The Saltergate Psalter (24 page)

A fire in the kitchen. That would be enough to drag them outside, and all their neighbours along with them, but not kill anyone.

But why? What would it achieve?

He sat on the grass and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. None of this made any sense. He stayed there for ten minutes or more, trying to work some reason out of it all. Finally he picked up the tools and returned to the house.

No mention of this to Katherine, he decided. She was scared enough as it was, not knowing when Walter would wake. By the time he'd finished the bread and a hunk of the cheese, daylight had grown.

The market square was already alive. Saturday. Market day. Men were setting up their stalls and unloading the items to sell. Out close to West Bar traders were lining up the horses and brushing them. Early summer; there'd be plenty of custom today. A bolt of silk hoisted on someone's shoulder caught the early sun, shimmering brilliantly for a moment.

He ducked between the crowds hard at work with their preparations and knocked on a door. The servant answered and escorted him in. Will Durrant sat at his table sipping a mug of ale.

‘Who do we have here?' he asked, turning his blind eyes to stare at the doorway.

‘John. The Carpenter.'

‘It's early to call on someone so you must have a good reason.' He extended a hand. ‘Sit yourself down. Bring him some ale,' he instructed the servant. ‘What can I do for you, Master Carpenter?'

‘Some more questions, if I might.'

Durrant smiled. ‘I can't guarantee you any answers, but I'll try.'

‘I've heard talk that Timothy had a mistress, and he promised her the psalter.'

The man gave a hearty laugh. ‘That again? I thought that rumour was dead and buried years ago.'

‘Is it true?' John asked and Durrant shrugged in reply.

‘If it was, Timothy never said so to me. It was gossip, nothing more, something for the goodwives to discuss while they did their laundry down at the river.'

‘Did he ever deny it?'

The blind man looked thoughtful for a while. ‘Not that I recall. But he never admitted it, either.'

‘What did he do?'

‘Just let it all go by him until people grew tired of it and found something else to discuss. That was Timothy's manner. Ignore things that didn't matter to him until they went away.' He chuckled. ‘I daresay it worked most of the time. And he had enough money to do it.'

‘Do you believe the talk?'

‘No one ever managed to put a name to the woman that I recall. Does that sound like truth to you, Master?'

It didn't. With a sigh he began to stand, but Durrant stayed him.

‘I count my life in two parts,' he continued. ‘When I had my sight and after. There's more of the after than before now,' he said with a sad smile, ‘but that's God's will. All the talk about Timothy and the woman was when I could still see. And it was after the chatter that he showed me the psalter. So he could hardly have given it away, could he?'

‘No,' John admitted. ‘Thank you.'

‘Was it a woman who remembered that tittle-tattle?'

‘Yes.'

‘Sometimes they let their imaginations run off with them. I'm sorry I couldn't help you more.'

‘I think you've stopped me going down the wrong path.'

‘Good.' He paused. ‘There was fresh gossip around yesterday. Your brother-in-law.'

‘He hasn't woken yet.'

‘I'll say a prayer for him.'

‘Thank you.' Maybe God would listen; it couldn't hurt.

• • •

The coroner was in the stable, supervising the groom as he tended to the horses.

‘News on the boy?' he asked, raising his head from inspecting a fetlock.

‘Still the same.'

De Harville crossed himself quickly. ‘Do you know who did it?'

‘Not yet. But I want to go and talk to Christian.'

The coroner cocked his head. ‘Why? Do you think he's responsible?'

‘It's possible. I want to take two bailiffs with me.'

‘Not until the market's done. I need them here to keep order. Keep your eyes open. Didn't you tell me that Christian used to come to the Saturday market?'

Of course. He'd forgotten that.

‘I'll keep an eye open for him.'

There'd be time for that later, once the market began. For now, though, he had business elsewhere.

• • •

The girls were busy spinning wool. Katherine was seat at the table, half-watching them as she broke her fast.

‘You were gone early.'

‘Just some thoughts,' he told her. ‘How's …?'

‘He's still sleeping. Martha's up there with him. Have you eaten?'

‘Hours ago,' he said with a smile, squeezing her shoulder lightly as he passed and climbed the stairs.

Martha raised her head at the footsteps. She was holding one of Walter's hands, lips moving in silent prayer.

‘Have you found …?' she began, but he shook his head. It seemed so strange, not real to see the boy there. He was always the one out and about with his errands to run and his messages to deliver. Not here with his eyes closed, lost somewhere between life and somewhere else, his spirit trying to find its way back.

He stood for a moment, caught in the silence. Come home, he thought. We need you here. John reached down and patted the lad's leg through the sheet. It jerked in response even thought his eyes remained closed.

‘Did you see that?'

‘Pray God it means he'll surface soon. I've seen men do that before they come to,' Martha said.

He bounded down the stairs feeling hopeful, whispering in his wife's ear and seeing her smile before he left. His heart was lifted. There'd been a reaction. Walter could feel. Maybe nothing else yet, but it would come, he was certain of that now.

He scoured the market square, squeezing his way through the crowds. He kept one hand on his purse as he moved. But no sign of Christian.

At the cookshop he bought a hot pie, forcing himself to eat slowly, then washed it down with a mug of ale from the tavern on Low Pavement.

After an hour or more of looking he had to admit it: Christian wasn't there. But he still lingered, just in case. Nothing. In frustration he marched back to the house.

He found Katherine and the girls still sitting in hall. She was leading them in prayer. For a dark moment he believed that Walter had died and he felt breath being pulled from his body.

Then Janette was up and running towards him.

‘Walter's awake,' she laughed. ‘Walter's awake.'

He looked and saw his wife wiping tears from her eyes. Tears of joy.

‘He woke just after you left.' She was smiling, sniffling as she tried to stop crying. ‘He's fine, John. He's going to be fine.'

Silently, he thanked God as he drew her close, her head resting on his shoulder.

‘Who's with him now?'

‘Martha. She wanted to take Janette and Eleanor out, so they'd be away from the sickroom. He started to come to when he heard her voice.'

A miracle, he thought. He held her until the shaking stopped.

‘I'll go and see him. Does he remember anything?'

‘I don't know. I was just so happy to have him back …'

He understood.

Martha had eased herself on to a low joint stool by Walter's pallet. She sat, gazing tenderly at the boy. She put a finger to her lips to quiet him as he approached.

‘He's sleeping again,' she whispered. ‘But when he's awake, he makes sense.'

‘Did he say anything about …?'

‘I don't think he remembers. Give him time, John.'

‘Is he in pain?'

She shook her head. ‘The wise woman left some herbs we can steep for him to drink.' She looked at the boy. ‘It's going to take him a long while to recover. Let him sleep as much as he can.'

‘I know.' But at least he'd begun to mend. She reached out a hand and he helped her to her feet. Martha grimaced as she straightened her legs, then hid it again as she managed a step or two.

‘Timothy's mistress,' he began.

‘What about her?'

‘Do you know anything about her?'

‘It was years ago, John. More than half a century. I can't remember any more than I told you. I'm sorry.'

‘Is there anyone who might?' he asked hopefully.

‘After all this time? I doubt it. I don't think any of us knew her name. I don't even know where it all began.'

He escorted her down the stairs, feeling her lean into him. Once again he was surprised at how frail her body had become, the weightlessness of her bones.

The afternoon sun felt too hot. Sweat ran down his backbone as he walked and each step was an effort. Halfway to Dronfield he'd rested in the shade for a few minutes, the two bailiffs complaining loudly at trudging through a summer's day after a morning at the market.

He ignored them, splashing his face with water from the stream until he was cooled again. In the village they followed the road uphill to the manor house. No Christian. Nobody had seen him since morning; no one knew where he'd gone or when he might return.

A wasted journey.

‘Does he have any recent cuts on his hands or face?' John asked the men who gave him the information. They shook their heads.

‘I saw him last night and he didn't,' one answered. ‘Why?'

‘Just a question,' he replied with a smile.

They were going back with nothing. First, though, a small rest. The least he could do was buy the bailiffs a jug of ale after dragging them out this way.

Inside it was cool, some of the shutters closed against the day to leave the place shaded. While his companions wittered away, John wandered over to talk with the alewife.

‘I hadn't thought to see you again,' she told him. ‘I heard Christian sent you packing last time.'

He shrugged. ‘Maybe he did.'

‘Is that why you've brought them?' She nodded at the brawny bailiffs.

‘Do you blame me?'

‘Better to be safe when you're against someone with a temper.'

‘That's what I thought.' He grinned and moved his mug around on the counter. ‘What do you know about Christian's family?'

She snorted. ‘His mother, as was. The father died years back. It was probably the best thing he could have done.'

‘Why's that?' he asked sharply.

‘He was a cuckold,' the woman said. ‘Everyone knew it but him, poor soul.'

‘So Christian's not his?'

‘She's the only one who can tell you that. And she's been in her grave these ten years.'

‘So whose bastard is Christian?'

‘Ah.' Her eyes twinkled at the chance of gossip. ‘That's what everyone asked when her belly started to grow. She'd been in someone's bed that wasn't her own, but she kept very quiet about it. Never a name, not even a hint.'

‘Why couldn't it have been her husband?'

She laughed.

‘His pizzle couldn't get hard. Everyone knew that. Couldn't satisfy a lass, never mind give her a child. That wife of his never let him forget it, either.'

‘You don't look old enough to remember it.'

‘Get on with you, Master,' she said but preened at the compliment. ‘I was just little when it happened, but the way people went on about it, it was impossible to forget.'

‘Is there someone who'd know more?'

‘Try Goodwife Joan,' she suggested. ‘The last house as you leave the village towards Chesterfield. She's the oldest around here. Can't move much any more but she's still sharp. Take her a jug of ale and she'll talk.'

• • •

The house was dirty. Cobwebs in the corners and the rushes on the floor hadn't been replaced in more than a year. He'd sent the bailiffs back to town when he stopped. For a minute he thought the alewife had played him for a fool. The hag looked ancient, a thick rheum on her eyes as she tried to peer at him. But with the first sip of drink she brightened.

‘Christian?' she cackled. ‘Thinking she'd save his soul with a name like that.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘He was someone's by-blow. Everyone here knew that.'

‘Do you know whose?'

‘Plenty of whispers at the time,' she remembered with a sniff. ‘Not that she'd ever come out and admit it. Walked around like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. But we knew, we knew.'

‘Was there ever any talk of a rich man?' he asked. ‘From Chesterfield?'

‘Plenty of mouths flapping,' Joan told him. ‘Lots of rumours. Rich man, poor man.' She turned her head and spat on the ancient, dry rushes covering the floor. ‘Seems to me someone said she'd been seduced. A man promising her things.' She looked at him accusingly through the rheum. ‘The way men do. Then vanished as soon as she was with child. She was married, she couldn't do anything except drag the child up.'

‘What about the name Timothy? Was he ever mentioned?'

‘Probably every name in Christendom at one time or another.' She said. ‘Why?'

‘I've heard he had a mistress and nobody knew who she was.'

‘You'll not find out from her, not unless she can speak from the grave.' She gave another cackling laugh. ‘Probably in hell for her sins now.'

He wasn't going to learn any more here. The most he'd come away with was a suspicion and that didn't help. Anyone could have been Christian's father.

‘Thank you, Mistress,' he said as he rose. ‘You've been generous with your memories.'

‘She told me something once. Years later, when the boy was ten or so,' the woman recalled.

‘What was that?' He stood by the door, one hand on the latch.

‘That she'd seen a book once.' Joan shook her head.

‘What kind of book?' he asked, holding his breath.