The Saltergate Psalter (30 page)

‘No.'

‘It's yours. Timothy left it to you in his will.'

‘What?' he asked in disbelief. ‘Why?'

‘Because you're his son,' Brother Robert said quietly. ‘It's his way of acknowledging you.'

The silence lasted a long time. Finally the coroner held out the book in its linen wrapping.

‘This is yours.'

He didn't reach for it at first. Christian simply stood, staring at the psalter. Finally he extended a hand and took it, not even removing the covering.

‘It's beautiful,' the monk told him. ‘Keep it well.'

‘I don't want it. I'll give it to the church in Dronfield.'

‘Look at it first,' Robert counselled. ‘Take your time before you decide.'

‘I don't need time,' Christian answered. ‘Timothy wouldn't call me his son while he was alive. Now he's dead I don't want his apology.' He nodded his head, said, ‘Good day, Masters, may God go with you,' and walked away.

The coroner sighed. ‘At least the priest there will gain something from it all.'

So many deaths, all for a book. God's words, every one of them tainted with blood now.

‘Come and see me in the morning,' de Harville ordered, then left.

John turned. Katherine and the girls had gone. He put his arm around Walter's shoulders.

‘There's someone we need to see.'

Brother Robert walked with them. The crowd had vanished, the road dusty under their feet. On Knifesmithgate John didn't pause to knock at the door, just entered.

Dame Martha had her head in her hands, sitting with her elbows on the table. Her body shuddered with the silent tears that were flowing. Katherine was next to her, comforting the older woman with an arm tight around her shoulders. Even the girls were sitting quietly.

John looked at his wife. She smiled briefly then whispered something in Martha's ear. The woman raised her gaze. Her wimple was askew, and the red eyes from crying made her look old and vulnerable.

‘I'm sorry, John.' The words croaked out of her. ‘Can you forgive me?'

‘What for?' He squatted beside her and took hold of her hands. The joints were knotted, the skin covered with the brown spots of age. ‘You did nothing wrong.'

‘I almost got you killed.'

‘He was never going to do that, Mistress.' He smiled at her. ‘All he wanted was a safe passage to the church. I don't know what was on his mind, but it wasn't death. Not this time.'

‘Is that the truth?' she asked him.

‘Before God,' he replied solemnly.

She seemed to spy the monk for the first time.

‘Is he right, Robert?'

‘Yes.' The pair of them gazed at each other and all the years seemed to fall away from their faces. They were young again, the boy and girl who used to play together. Before the Church called him and marriage claimed her. Back when there was innocence in the world.

She nodded eventually.

‘I'm sorry you were caught in this,' John said. ‘I never expected that.'

‘He couldn't hurt me.' There was iron in her voice. ‘I'm old. I've had my life. Your time is just starting.'

‘And yours isn't over yet.' He leaned close and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

‘Tomorrow I'll get the girls back to their lessons.' Martha turned to look at Walter. ‘And you, too. It's time you learned to read and write.'

• • •

By the time they left, Martha and Robert were sharing a jug of good wine, memories making them both laugh. Good medicine, he thought.

‘Why do they have benefit of clergy, John?' Walter asked as they walked.

‘I don't know. Maybe because they're men of God.'

‘But he broke the commandments.'

‘I know.' He paused. ‘I didn't say they were all good men. But priests have power. These days maybe that's the same as having justice.' He shook his head. It was a country of two laws, it had been since long before he was born.

The girls were in bed, rushed whispers and stifled giggles coming from the solar. Kit had settled between them, already purring in his rest. Walter was asleep on his pallet. He was recovering, but not fully mended yet; the day had taken its toll on him. The slates were stacked on the table, one each for Janette and Eleanor, a third for Walter.

Katherine was sewing in the candlelight, delicate, tiny stitches on a piece of needlework. They'd talked over supper. Since then she'd been quiet, caught up in her thoughts.

He finished the dregs of ale and pushed his mug away.

‘I was never in danger from Father Geoffrey,' he told her again.

‘He had a knife to your neck, John,' she reminded him. ‘He'd killed before.'

‘He needed me. Without me he'd have never reached the church.' He stretched across and placed a hand on her belly, on the child inside. ‘I wasn't taking a risk. I swear it.'

‘How was I to know that? You've blundered your way through this as if we don't mean anything to you.'

‘You know you mean more than anything. More than the world.'

‘Do we?' She stared at him. ‘Do I? Then please, show it in future. Prove it.'

‘I will,' he promised.

The silence lasted a few long seconds, then she opened her mouth again. ‘What would you think about asking Martha to come and live here?'

‘What?' The question took him by surprise. ‘Why?'

‘She's on her own in that house. She doesn't need it all. And she spends half her time with us already.'

All of that was true. But …

‘Where?'

‘There's that good room by the buttery. Plenty of space for a bed and chests for her gowns.' She smiled. ‘Janette and Eleanor would love it. And she's growing more frail. You've seen that.'

‘Yes.' It was all true. But Martha was a woman who guarded her independence. She might not want to give it up.

‘I'll talk to her,' Katherine said. ‘Would you be happy with it, husband?' There was a gleam in her eye. She'd already made up her mind.

‘You know I would.'

‘Then I'll see her in the morning.'

• • •

The wet nurse sat quietly on the joint stool, tucked away in the corner, almost out of sight. De Harville bounced his son gently on his lap, the baby laughing and making joyful sounds.

‘You did well yesterday, Carpenter.'

‘Thank you, Master.'

‘That was a clever move. Dangerous. Brave, too.'

He shrugged. He'd felt safe enough with the priest. He just didn't want him to escape the law.

‘Not really.'

The coroner turned to stare at him. ‘What can I do to repay you?'

It was a straightforward question, and he had a simple answer.

‘Don't ask me to do this again. I have my trade and this isn't it.'

De Harville shook his head. ‘No,' he replied. ‘Ask me something I can grant.'

CHRIS NICKSON is the author of the Richard Nottingham and Tom Harper series (Severn House), as well as the Dan Markham mystery series, set in 1950s' Leeds (The Mystery Press). He lives in Leeds.

Cover photograph: © iStockphoto.com

First published in 2015

The Mystery Press is an imprint of The History Press

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