‘Go. I’ll feel better knowing you’re looking after them.’
He watched Jeffrey hurry away, then glanced around. Plenty of people moving but nobody who looked dangerous.
The knife thrower had left him frightened. But he daren’t show that to Jeffrey; the man would have become frantic. He needed calm heads around him. He needed to be ready. They’d come after him sooner than he’d anticipated. They’d failed this time. They’d try again. He could feel that in his bones. And they’d do it soon.
He walked until dinner, his gaze always searching. John knew he was a target, but nobody else came for him. Doubt and fear rippled up his spine, but there was no substance behind the feelings.
Finally, he made his way home. As he came around the screen and into the hall, Jeffrey was standing with a knife in his hand.
‘I’m a friend,’ John said with a smile. Martha and Juliana ran to him. The older girl was too large to carry now, but he scooped Martha into his arms and swung her until she began to squeal.
‘Don’t,’ Katherine warned. ‘She’s just eaten. I don’t want it ending up on the rushes.’
He sat and gulped down his pottage, watching with pleasure as Jeffrey entertained the children with a story. They were transported by his words, taken to a place of wolves and bears, where men did great deeds. It was a pity the world wasn’t as simple as that.
‘He told me what happened,’ Katherine said quietly as John ate. ‘Jeffrey said you saved his life.’
He paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. ‘He did? He’s exaggerating. He was never in any danger from the knife.’
She cocked her head. Lines were etched around the corners of her eyes and her mouth. Worry, anguish, all the things that living through each day brought. She glanced towards Jeffrey than back again.
‘He said it came very close to your head.’
‘Not that close.’
‘John…’
‘I saw the man who threw it. I was out of the way.’
‘We keep going over and over this, husband.’ Her voice remained steady, the look of love never left her face. But sorrow ran underneath it all.
‘We’ll catch them.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
The answer was simple: he had to believe that his plan would work. It was all that he had.
‘We’ll catch them,’ he repeated, ‘because they’re desperate, and that means they’ll make mistakes. I’ll be ready. The coroner’s men will be ready.’ He squeezed her hand and tried to reassure her with a smile. ‘And we’ll have our fifty pounds.’
‘I pray you’re right. I want to believe you.’
‘Just wait. It’ll happen.’ He looked around the room, seeing the work that needed to be done. ‘This will all be the way it looked when Martha was young. Your old house will be fine again.’
‘Yes,’ she said. She picked up his empty bowl and vanished into the buttery.
He didn’t follow. What could he say? What could he do?
In the solar, he changed into his other tunic, the old one from the bottom of the chest. He’d put on weight these last few years and it felt tight on him now, more comfortable unbuttoned across the chest and the belly. It was red, the colour long-faded and dulled. A black hood, the older, short fashion without the liripipe that trailed down the back. It might fool some people who expected him in his other clothes. And just a moment could be all the advantage he’d need.
The afternoon was warm, but leaves were falling from the old trees in the churchyard. Autumn was just beginning to tighten its grip.
He walked out to the fairground, out past the market square and West Bar. No one suspicious, nobody paying him too much attention. He was just one more person in the crowd.
The street of booths were all carefully laid out, the field full of sounds, music and shouting, laughter and small explosions of anger. A welter of languages and accent. He kept one hand on the hilt of his knife as he walked, the other on his scrip in case someone tried to cut and steal it. Any small loss was a huge defeat for a poor man.
Up and back, and no one followed him. Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed a man who seemed to be paying too much attention to the way he put one foot in front of another. He was making a great effort to be sure he walked in a completely straight line. Only drunks did that, and the man didn’t have that look about him.
It wasn’t the way ordinary people walked. Their footsteps were thoughtless, they wavered from side to side. He’d seen it often enough in all the miles he’d tramped around the North.
Who was the man? Was he following and trying to hide it?
There was only one way to find out. At the corner John turned from the High Street on to Low Shambles. But the man never wavered, walking on and not even turning his head.
He felt his heart beating fast, thumping in his chest. He was seeing danger in everything. Better than reckless, though. A cautious man had a better chance of staying alive.
John walked down the narrow street. The air was thick and greasy with the iron tang of blood from the butchers’ shops. Men called out their wares. He hurried by, never looking, turning past the old Knights Templar resting house and sliding through to Packers Row. The streets opened up again and he could take a deep breath of sweet air.
He glanced over his shoulder and saw a pair of men watching. They were big, dangerous. Not wearing any livery, thick leather jerkins over their linen and boots made for marching, not walking around a town.
John started to walk. Quickly, as if he was late to meet someone, but careful not to look as if he was running. He forced himself to go fifty yards before he checked again. They were still there, still coming. Their eyes were fixed on him. A steady, even pace, no rush. No swords, and the knives were still tucked into leather sheaths on their belts.
A quicker pace. Not dashing yet, but moving fast enough to make people stare. There was one place in Chesterfield he’d have the advantage. Somewhere he knew that they wouldn’t.
John entered the churchyard, following the path into the porch. A deep breath as he turned the handle of the door. Down the nave, then ducking to the side, out of sight. They hadn’t entered yet; he’d have heard the low creak and sigh and the metal of the knob turning.
Very softly, he opened the small door set into the wall and closed it behind him, not making a sound. Then he was climbing the stone steps, a hidden spiral staircase that was set into the wall.
One flight up there was a room set back from the stair, still smelling of wood shavings and oil. He passed it and kept climbing, all the way to the top of the tower. This was the place. He’d worked here for a few days after arriving in Chesterfield. He’d broken his arm in here when a beam came down on it. He’s seen the master carpenter’s body where a man had killed him.
Looking up, he stared for a moment at the bracing that held the spire in place. There was no pattern to it, as if it had been assembled by guesswork. No matter, it was still standing, with the spire rising full two hundred feet into the air, calling to everyone for miles around. On sunny days the oak tiles on the outside glowed warm and bright.
John moved around, remembering the room. The windlass they’d used to haul wood up from the church was still standing; there had never been a need to take it down. And in the corner, at the top of a ladder, was the door that opened to the tower walk around the spire. Just wide enough for one man, looking down from high over the town.
He let the wind whip through his hair, then crouched below the low stone wall; he didn’t need anyone spotting him up here. John rested a wary hand against the spire. The oak tiles were warm under his palm. He was scared to push down hard. The spire was only held in place by its own weight. The people in town called it a miracle. The engineer who’d designed it had always called it science. Whatever the cause, it was a wonder. He could feel it towering over him. From the ground it looked huge; up here, it was overwhelming.
He left the door cracked open. Whatever he did, the men would fin
d him. This way, he had control. Only one could come out at a time. That improved the odds. He’d worked up here before, he remembered exactly what lay where and that tilted it all in his favour. Not much, perhaps, but it was the best he could do. John took the knife from his belt. Now all he could do was listen and wait.
They came, but they took their time. That meant they didn’t know the church or the stair; they’d need time to find it and they’d be very careful. Good. Everything worked in his favour. Out of sight, down at the other end of St Mary’s, he could hear the workmen still replacing stones.
Patiently, he waited. The pair were slow. But they could afford to take their time. They must know they had him trapped up here. Yet the hunted could so easily become the hunter…
He stirred as he heard the low creak of wood. He knew exactly where they were, standing on the warped board that would never flatten properly. Soon enough they’d discover he wasn’t hiding in any corners. They’d see the ladder and the door ajar. With a pinch of luck, they might believe it was a way to escape.
John stood. The door was between him and anyone coming out. They’d be here, already committed, by the time they saw him. The sun was shining in a pale blue sky, and up here the breeze blew steadily, taking away any edge from the heat.
Wait, he thought. Just wait.
The door moved. No more than two inches at first. Someone must have peered out. But he was still hidden. Slowly, it swung wider and then he heard the shuffle of shoes on stone.
Not yet. A moment longer, and another.
He reached out and pushed the door. The wind caught it and it slammed shut. Startled, the man turned.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘Are you looking for me, Master?’
For the first time, John could see the man properly. Not a familiar face, but not a stranger, either; someone he’d seen here or there in town, perhaps, without ever really noticing. He was large, the type who was slowed by his body. His eyes glowed like coals in a brazier.
The man’s lips curled into a smile.
‘Coming up here like this, you just made it easy for me.’
‘Have I? Who sent you?’
The man shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. You’ll be dead long before you can use that knowledge.’
‘Then it can’t hurt to tell me, can it?’
But the man said nothing. He took a pace forward, his knife hand loose, the blade winking and glittering in the sun.
Could he beat a man like this, someone so much bigger and stronger? He’d lured them up here, now he had to find out. Even if he won with this one, there was still another inside.
The man lunged. But he’d shown what he was going to do. Shifting the balance of his feet, looking at the place he hoped to cut, the movements that seemed to take forever.
There was a chance. John retreated. He felt comfortable up so high, moving easily and nimbly along the narrow path. As soon as he turned the corner of the tower, the men replacing stones would be able to see him. No bad thing, he decided. It might be enough to scare off his attackers. They wouldn’t want any witnesses to their murder.
The man was still coming. He looked more confident now, grim and deadly, raking at the air.
John moved backwards. He half-turned his head. Very close to the corner now. This was where it grew dangerous. If he had the mind to do it, the second man could come out and around behind him. A proper trap.
Around the corner. But he only took a small step. Something to tempt the man. It would be right at the edge of his reach, enough to leave him off-balance if he tried.
John watched, ready. The man was going to try.
It all seemed to happen with aching slowness. The arm swung out and down. John shuffled back, grasping the elbow and shoulder after the blade had passed. He used the man’s own weight and momentum to force him along. His foot swept out, catching the man’s ankle. It was enough to send him crashing against the low wall around the tower, with the top half of his body suspended over the edge and staring down at the ground.
One of the workmen pointed. Others began to shout.
‘Happy there, Master?’ John asked. He was panting hard, all the fear and anger welling up inside. ‘Do you like the view?’
He kept hold of the man by his hood, aware of his smell, so ripe and foul.
‘Time for you to answer a few questions, Master. Who sent you?’
The workers were already hurrying down the scaffolding and running towards the church porch. He didn’t have long. Still, if he could prise a few words out of the man, then the coroner should be able to have him chattering sweetly.
‘Who?’ He held his knife to the back of the man’s head and let the tip pierce his flesh. A thin line of blood trickled over his skin. ‘If you don’t tell me, then you’ll tell it to someone else, and they’ll make sure you suffer before you do.’
But the man said nothing at all. He kept his head turned firmly away.
John heard the footsteps pounding through the room below. Suddenly one of the workmen was out on the tower walkway, another right behind him.
‘Around here,’ John called.
They came into view, masons with thick hands, covered in dust from their stones. John stepped back from the man, taking the knife from his neck and letting go of his hood.
‘Who are you? What are you doing?’
Before he could draw breath to answer, the man he’d been holding leaned further over the wall. John reached out to grab his belt, for anything at all. But it was too late. All he could do was watch him tumble all the way down to the ground.
For a moment, all the words deserted him. The man had killed himself, and in church. A sin magnified over and over. And why? Who had such a hold on him that he’d give his life for them?
He didn’t know how much time passed before he stared at the masons. They looked as shocked as he felt.
‘There’s another like him in the church. You must have passed him as you came up.’ He began to move, but powerful arms held him.
‘Say what you like, but you’re going to wait for the coroner. We saw what happened. He’s going to want an explanation from you.’
‘I’m working for him.’
‘Then it won’t hurt you to wait until he arrives and prove it, will it?’
He couldn’t win this. They stood between him and the way down.
‘Just stop that other man.’
The mason called down to the group gathered around the body below.
‘Now just follow us down, Master.’ A calming smile. ‘You’d best give me that knife.’
He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to resist. By the time they strode out of the church porch, Sir Mark Strong and his clerk were standing by the body. He wore a pale green surcote over a tunic and hose the colour of dark forest leaves, a pair of riding boots tight on his calves. Two of the labourers were gesturing up at the tower, then turning to point at John as he approached.
‘Who is he, Carpenter?’
‘I don’t know, Master,’ he replied. ‘He jumped before he could answer my questions.’
‘Jumped?’ The coroner raised an eyebrow.
‘It’s true, Master,’ one of the masons told him. ‘We saw it. This one told us that he works for you.’
‘Not quite for me,’ Strong replied. ‘For my Lord l’Honfleur.’
Under the dust, the men turned pale.
‘Did you stop the other man?’ John called out.
‘He said he was going for help,’ one of the men answered.
Too late now. He’d vanished into the streets and they wouldn’t find him.
As he waited for his men to arrive, the coroner shouted at the townspeople to keep away from the body. It lay, broken and empty, on the grass.
‘What happened, Carpenter?’ Strong asked quietly.
John gave him the tale, then the coroner summoned the two masons who’d appeared at the top of the church tower. He listened to their account, glanced up at the spire, then dismissed them.<
br />
‘Who were they? Have you ever seen them before?’
‘I don’t know them, Master, but I think I might have seen them in town.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Their faces were ordinary. I might never have seen them before, too.’
‘Was either of them the man who threw a knife at you and Jeffrey?’
In his mind, John tried to compare the faces of these two with the fleeting glimpse he’d had of the thrower. It was too short. Impossible to be sure.
‘I don’t know,’ he said again.
‘You live a charmed life, Carpenter. Two of them came after you and yet again you emerge without even a scratch.’ He shook his head in wonder.
‘Have any men come after you, Master?’
Sir Mark shook his head. ‘I’ve been at home.’
The crowd in the churchyard was even larger now, people jostling around for a good view of the corpse.
Strong watched them, then raised his voice. ‘Does anyone know the man’s name? If you do, say so, by the law of the land.’
He waited, staring out at the people. Finally, one man pushed his way forward. He was older, hair stringy and grey, most of his teeth gone and the ones still in his mouth brown.
‘I saw him on the road coming here two days ago.’ He nodded down at the body. ‘He was with another man. There was something about them, they struck me as a pair of thieves.’
‘What did the other man look like?’ the coroner asked. He looked at the clerk to be certain he was noting down every word.
‘Like this one. Big. A hard face.’ He shrugged.
‘You said they were coming here.’
‘That’s right. They were just this side of Unstone. They were carrying packs and wore swords at their belts. They had the look of men who’d been walking a good way.’
‘Did you speak to them?’
‘I did, Master. They asked about places to stay and I told them they’d be lucky to find anywhere with the fair about to begin.’ He turned his head and spat. ‘Then they asked about some of the families – I’Honfleur, his daughter and her husband, and the Unthanks. I told them I don’t know anything about people like that.’ He paused for a moment and thought. ‘They looked like men who enjoyed war.’
The Anchoress of Chesterfield Page 19
