The Crooked Spire

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Let him choose,’ Katherine said and called for her brother. He appeared, chewing bread, a mug of ale in his hand. ‘John needs help,’ she told him.

  ‘Why didn’t you ask me, John?’ he asked.

  ‘You could get hurt. I don’t want that.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ the boy offered. ‘You know I’ll help you.’

  Katherine cocked her head. ‘Well?’

  He chuckled and lifted his good arm in surrender. ‘We’d better start walking, I suppose.’ He turned to the girl. ‘We should be back by dinner. If we haven’t returned by evening …’ He didn’t try to complete the sentence, just saw her nod quickly.

  At the front door, hidden by the screens, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him quickly. ‘I think you’re a fool for doing this. But I thank you for telling me, at least.’ She looked at the pair of them. ‘God go with you both.’

  • • •

  On the road he told Walter what he knew and what he suspected.

  ‘What will we do out at the manor?’ the boy asked.

  ‘We’ll see what we can find.’

  ‘What do we do if they don’t want us there?’

  ‘Then we leave,’ he answered. He wasn’t after a fight. ‘That’ll be the end of it.’

  The clouds had blown away, leaving a clear, pale sky and a warm sun. They followed the charcoal burner’s track that led away from the road and through the woods. As they passed the clearing where Geoffrey’s body had been found he stopped to cross himself and say a small prayer, leaning on the staff. On the hill the woodcutters had gone but the trunks remained, branches stripped away, laying long and straight on the ground. Down in the valley he could see a village and a single larger house standing away from the others.

  ‘Down there,’ he said. They followed the path over the common ground where a few cattle and sheep grazed, then around the fields cut into strips, little left growing now, the earth roughly tilled.

  The village looked poor, some of the cottages no more than hovels, two of them empty, the roofs pulled down inside the walls. But the manor house was prosperous, faced in good stone with thick glass in the windows, the home of a wealthy man.

  Walter pulled at his arm and pointed. Two men were working in one of the fields, one guiding a bullock, the other holding a plough.

  ‘We can try them,’ John said. He led the way, calling out to claim the men’s attention as he walked. They wore leather jerkins over their shirts, feet and legs bare to their braies, their skin weatherbeaten and creased. ‘Is this Henry de Harville’s manor?’ he asked them.

  The taller of them eyed him suspiciously. He was broad, with heavily muscled arms, the beard thick on his face. ‘Who wants to know?’ he asked, glancing at his companion.

  ‘My name’s John. John the carpenter.’

  ‘What do you want with the master?’

  ‘Is he here?’

  The man spat. ‘He’s never here, that one. Visited for a day at Lammas and that was the first we’ve seen of him this year. Leaves it all to the steward.’

  ‘Hugo?’

  The man raised his eyebrows. ‘For someone who seems to know nothing you know a lot, carpenter. There’s no work for you here, if that’s what you’re wondering.’ He nodded at the broken arm. ‘Especially for someone who’s not whole.’

  ‘You’ve had men cutting wood up on the hill,’ John said, ignoring the jibe.

  ‘Aye.’ The man offered nothing more.

  ‘I heard there was a man killed up around there.’

  ‘No one from here.’ The man shrugged. ‘Not our business.’

  John nodded his understanding. ‘Is Hugo here today?’

  The man looked carefully at his friend, still holding the bullock. ‘Gone to one of the other manors, hasn’t he?’ The other man nodded. ‘Back in a day or two.’

  ‘Thank you. God be with you.’

  ‘And with you,’ the man said tonelessly.

  They trudged away through the village. He glanced over his shoulder to see the two men still standing, watching them. ‘What did you think?’ he asked Walter.

  ‘I didn’t like them.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ he said with a smile. ‘I don’t think they welcome strangers here.’

  ‘What do we do now, John?’

  ‘We go home and wait,’ he said with a smile, looking at the long hill ahead.

  ‘Wait for what?’ the boy asked.

  ‘For something to happen.’

  ‘What’s going to happen?’ Walter asked, not understanding.

  ‘I don’t know yet, but something will,’ he said with certainty. The men had his name and they’d pass it on to Hugo when he returned – if he’d actually gone anywhere at all. The steward would know who he was from the broken arm, if nothing else; the men who attacked him had been able to identify him easily enough.

  And what might come after that, he wondered. Another attack? That was why he’d been careful not to give Walter’s name, to offer him at least a little protection. He glanced around as they entered the woods, searching for any movement and keeping the staff tight in his good hand. It wouldn’t do much, but at least it was a weapon. ‘Pick up a rock,’ he instructed the boy. ‘Just in case.’

  But nothing happened. They were back in Chesterfield before dinner, Walter loping off to run messages and earn money, John sitting down with the family to eat, entertained by the girls and smiling reassuringly at Katherine.

  He started work, knowing she’d come to talk to him, but it was the middle of the afternoon before she arrived, bringing him a mug of ale and settling on a joint stool.

  ‘Did you learn anything?’

  He sat back on his haunches and drank before answering. ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘Was it a waste of time?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied slowly, seeing the question in her eyes. ‘The steward will hear I’ve been out there. He’ll make the next move.’

  ‘What about Walter?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything and I didn’t give his name.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice tight. ‘So what now?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but at least I’ll be prepared for it.’

  ‘You’d better stay alive,’ she warned, trying to tease him although there was fear in her eyes. ‘At least until you’ve finished the house.’

  He grinned. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Making a joke of it.’

  ‘It’s better to do that than cry.’ He stroked her hand, the skins of her palms as rough as his. ‘I’ll look after myself.’

  ‘Is it really worth it?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said after a long hesitation, looking up at her. ‘It has to be.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll change anything?’

  ‘No,’ he answered with a sigh. ‘Everything will still be business as usual. But at least Will won’t be buried and forgotten quite so easily. Nor Geoffrey, for that matter.’

  ‘And you still say you’re not a good man, John?’

  He shook his head firmly. ‘I am who I am. Nothing more than that.’

  ‘Well, I think you’re a good man.’

  He stood and smiled. ‘I’m a good man who has work to finish today.’

  ‘Is that a hint?’ she laughed.

  ‘You’re welcome to sit and watch me if you like,’ he said. ‘But I’m not a juggler or a storyteller. I’m afraid I won’t entertain you well.’

  ‘Well, if you can’t do that, I’ll leave you to work without an audience.’ She gave a small pout, then laughed again. At the top of the stairs she turned, ‘Please, John, just be careful.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised, although he knew they were nothing more than words. So much was out of his control. He put it from his mind for the rest of the day, moving steadily from job to job, enjoying the rhythm of the work and the sounds of life drifting up from downstairs. Before dusk he carefully packe
d the tools away. At the front door Katherine offered to walk with him, but he refused.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he told her. ‘It’s still light.’ But he still kept a tight grip on the staff as he walked, glancing around and listening carefully. By the time he reached the house of Knifesmithgate his heart was racing as if he’d run all the way there.

  In the small room he placed the satchel in the chest, stood the staff in the corner and lay on the bed. Sooner or later Hugo would do something. He had no choice now, and after one failure he wouldn’t risk another; that would just draw attention. He’d come himself, John decided, bringing help for the killing.

  Carefully, he pulled the blanket across his body. The nights were cooler now. The rough wool itched against his skin, but it kept him warm. He settled back, eyes closed. He knew he should feel fear, but he didn’t. He was as calm as he could ever remember being. His days of terror had passed with the pestilence, when all he could see was the dead and the haunted, and he believed that the world was about to end.

  Hugo had a great deal to lose, both for himself and for his master. He’d sold green timber at the price of seasoned wood and two men had died because of it. He couldn’t afford to let the truth out.

  John didn’t care that the coroner was using him, or that he’d receive no support or sanction. He’d lived off his wits and his skill for too many years now and survived well enough. The only thing to slow him would be the arm.

  How would the game play out, he wondered? And how soon? Breathing slowly, he drifted into sleep.

  • • •

  The noise woke him. At first he wasn’t certain he had heard anything, that perhaps he’d dreamed it. Then it came again, the small scrape of wood against stone and he knew it was the back door, the one he’d fixed during his first days here. For once, it seemed, he hadn’t done his work well.

  He slipped out of bed, taking the knife from its sheath, hardly daring to breathe, and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. He moved slowly to the door, ears pricked for every tiny sound. Behind him the shutters were closed tight, no slivers of light coming through. His fingers felt for the latch, glad he’d oiled it after moving in, feeling it rise silently. Then he pulled the door open inch by inch, just wide enough to slide through.

  The flagstones were cold against his bare feet. He stood, waiting, straining to hear a step or a breath. Finally it was there, in the hall, the faint click of a heel against stone, and he moved silently along the passage to the corner.

  As he stared he slowly began to pick out a shape by the table. A man, standing still, was turning his head slowly. John drew back slightly, enough so he could keep the man in view but not be seen himself, the knife held down at his side.

  When the man finally moved, he seemed to glide over the floor, his steps sure and soundless. He circled the table then started back towards the passage. John pressed himself hard against the wall, sensing the man come closer, not even daring to look towards him.

  Then he lifted his leg slightly, tensing his body. He felt the man hit against it and go sprawling loudly on the floor. John fell to his knees on the man’s back, forcing the breath out of him, and held the blade against his neck, giving just enough pressure on the point to prick the skin.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Martha called from upstairs.

  ‘Come down and bring a candle and some rope,’ he shouted back, surprised at the calmness in his voice.

  The man was quiet, careful not to struggle against the knife, his eyes wide open, keeping silent.

  Martha was in her long shift, her grey hair loose, the tallow candle smoking and casting a wide circle of light. ‘What is it, John?’ she asked before she saw John pinning the man to the ground. ‘Jesu. Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he was in the house.’ He could make out the man’s features now. His jaw was set firm, his eyes dark, with brown hair cut short on his skull. John pressed the knife harder against his neck, watching a few more drops of blood run. ‘What’s your name?’ The man didn’t answer, just kept staring ahead. The light flickered then burned brighter. ‘Tie his wrists behind him,’ John told Martha. He kept the blade in place. ‘He won’t struggle. Make the knots tight. He’s good, I don’t want him escaping.’

  When she had finished he searched the man, taking a long dagger from his belt. He removed the man’s boots, letting a hidden knife clatter to the floor, then stripped off his hose.

  ‘Why are you doing that?’ Martha asked him.

  ‘He’s not going to be able to run far like that,’ John grinned. ‘Tie his ankles and then hold the knife on him while I dress.’

  Once clothed, he used the candle on the rushlights in the hall and then dragged the man in.

  Martha sat on the bench, shivering. ‘What are you going to do with him?’

  ‘As soon as it’s light I’ll take him to the coroner. Let him decide. Do you know his face?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You go back to bed. I’ll sit with him.’

  ‘What?’ she yelled. ‘Do you really think I could sleep now? I don’t know if I’ll ever sleep again.’ Martha shook her head in disgust. ‘How did he get in, anyway?’

  ‘He slipped the latch on the back door.’ He laughed lightly. ‘You should be glad I didn’t mend it too well or I’d never have heard him. I’ll put a proper lock on in the morning.’

  ‘Is he a thief?’ Martha wondered.

  ‘That’s a good question.’ He knelt, bringing the tip of the knife close to the man’s neck once more; the man didn’t flinch. ‘Well, what are you? A thief, or something more.’ He just turned away, his mouth firmly closed. ‘He’s not going to tell us. We’ll see what the coroner and the bailiffs can get out of him.’ John stood. ‘I’ll get us some ale then you dress if you’re not going to rest. You look like you’re chilled.’

  She looked up at him, her face empty and pale. ‘That’s not cold, John. I don’t mind the cold. That’s fear.’

  He made her drink a little and then persuaded her back upstairs, out of the way. The man hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken – had barely seemed to notice their presence, just lying there in his bonds. This wasn’t a common thief, he thought, not a latchlifter out for what little he could steal. This was a killer.

  John sat, staring at the man. He hadn’t expected Hugo to act quite so quickly, or like this. Still, it told him that the steward hadn’t been too far away when he had visited the manor that morning, and that he was resourceful and ruthless.

  Upstairs he could hear Martha crying softly. He’d brought this on her, this threat on herself and on her house. He was certain that the man in front of him would have murdered her if necessary and never given it a second thought. She knew that, too. Perhaps he needed to find somewhere else to live, to give her back her peaceful life she treasured.

  He was still sitting there as dawn arrived and the thin band of light on the horizon widened. Outside there were a few early voices, hushed, vague sounds that carried. Finally he stood up and sliced through the rope tying the man’s ankles.

  ‘Up,’ he said. The man obeyed without look or question, slowly easing himself to his feet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  John marched him down the streets, the man with his legs and feet bare, wrists tied behind his back, a black cote hanging low over his braies. People stopped to stare, looking quizzically at each other.

  He kept the knife in his hand, walking two paces behind the man, watching him carefully for any signs of flight and speaking only to tell him which way to turn. It was humiliation, and John was doing it deliberately. Another hour and this would be the talk of Chesterfield; by the end of the day word would have passed out among the villages. Let Hugo hear that another attempt had failed, that his assassin had been beaten by a man with a broken arm.

  • • •

  ‘What have you brought me, carpenter?’ de Harville asked as he came out to the stables, pulling the robe around him, keeping the fur close against his neck. Brother Robert lim
ped behind him, frowning at the pain in his leg.

  ‘He broke into Dame Martha’s last night.’

  ‘Did he now?’ The coroner walked around the man who kept staring ahead, his mouth a thin, tight line. ‘A thief?’

  ‘A killer.’ John took out the two knives and threw them down on the straw.

  De Harville raised his eyebrows in mock admiration. ‘A man comes to kill you and you overcome him with one arm. You must live a charmed life, carpenter. What do you think, brother?’

  ‘Why would he want to kill you?’ the monk wondered.

  ‘He hasn’t said, he hasn’t uttered a word. Didn’t even complain when I brought him down here like that.’

  ‘No?’ the coroner said. ‘Perhaps the bailiffs can loosen his tongue a little. You found him in the house?’

  ‘In the hall.’

  ‘Do you know him, Robert?’

  The monk shook his head slowly. ‘He has a familiar look, but no, I can’t say I could give him a name.’

  ‘Find two of the bailiffs. Have them take him to the gaol and question him there.’

  The monk hobbled away. De Harville stared at the man. ‘He looks familiar to me, too, but I can’t place him.’ He shook his head. ‘No matter. The bailiffs will have him talking soon.’ He turned to John. ‘How did you take him?’

  ‘Just luck, Master, and surprise.’

  ‘Luck and surprise seem to be your friends, John Carpenter. I’ll expect a lot from you once you’re my steward.’

  ‘Yes, Master.’

  The brother returned with the bailiffs, a pair of large men with brutal faces and scarred hands.

  ‘Take him away,’ the coroner ordered. ‘Find out what he has to say.’ They watched the man being led away to the gaol.

  ‘How many times is that, carpenter? Three if we include Mark?’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ he answered simply.

  ‘It seems as if a number of people here haven’t taken to you.’ He paused. ‘This one looked as if he knew what he was doing.’

  ‘He did. I told you, I was lucky.’

  ‘Perhaps a little more than that,’ de Harville said thoughtfully. ‘You handle yourself well, even with that.’ He nodded at the arm in its sling.