flexed her fingers and he saw the small pain in her eyes.

  ‘It hurts?’

  ‘Just age.’ She held out her hand. ‘You see the brown spots on there?’ He nodded. ‘Age,’ she told him. ‘Do you see the way the knuckles have grown big and the fingers change their shape. That’s age, too.’

  ‘It’ll happen to me?’

  ‘It might, if God spares you that long,’ she told him. ‘Live this long and you don’t worry about what might happen weeks and months in the future. You give thanks each day you wake.’

  ‘You make it sound like you might die tomorrow.’

  ‘I might,’ she said, an edge to her voice. ‘I know that full well, believe me. Any of us could. You know that, too.’ He nodded his agreement sadly. ‘Be grateful for what God has given you, John. Look at you, you have your strength, you have your health. You have a good mind – even the coroner can see that. If God takes one thing from you, He’ll give you another.’

  ‘He’d be taking the thing I love.’

  She let out a slow breath. ‘You can love more than one thing in your life. You’ll see that.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said doubtfully.

  ‘You listen to me,’ she told him firmly. ‘I’ve been on this earth a lot longer than you and I’ve learned some things. I’m telling you the truth.’ She leant forward and patted him on the knee. ‘The black times happen, but give God your trust and they’ll pass.’

  ‘I don’t have much choice, do I?’ He gave a small, wan smile.

  ‘No,’ she agreed, ‘you don’t. You need to remember that. Whatever happens, there’s plenty for you here. You have a home in this house, friends, a girl who has her eye on you; that’s a good start. There’s always work for those who look for it.’

  ‘You’re likely right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right,’ she laughed gently. ‘You’ve hardly been here two minutes and you already have more than some people manage in a lifetime. Think about that.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised.

  ‘Did you find anything today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Leave it be,’ she advised. ‘None of this was ever your problem, John Carpenter. No one will think any less of you. Robert de Harville has what he wanted and he might never have done it without you. Some tales have an ending, you know.’

  ‘I know.’ He drained the mug and stood. ‘I think I’ll walk a while.’

  ‘You do that. But think about what I said. God has his plan for you.’

  • • •

  He ended up at the church. Although it was still just afternoon, the men were standing around, drinking ale and talking. Another accident, he thought. This place was having too many of them lately.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked one of the workers who was passing, a face he had never seen before – young and fresh and pale now.

  ‘Someone fell from the tower.’ The hand holding the mug was shaking slightly. ‘Landed on the path over there.’

  ‘Dead?’

  The man nodded, his eyes haunted.

  He glanced upward at the low wall around the top of the tower. They’d have added a ceiling to the tower room before starting the spire. It would be all too easy for a man to take a tumble over that, with the ground more than a hundred feet below.

  ‘Do you know who it was?’ he asked.

  ‘Someone said his name was Stephen.’ The young man shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I’ve only been here a few days.’

  John crossed himself. Another good man gone. ‘Go with God,’ he said and walked away. Maybe it was best that he wasn’t working here, after all. It could have been him toppling and giving the long scream that would end so quickly. The church was being built on blood.

  He saw Walter in the market place and waved, but he was in no mood for talk. The boy seemed to sense that, smiling back but keeping his distance. John went to the alehouse on Low Pavement and ordered a quart of ale, looking around the other faces in the small room. Most of them showed vanished hope, souls who survived one day and then another.

  He drank deep, giving a silent toast to Stephen and wishing him a short time in purgatory. More would die, too, before the spire was raised. The taller it grew, the greater the danger for anyone working on it. At least it would be impossible to do much more on it before spring, when the weather warmed and the frost and ice passed, and the cruel winter winds had ended.

  Before he knew it he’d finished the drink and called for another. He sipped more slowly, wary of losing himself in the ale. He’d find out when they were burying Stephen and go. It was all he could do for him now. They’d talked several times but he knew nothing about the man, not where he was born, what kin he had, if he even had a woman and children.

  ‘Deep in thought?’ The quiet words pulled him out of his head as Brother Robert sat down on the other side of the bench. ‘You’ve heard what happened?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve been there?’

  ‘The coroner has to examine all deaths.’ He shook his head. ‘At least it was quick, God rest his soul. Did you know him?’

  ‘A little,’ John answered. ‘Not enough.’

  ‘It’s never enough, is it?’ The monk smiled kindly.
/>   ‘I didn’t think your order would let you in places like this.’

  The brother grinned. ‘They don’t deny us all life’s pleasures. The most tempting don’t interest me anymore, anyway. Have you given up on looking into the murders?’

  ‘I went out to where they found Geoffrey.’

  ‘Did you see anything?’

  ‘There was nothing worthwhile to see. Just two men out cutting trees and they didn’t know anything.’

  ‘That’s Henry’s land. For now, anyway. He’s made good money out of that timber.’

  ‘Henry?’

  ‘The master’s brother,’ Robert explained. ‘He inherited the manor there, or so he claims. It’s in the law courts now. The master insists that their father had promised him that manor and that Henry changed the will.’

  ‘That’s a serious charge.’

  ‘Aye,’ the brother agreed with a nod, ‘if he can prove it. Henry has powerful friends and money. It’s his wood they use for the church and he’s arranged a hefty price for it, from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘The coroner has money, too.’

  ‘Not like that. He has a manor south of here and another by Unstone. That one hardly brings in any rents, though. Most of the people died in the pestilence. He’s not likely to win the suit. Henry will string it out until the master can’t afford it any longer.’

  ‘How long has it been going on?’

  ‘A year now.’ He sighed. ‘Every month the master sends his money to his lawyer and nothing more happens. It’s cost him dearly. He and the mistress keep arguing about it.’

  ‘Maybe he’d be better off like us and not married.’

  ‘You’d never hear him admit it,’ the monk said slyly. ‘He wants an heir.’

  ‘You never wanted marriage? Dame Martha told me that the two of you were close once.’

  ‘When we were very young.’ Robert sipped the ale, his eyes distant. ‘That was a lifetime ago, now. Then the church called me and her father arranged the marriage with Gilbert the cutler.’

  ‘Is that the man she married? She never told me his name.’

  ‘He was ten years older than her, and he had a reputation as a rogue with girls. Promise them, bed them and leave them. But Martha decided she wanted him.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘You know what she’s like. Once she sets her mind to something, that’s it. Wrapped him around her finger in weeks. I left before they married.’

  ‘She loved him very deeply.’

  ‘I daresay he was a good husband to her, too.’

  ‘You should visit her, Brother.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s better to leave the past where it belongs. We don’t have anything to share besides memories.’

  ‘Friendship.’

  ‘No, too much time has passed for that. Her life’s gone a very different way to mine.’ He finished the drink. ‘I should go back. The master might need me.’

  ‘He works you hard.’

  ‘There’s always something to be done, that’s why my abbot sent me here.’

  ‘So this is God’s work.’

  ‘For me it is,’ the monk said with a nod. ‘I serve as I’m instructed. But soon, perhaps, he’ll let me return. I’m growing too old to hare around all over the county. What about you? When will you be back at work?’

  ‘A few weeks yet, if it heals well.’

  ‘God’s blessing for that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  After Robert had left he sat a little while longer, sipping at the ale, then pushed it aside and left, going back to the house on Knifesmithgate.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  By the time the sun rose on Saturday he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all during the night. He had tried often enough, turning awkwardly under the blanket, trying to will rest onto himself, but it wouldn’t come. Instead the night hours had stretched out like torment. He had risen twice, drunk ale, but nothing had worked. His eyes seemed filled with grit, his body ached and his mind was slow. He almost fell as he dressed, reaching out with his good hand to steady himself then breathing deeply, feeling his heart racing.

  There was a chill in the air. It felt as if autumn was arriving already, a fresh scent, crisp and clear. He rested his arm in its sling, the linen dirty now, the only whiteness where his cast was covered by the cloth, and cut a heel of bread from a loaf.

  Outside, men walked with their hoods raised. A few had jerkins made of rough leather, buttoned tight against their chests. He walked down to the square, relishing the sounds and the smells of market day, the crush of people filling the aisles between the stalls. His breath clouded in front of his mouth as he moved artfully through the crowd. He saw Martha, absorbed in haggling over a length of silk, and then de Harville, the fur collar of a long velvet robe close around his neck, standing by a stall selling spices.

  ‘Good day, Master. God be with you.’

  The coroner turned. ‘Carpenter,’ he said with a smile. ‘You’ve saved me sending for you.’ John cocked his head. On the other side of the trestle the man began to speak but de Harville waved him away. ‘Come with me.’

  They walked out along West Bar, past the house where Mark had lived, to the very edge of the town.

  ‘What do you know about me, carpenter?’ the coroner asked.

  ‘Not much, Master.’

  ‘Brother Robert’s told you a few things. He confessed that to me last night.’

  ‘He has.’

  ‘He also suggested something to me.’ John waited, with no idea what to expect. ‘He said your arm might not heal well.’

  ‘Pray God it will.’

  ‘Of course,’ the coroner said with a sharp nod. ‘But if it doesn’t, what will you do?’

  ‘I don’t know, Master.’

  ‘You have a quick mind, carpenter.’

  ‘Thank you, Master.’

  ‘Did the brother tell you about my manors?’ John nodded. ‘Then you know the one near Unstone is in bad repair. It needs tenants and it needs work if it’s going to make me any money.’ John stayed silent, concentrating on the coroner’s face. ‘Are you a loyal man, carpenter?’

  ‘Loyal?’ The question made no sense to him. None of this did.

  ‘Loyal,’ he repeated. ‘When you work, do you work hard? Do you follow the instructions you’ve been given?’

  ‘Of course.’

  De Harville nodded slowly. ‘Brother Robert made a suggestion last night. If your arm doesn’t heal properly I’d like you to be steward at my Unstone manor.’

  John stood silent. The teeming sounds of the market seemed a world away. He stared at the coroner, watching his face to see if this was a joke, but his expression was serious.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You. You can think and that’s more than I can say for most men.’

  ‘But I don’t know anything about the land or farming,’ he objected.

  ‘The steward at my other manor will help you.’ De Harville ran a hand across his chin. ‘It’s not charity. You’ll work hard. The barns have been falling apart. You’ll work with wood, with animals and with the tenants. I’ve seen you with that boy. He trusts you. And you’ll have to do work on my other manor, too. I’ll pay you fairly and you’ll have a house. What do you say, carpenter?’

  Thoughts flooded through his mind, roaring like a river. He knew nothing of the job or whether he could even do it. But if he could no longer be a carpenter, what else would he do? Travel the roads and do what he could? No one had made him an offer like this, and no one would again. Perhaps what Martha had said was true: if God was taking away the chance to use his skill, He was giving something in its stead. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Aye, Master, if I can’t be a carpenter, I’ll gladly be your steward.’ He extended his good hand and de Harville took it to seal the bargain.

  ‘I’ll warn you now; I’ll work you to the bone. I want a profit from that land.’

  ‘I’ll give you one.’

  The coroner nodded. ‘I believe you will. You’d be
tter thank Robert for this when you see him; it was his idea.’

  • • •

  He’d expected to spend most of the morning at the market, but his mind flew away every moment, unsure whether the whole thing had been a dream and that he would wake with a start. Instead he returned to the house, where Martha had her fabric spread over the table, the blue of the silk rippling like water in the light from the window.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘Are you going to make yourself a new dress?’

  ‘I am,’ she said. ‘It’s a foolish thing at my age, but this was so beautiful I had to buy it. Am I stupid and vain?’

  ‘No,’ he told her. ‘You deserve it.’

  She smiled. ‘I do,’ she agreed. ‘At least they can bury me in something pretty.’

  ‘You won’t die for many years yet.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re in a good mood for someone who hardly slept. I heard you moving around in the night.’

  ‘The coroner’s offered me a job if my arm doesn’t heal properly.’

  ‘De Harville?’ she said in surprise. ‘What kind of work can he give you?’

  ‘He wants me to be the steward on one of his estates. By Unstone.’

  ‘You?’ She couldn’t keep the astonishment from her voice, and then joy filled her face, her eyes bright and happy. ‘I told you, John Carpenter. I told you. Faith can bring everything.’ She took his good hand between hers, rubbing it gently. ‘A steward? He must think highly of you,’ she said with pride.

  ‘It was Robert’s idea,’ John explained. ‘He suggested it.’

  ‘Did he now?’ she wondered, then smiled again. ‘Now you don’t need to worry, whatever happens. And I know you were worrying, I could see it in your eyes,’ Martha said. ‘It’s good land out by there.’

  ‘He told that it’s more or less gone to rack and ruin since the Death.’

  She nodded.

  ‘There’s nothing new in that tale. It’s the same everywhere, I expect. God’s judgement on us was harsh.’ She paused. ‘But he spared some of us and we should give thanks for that. For your new chance, too. You could even have a wife out there,’ she teased.