by Alis Hawkins
‘Odd thing to say.’
‘Must be odd — going round seeing dead bodies every week of the year,’ Stephen replies. He is annoyed by Tom’s questions, wanted everybody just to be agog.
‘What else did he say,’ I ask. ‘Anything?’
Stephen looks away from Tom. ‘Yes. Asked about the saint. Said he’d be coming out to talk to you, see what all the fuss was about. And why the parson was going to Malmesbury.’
As the day heads towards dusk, I begin to think that the coroner has lost interest in us, that he has found more pressing things to do with his time than come and see the saint. Perhaps, even now, he is with the jury at the view of the body.
What would a jury have made of my father’s body, I wonder, lying there in his shroud? His eyes were closed, not staring. He did not die of a seizure.
I cast my mind back to his dead face. The jutting nose, the cold skin. He looked like the old woman in the dead village. Calm, composed.
She held on to life until it was safe to die; then, from what I could see, she just lay down and stopped. Is that what my father did — left me safe in the saint’s care and gave up his life to fulfil his half of the bargain?
And Edgar? The question forces itself into my mind. Was Edgar blue about the face?
Perhaps he was; but I wrapped him for the grave while it was still dark. All I know is that his nose was bent and bleeding.
‘Good day to all!’
A lean, heavy-cloaked man is being shown on to the hearth, followed by a fellow with a writing-board. We all gather to greet them and the man I take to be the coroner accepts the offer of a stool and a mug of ale. He is dressed well but not fussily and I notice that he takes pains to ensure a stool and a mug for his young note-taker, too.
‘I am Edmund Abarrow, officer to his majesty’s coroner for the county. I’m here to conduct an inquest into the death of the clerk, Thomas Hassell.’
We all nod, falling in with his practical manner. His way of speaking is not that of Tredgham but his speech is still easy to understand and not Frenchified, for which I am grateful. But though he might be more one of us than his master, he still wields the power of the coroner’s office.
‘You two —’ he gathers in Hob and me with his look — ‘have been here, or so I gather, about twelve days. Is that right?’
We nod.
‘And you’re on pilgrimage to Salster? The reeve tells me he has your mare and cart in his barn.’
‘Yes, master, I’m making a pilgrimage to Salster to pray for my father’s soul.’
He crosses himself. ‘Not a good death?’
‘No. He died unshriven and, by force of circumstances, could not be buried in holy ground. When the saint appeared to me, I knew I had to make for Salster straight away.’
‘Ah yes. The saint.’ He nods. ‘Tell me about her.’
Some men are good listeners, others cannot keep quiet for the need to hear their own voice. Edmund Abarrow is a silent listener. Every now and again he asks a question but, for the most part, he simply listens. When I have come to the end of my story with the saint’s appearance in the press he draws a long breath.
‘But that wasn’t the end of her miracles, was it?’ he asks. ‘Every soul I’ve spoken to in the village has been at pains to make sure I know the story of Beatrice’s miracle. The hand made flesh…’
‘Yes, master. It happened here, on the hearth.’
‘And it was that which brought the parson, Thomas Hassell, here on the day before he died?’
‘Not the day before he died, master,’ I tell him, ‘the day before that. Saturday.’
‘You’re taking it for granted that he died on the same day that his death was discovered,’ he says. ‘But, according to the first finder of the body —’ he stops and turns to the secretary.
‘Jedediah Sparrow.’
‘Yes, according to the man, Sparrow, when he went in to see what had become of the parson, he found him to be not only dead but quite stiff.’
I imagined the unknown Jed Sparrow going towards the bed and, confused by the parson’s open eyes, trying to speak to him. Though none of us is as discomfited by the sight of death as we were a year ago, he must still have been taken unawares by what he found when he touched Master Thomas.
‘A corpse does not stiffen until several hours after death,’ the coroner’s officer goes on. ‘Therefore, since the parson was found dead at about the mid-point between sunrise and noon, we can suppose that he died during the early part of the night.’
‘Died in his bed,’ Tom said, ‘as we all hope to.’
‘Yes,’ Edmund Abarrow agrees, ‘though most of us hope to have our family about us and a priest to hand.’
‘But he was a priest,’ I protest, the example of Master William in my mind. ‘Surely he confessed his sins every night before he slept? He will have died in a state of grace?’
Master Abarrow’s eyes narrow as they stare at me. ‘Only God knows that.’ He crosses himself. ‘So, he was here the day before he died. I’ve heard about the miracle from young Beatrice and her father. Why don’t you tell me about the conversation you had with Master Thomas after he’d spoken to the girl?’
I find myself glancing at Hob and am vexed with myself. I do not need his permission to answer.
‘He wanted me to explain to him, again, how my family came to be associated with Saint Cynryth.’
He nods. ‘Yes, he’d been here on a previous occasion, I gather, to satisfy himself and the reeve that the saint wasn’t stolen?’
Though I have no call to feel guilty, I feel the blood rising in my face. ‘Yes, and he saw that it was just as I had said — she is my family’s patron saint.’
The coroner’s eyes flick to the cordwood shrine where the saint has been standing since the rain stopped. This momentary glance tells me that Master Abarrow took swift note of everything on the hearth as he arrived, that his affable manner hides a keen mind.
‘And what was his reaction to what every soul in the village is calling the miracle of Beatrice’s hand?’
I feel Hob’s eyes on me as I reply. ‘He was keen to write it in the annals of the abbey at Malmesbury. Said it should be in the diocese’s records.’
‘So he believed it to be a genuine miracle and not some fancy of the girl’s?’
‘Yes,’ Hob answers before I can even hesitate.
Master Abarrow turns to him. ‘You were party to this conversation, too, I believe?’
‘I was.’
Unease begins to creep over me. Who has been telling the coroner about our discussion with the parson?
‘So perhaps you can shed light on the argument I’ve heard about.’
‘Argument?’ Hob cocks his head as if he does not wholly understand the word.
‘Yes. The argument between you and Master Thomas about whether or not your White Maiden of the Well really is a saint.’
I watch Hob’s face as, first a frown and then a smile reflect his thoughts. ‘I think whoever overheard our conversation misunderstood,’ he says. ‘There was no argument as to whether St Cynryth is a saint, only about the importance of the library at Malmesbury. I did not know its significance and questioned whether the life of a saint from elsewhere would be recorded there but Master Thomas was quite forceful. “Her life will unquestionably be at Malmesbury,’ he said. ‘It’s one of the most important libraries in Christendom.”’
‘So he didn’t question either her sainthood, or the miracles you claim for her?’
‘No.’
The coroner fixes him with a long look. ‘He didn’t say that, if no evidence was found for her sainthood, then folk who claim miracles for her were either mistaken or lying?’
‘I believe,’ Hob says, looking off and narrowing his eyes as if he is reading the words in the air, ‘that what he said was, “Folk are sometimes mistaken about miracles”.’ He hesitated and brought his gaze back to Master Abarrow’s face. ‘And sometimes taken for fools by Satan.’
&nbs
p; ‘And are you mistaken?’ The officer’s eyes move from Hob to me. ‘Or taken for fools by Satan?’
‘No, sir, we’re not,’ Hob states firmly as I begin to stammer out some kind of denial. ‘And, despite the garbled account you’ve had handed on to you, I feel sure that the parson didn’t think we were either.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes.’ I watch Hob meet his eye, open and fearless. ‘Master Thomas accepted Beatrice’s miracle. What he wanted to see — what he told us quite specifically that he wanted to see — was whether it had been recorded that the saint had done this appearing and disappearing miracle elsewhere, as well as on Martin’s shrine. And he was keen to know where she came from. Martin believed that she had simply appeared out of the air at his family’s shrine, but Master Thomas said she must have come from somewhere because God only made something ex nihilo once, when he created the Heavens and the Earth.’
Master Abarrow stares at Hob as he waits for the secretary to finish recording his words. I wonder how often the coroner’s officer hears phrases like ‘ex nihilo’ from those he questions. Hob has a keen ear as well as a quick mind.
‘Why did he want to go to the abbey now?’ Master Abarrow asks. ‘Couldn’t it have waited?’
Hob gives him a look which says that the purposes of clerics are as baffling to him as the ways of women. ‘I didn’t know Master Thomas at all well,’ he admits, ‘but he struck me as the kind of man who, once he’d made up his mind to do something, didn’t wait about for spring.’
Stephen and Tom exchange a glance. If he notices, it will tell the coroner’s officer that Hob has accurately taken the parson’s measure.
Master Abarrow puts his hands on his thighs as if he is about to push himself to his feet and take his leave. ‘Right. Just to be clear. Did any of you see the parson again after he left here on Saturday?’
‘I did. At church.’ Tom was the only one of us who went to hear mass on Sunday.
‘And did the parson seem as usual?’
Tom shrugs. ‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t seem unwell or in pain?’
Tom hesitates. ‘The parson was always a difficult book to read.’
‘And you three —’ the officer’s eyes take in Hob, Stephen and me — ‘you didn’t see Thomas Hassell again after that afternoon?’
We all shake our heads.
‘Right.’ This time, he does get up. ‘I’ll just take a turn about.’
He walks around the pit, taking in the steady streams of smoke rising and being whipped away by the gusting breeze. He holds out a hand to the surface of the pit and is surprised that he feels little heat until he touches the banked earth.
‘So cool and yet —’ he peers down one of the vent-holes — ‘all is aglow within?’
‘The bracken and earth keep air out and heat in,’ I explain.
He nods. ‘So much going on beneath the surface,’ he muses. ‘It’s almost like alchemy. You turn wood into coal and that, in its turn, transforms ore into iron.’
I nod. ‘Yes.’
Eyes still on the pit he asks, ‘You collyers are here all night — awake and alert?’
‘Two of us sleep while two are on watch, master,’ I tell him.
‘And the two asleep — they’re in that hut there?’
‘Yes.’
Now he looks at me. ‘While the attention of the watchers is all on the coaling?’
‘Yes. There’s nothing else to see at night.’
‘No.’ He looks around the hearth. ‘How far does your cooking fire throw its light?’
‘At night? We have it low, just to keep the chill off. We can see each other by it, sitting a yard away, but very little beyond.’
‘So the hut is in darkness?’ He gazes across at the hut which stands on the village side of the clearing, twenty paces or so away from the smoking pit.
I nod and follow him around the outside of the hut. Then I stand and watch as he gazes from its sack-hung door, through the trees to the glebeland and the parson’s house beyond.
At dawn, I emerge from the hut to find Stephen eating before he sets off for the inquest.
He looks bright-eyed for somebody who has had next to no sleep and I tell him so as I slump on to the stool next to him. For myself, I feel heavy, thick-headed, having barely slept until an hour or two ago.
‘I’ve slept well enough,’ he says, not looking up from his food.
‘How? You didn’t come into the hut until I was asleep and here you are up again.’
‘I slept here, next to the fire.’ He glances up, feeling my stare. ‘It’s cold in the hut. It keeps me awake.’
‘You should be like me and Tom,’ Hob says, from the other side of the pit. ‘Nothing keeps us awake, does it Tom? Sleep like puppies, the pair of us.’
I grunt at the truth of this. Rousing Hob to take his watch is never easy and I have found Tom to be no better.
Hob leaves off his tour of the pit and sits down next to Stephen. ‘A word before you go,’ he says, ‘just so you’re not hoodwinked by your cousin —’
‘What cousin — Will?’
Hob nods, reaches for the remains of yesterday’s loaf and dips a crust in the mug of ale warming by the fire. ‘What did he tell you about why he left the hearth?’
Stephen shrugs and keeps his eyes on his bowl, away from me. ‘Said he didn’t like the way he got ordered around,’ he says. ‘Said there were easier ways to make winter money.’
‘Want to know the real reason he left?’
Stephen looks up. ‘What?’
‘You know Will fancies himself as a wrestler?’
A smile breaks out on Stephen’s face. ‘Don’t tell me you beat him?’
‘I did as it happens. But that’s not what I meant to say.’ Hob’s eyes are fastened on Stephen. ‘Your cousin got a bit above himself. Wanted to fight without stays. Well that’s stupid but he rushed me so I had no choice.’
‘Sounds like Will. Never would take no for an answer.’
‘Then he started fighting dirty. So I had to teach him better manners. I pinned him so tight that he pissed himself.’ Hob’s look is level and unabashed while he watches Stephen’s reaction. ‘That’s why he left. He couldn’t face being on the hearth with me after that.’
I glance at Tom to see if he will put his two penn’orth in, but he seems content to let Hob’s version stand.
‘So?’ Stephen raises his bowl to his lips for the last drops. ‘You think he’s going to try and get his own back?’
Hob stretches his legs out, folds his arms over his chest. ‘He’s your cousin so you might know better but he strikes me as the kind of man who’d hold a grudge. If he got the chance to speak ill of me, I think he would. And I’ll be honest with you, Stephen, I don’t relish the thought of being spoken of badly at an inquest.’
Stephen puts his bowl down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I’m not telling you what to do,’ Hob says, ‘but if Will starts on about me or Martin, you might just want to explain to the coroner that he’s not the most even-handed witness.’
As morning passes into afternoon and Stephen has not returned, I try to keep my mind off the inquest and on the work of quenching the stack. Driving off the heat from charred logs is exacting work and demands a man’s full attention.
Five barrels we pour into the charred stack, pail by pail, vent hole by vent hole until no more steam comes off and the hissing from within is silenced. Now, we can only wait until tomorrow when the pit will be cool enough to break open and harvest the coal.
A quenched stack is an eerie thing. It settles and cracks at odd moments and, sometimes, if the quenching has not been thorough, it will burn up again if a big slip happens. I once heard a collyer say that it is like watching a man die. Will he rally and burn bright again, live a few more hours or days, or will he just sink slowly and quietly into death?
I stand and watch the pit — no longer smoking and seething in fiery life but just squatti
ng there on the hearth, stray wisps of smoke escaping here and there as the last of the fire dies.
What is taking Stephen so long? Can the inquest still be going on?
If we are misliked as strangers, might the jury be persuaded to suspect that we are, somehow, responsible for Master Hassell’s death? Could Will do that, as Hob fears?
If we are accused, where would they take us? With the world as it is, God alone knows when the next assize court will be held.
And what would become of the saint? Would she be impounded with my other goods or would the coroner let her stay here until our fate was decided? In my agitation, I pace the hearth, checking sacks for the dozenth time, moving the hurdles pointlessly from one side to another.
The saint will protect you.
I hope my angel is right but, as the day wears on, fear presses in on me till I scarcely know what to do with myself.
Just as we have given Stephen up, he walks on to the hearth, a bucket of ale swinging from one hand and a full pot of Lenten stew, its hot handle padded with rags, from the other.
‘At last!’ Hob cries. ‘What took you so long? Couldn’t you agree?’
Stephen puts his burdens down by the fire and rolls his shoulders. ‘Didn’t start on time —jurors from Lynd didn’t come till after noon.’
‘So?’ Hob wants to know ‘What was the verdict?’
‘In the end, we decided that he must’ve died of a seizure.’
‘In the end?’
Stephen glances across at me. ‘Let’s eat this while it’s still hot and I’ll tell you.’
‘Well, you were wrong about Will,’ Stephen says to Hob, as I dole out the stew from the pot. ‘Didn’t say a word against you. Or Martin.’
A chill, as if a ghost has embraced me. ‘Me? What would he say about me? I was the one that pulled Hob off him!’
Stephen darts a glance at Hob and Tom who are sitting on the other side of the fire. Then he shrugs, his eyes on the bowl I pass him. ‘I thought he might say something about your walking demon.’
My scalp prickles with fear. ‘Who told you?’ I stand and point at Tom who is staring up at me from his stool. ‘Him?’
