The Saltergate Psalter (18 page)

Before the blessing he leaned down and whispered to Katherine to take everyone home; he had one small thing to do.

John waited as the church emptied. De Harville was talking to another man, nodding soberly as he listened before clasping hands and striding away.

‘Master,' John called softly.

The coroner turned and waited, an impatient look on his face. ‘What is it, Carpenter? News?'

‘A little about those two men who were at Julian's. Someone recognised them from Lincoln.'

‘Go on.'

‘They work for the bishop.'

‘Are you sure?' he asked quickly.

‘That's what Walter was told.'

De Harville's eyes looked to the vestry. He smoothed down the silk sleeves of his surcote.

‘You'd think the Father would know if people from My Lord Bishop were here, wouldn't you?'

‘He never mentioned it to me.'

‘That's food for thought.' He shook his head. ‘What do you make of it?'

He explained his ideas as best he could, more clearly than the night before.

‘You could be right,' the coroner acknowledged. ‘For all we know the psalter might be in Lincoln Cathedral now, and that's the last we'll ever see of it. You know what these places are like, they love to collect treasures and relics. Especially if they can get them for very little.' He snorted. ‘They're not likely to admit they possess it. Come and see me in the morning and I'll decide what to do.'

‘Yes, Master. I thought you were arresting Christian tomorrow.'

‘Arresting? I still have some questions for him to answer and I want to see his face when he lies to me.'

‘Yes, Master. Have you heard any more from Ralph of York?'

‘No, and I daresay we won't. See if that boy can find out anything more on those men from Lincoln. They must have stayed somewhere.' And with a curt nod, he was gone.

• • •

The house was bustling. Martha had the cat on her lap, stroking its fur as she told a story that kept the girls and Walter rapt.

John crept through to the buttery and put his arms around his wife's waist. It seemed thicker than just a week before, the life growing bigger inside her.

‘What did he have to say?' she asked after she kissed him.

‘Who?'

Katherine tapped his arm playfully.

‘Who do you think? There's only one person you'd need to talk to.'

‘Maybe we'll have a better idea tomorrow. Martha has everyone entertained. We could slip upstairs, they'd never miss us …'

‘Shhh,' she said, but her eyes twinkled.

Monday. He stretched in the bed, then rubbed his hands down his face before rising. John tied up his hose and pulled his leather jerkin over his shirt. No pain from his arm; the wound had fully healed. Downstairs, he put on the new boots, smiling with satisfaction as they seemed to mould themselves around his feet.

Chewing a hunk of bread he made his way to the High Street. There was a coolness to the morning, the air fresh and damp with dew. But before he reached the coroner's house, he turned away, walking out past the cottages beyond West Bar to the road that led to Brampton. There was no rush. It would be hours before they brought in Christian and there was nothing for him until that time.

He sat on the riverbank, listening to the song of the water as it burbled over the rocks. Things had preyed on his mind all night. His fears, Katherine and the baby, all mingled with the faces of the dead. Not just those from the last few weeks, but all the way back to his mother, her features blurred by memory.

John closed his eyes and let his head rest in the grass, feeling the gentle sun on his skin. But sleep wouldn't come. Instead, he just listened to the rhythm of his breathing, letting the day envelop him.

He wasn't sure when he first heard the sound. It crept around the edge of his hearing. Someone walking through the long grass, trying to be quiet. He half-opened his eyes and tried to locate the noise.

About ten yards away, he decided. Another cautious footstep. He strained and could make out ragged breathing. One more step.

With a single move, John sprang to his feet. One hand reached for his knife, drawing it so the blade glittered in the light. He turned, seeing the man.

Small and wiry, his hood pulled up over his head, leaving the face in shadow. He could only see the mouth, lips drawn back in a snarl to show rotting teeth. The man grasped a knife in his right hand, his knuckles white on the hilt. He was here to kill.

‘Who sent you?' His voice was dry and rasping in his throat. The man didn't answer, circling slowly and intently, looking for an opening.

John feinted forward and the man calmly moved back a pace. He knew what he was doing. Not scared, taking his time. A hunter closing on his prey.

He could feel the sweat in the small of his back and on his palms. But he kept his eyes fixed on the man, forcing himself to pay attention to everything; the position of the feet, the way his hands shifted in the air.

John felt sure he didn't know this man from Chesterfield. There was nothing familiar in his appearance. It was impossible to see his eyes.

How much time had passed? It couldn't have been more than seconds but it felt like hours. The knife seemed heavy in his hand. He had to stay alert, aware of every tiny thing if he was going to stay alive.

He kept his breathing even. The assassin leapt forward a yard. John slashed down, finding only empty air as the arm moved quickly, the tip of the man's knife catching in his jerkin and slicing cleanly through the leather.

It was close. Too close. The man was skilled with his weapon. He was going to need luck to come out of this. He didn't want to die. There was far too much to live for yet.

The stone scudded off a tree with a dull noise. It was enough to break the man's concentration for a second as his head jerked around. The second stone caught him on the point of the shoulder. His fist opened and he dropped the blade.

John darted forward, cutting the man on the arm before his open hand caught him hard on the side of his head, sending him sprawling.

It was no more than a moment before he gathered himself. By then it was too late. The man had already gone and he didn't have the strength to pursue him.

He sat, taking a deep breath.

‘You can come out now, Walter,' he said not even turning as the boy approached. He felt drained, as if he'd lived a whole year in the last minute.

‘Did he hurt you, John?' The lad squatted in the grass, still holding the slingshot.

‘No, God be praised,' he answered with a relieved smile. ‘Thank you. It looks as if you saved my life again.'

‘You could have beaten him.'

‘Not that one. He was too used to fighting.' He reached out and picked up the man's knife. The hilt was bound with cloth so it wouldn't slip in his hand, and the blade had been lovingly honed to a deadly sharpness. ‘Here,' he said, passing it to Walter, ‘you might as well have that. It's better than the one you own.'

‘Thank you, John,' the boy said in astonishment.

‘Do you know who he was?'

‘No. He didn't look like anyone I remember.'

‘Nor me.'

A stranger. That was worrying. Had someone paid an outsider to murder him? Or was it simply a masterless man of the roads who saw an opportunity to take a few quick coins?

He scooped water into his palm and splashed it on to his face. The shock was good. Sudden, bracing.

‘Come on,' he said finally, after his hands had stopped shaking. ‘Let's go back to town. I think we'd better tell the coroner what happened.'

‘Do you want me there, John?' Walter asked hopefully.

‘Of course I do. If you hadn't come along I'd probably be dead now.' He cocked his head. ‘What were you doing out here, anyway?'

The lad blushed. ‘I followed you. I thought I might be able to help you.'

‘You certainly did that.' He laughed, a mix of shock and disbelief. He could still see the man standing there, poised and ready. Only luck and God's good grace meant he was alive now. And Walter.

Another moment and it could have been so different. He looked over his shoulder but the assassin was long gone.

• • •

‘Why would he want to kill you?' de Harville asked. He paced around the room, his cote billowing out behind him as he moved.

‘I don't know, Master.'

Maybe he was imagining things, trying to connect the man by the river with all these killings. He didn't fit at all. Perhaps he was nothing more than a robber. He shook his head. It all seemed as complicated as being lost in a maze, unable to find the centre or the way out. There were too many people to suspect. What he needed was proof and that was precious hard to find.

‘And it was no one you knew? No one local?'

‘No,' John answered, looking at Walter. The lad shook his head.

‘He was good, you said?'

‘A fighter. The Bishop of Lincoln would have money to pay someone like that.'

‘So would many others,' the monk said gently. He kept to his place at the table, quill moving rapidly across a piece of parchment as he took notes. ‘And we know how many outlaws are around.'

‘He's right,' the coroner agreed. He peered out through the glazed window at figures crossing the market square. ‘Too many men on the roads seeking easy money.'

‘When will Christian be here?'

‘I'll send the bailiffs out once they've had their dinner. We'll have him by this afternoon. I have plans for the morning.'

With a curt nod he left, his boots making a sharp tattoo on the tiled floor.

‘He's going hawking,' Robert said. ‘He's been looking forward to it for days.' He sighed. ‘Perhaps it will put him in a better humour.'

‘How's his wife?'

Robert shook his head. ‘No better. But no worse either, praise God.' He made the sign of the cross. ‘Keep her in your prayers.'

‘I will. And the baby?'

‘He's blossoming like a weed. The master sees him three times every week. If only his wife would recover he'd finally be a happy man.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘I'm sure of it. Maybe then he'd let me return to the monastery.'

‘I'll pray for that, too.'

The brother gave a weak smile. ‘From your lips to God's ears, John. Walter, you did a good day's work. We're all grateful.'

The boy reddened quickly. ‘Th-th-thank you,' he stuttered.

‘What are we going to do now, John?' the lad asked as they left the coroner's house.

‘Nothing yet,' he said. ‘You have work and so do I. We should go and do it.' But he was speaking to himself as much as to Walter.

‘Yes, John.' And the boy was off and running, a grin on his face.

The house was empty, only the kitten mewling around his feet as he gathered up the satchel of tools and hung it from his shoulder. In just a few minutes he was on the road out to Newbold, the dust rising around his feet.

A few hours of labour would do him good. It would stop him thinking about death and dying. Instead he could concentrate on the wood and listen to its voice telling him what it needed.

By noon he'd worked up a heavy sweat, drilling out holes in a beam to peg it for a doorway. Slowly, he brought another piece of wood into position and ran a hand over the end, feeling the grain before measuring and cutting to make the joint.

Two hours later he had the jambs and the lintel for the door fitted together and made secure with thick wooden pegs. He poured water on the pegs to let them expand in the holes. An old carpenter from Durham had taught him the trick. It created a bond that could last a lifetime.

John wiped the sweat and sawdust from his face and chest with an old piece of linen, then sluiced his flesh with water from the stream before putting his shirt back on. His skin was already brown from hours in the sun. All the scars from accidents stood out as thin white lines, a pattern of them on his body. He'd done all he could for today.

Christian should be in Chesterfield now, answering the coroner's questions. But he took his time cleaning the tools, giving a sharper edge to a chisel with his whetstone before packing it away.

There was no rush. The man would still be there when he arrived.

‘I told you, I didn't kill anyone.'

Christian spoke like a man weary of repeating the same thing. He sat on the chair, hands bound behind his back, his face red and shiny with sweat. The start of bruises showed where he'd resisted the bailiffs who tried to bring him here.

De Harville sat on the table, legs swinging. Brother Robert had his usual place in the corner, the quill poised as he waited. A broad bailiff stood guard inside the door, his hand ready on the hilt of his sword.

John leaned against the wall, the bag of tools at his feet. He'd been here for a quarter of an hour and heard nothing worthwhile yet. Christian simply denied everything. The only evidence against him was the testimony of Piers the apprentice. And that was precious thin.

‘You were the last to see him alive,' John said.

Christian turned, eyes full of fury. ‘And he was still alive when I left,' he roared. ‘I've known him all my life. We're related. Why would I kill him?'

‘You tell me,' the coroner said lazily. ‘Maybe for the proceeds from the sale of the psalter. How much did it fetch?'

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘No?' De Harville drew out his knife and carefully cleaned his nails with the point. ‘Then what were two men from the Bishop of Lincoln doing visiting Julian?'

‘I don't know anything about them.'

He sounded so honest, so confused by the idea that for a moment John could almost believe him. Then it passed; the mask of Christian's face seemed to drop.