The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (2 page)

“And what’s this?” Maggie’s voice
came from the narrow doorway behind him. “You’ve not stolen that, have you?”

“And bring the sheriff down upon
my neck? No, woman, I’m not stupid.”

“It was given by God,” Tyrel
said. “He sent it directly to John.”

Maggie’s tired eyes squinted, her
mouth tightened. “What are you
sayin
’?”

John wished Tyrel would keep
quiet but there was no way to caution him without creating a bigger scene.

“The tree was on common land,”
John said. “Not the baron’s.”

“He’s right about that,” Tyrel
said, facing Maggie’s skepticism square-on. “Your John faced it with bravery,
even when lightning tried to strike him dead. He’s due this tree.”

Maggie looked past Tyrel, facing
John with a mixture of fear and anger.

“Lightning? And what were you
doin
’ out there in the storm, John Carver? What kind of
fool are you, with a family to feed?”

Tyrel sensed he’d perhaps gone
too far. He edged out of the workshop, past the woman whose fists were planted
firmly on her hips, and set a brisk pace toward the stone wall of the town a
quarter mile away.

John faced his wife with a firm
gaze. “I’ll not speak of it. That’s final.”

Maggie’s eyes flashed, but she
said no more.

*
* *

The fact that John wanted the
lightning incident forgotten had little bearing on the townsfolk of Galway. No
sooner had Tyrel returned to his blacksmith shed than the widow O’Connell
happened by. An imposing old woman of fifty, she was known for her direct ways.

“So then, Tyrel Smith, weren’t
you one of the men I saw walking up the hillside this afternoon? It wasn’t a
minute before the bolt of God came down,
strikin
’
that old tree,
breakin
’ it to bits.”

With his tongs Tyrel picked up a rod
of iron and held it to the fire. He worked vainly not to meet her eyes.

“Ah, I knew it,” she said. “A
wonder you’re not dead, the two of you. Who was the other? Me eyesight’s
goin
,’ you know.”

Tyrel busied himself with the
bellows; the fire had gone low in his absence and he’d not be accomplishing
anything today if he didn’t bring up the flame.

Mrs. O’Connell glanced up the
narrow street. “That Carver fellow, I’d wager. The man’s got no friends but
you, thanks to that wife with the mouth on her. She’s angered every merchant in
the village, haggling over their wares and
insultin
’
’em to their face.”

Tyrel watched the flame in his
forge roar to life. “John Carver’s a good man, an honest worker.”

The widow grunted. Her late
husband, a baker of fine quality breads, was the one who’d had words with
Maggie. Of course, he’d had words with half the townsfolk, and no one was so
awfully surprised when he dropped dead, clutching his chest. It was only sad
fortune that Maggie had left his shop not five minutes earlier. The widow
O’Connell would forever blame her.

She touched the horseshoe beside
Tyrel’s door, for luck, then lifted her skirt above the smelly rivulet of mud
that ran down the street and proceeded on her way to torture the wool merchant.

Tyrel drew the red-hot iron rod
from the fire and pounded it mercilessly until he felt better. He should have
never mentioned the misadventure in front of Maggie; the woman and her shrewish
tongue would be the death of John Carver yet. He’d simply been unthinking. He
would buy his friend a pint of stout next time he saw him.

A fortnight passed before that
occasion and when John Carver passed the blacksmith’s barn, he seemed
preoccupied.

“How goes the woodworking?” Tyrel
called out.

John turned away from the street
and entered the warm, smoky shelter. “Well,” he said with a smile. “It’s going
well.”

Tyrel thought of the pint of
stout he meant to offer, but the set of gate hinges he was working at the
moment couldn’t wait.

“And the family? Everyone’s all
right?”

“The little
bairn’s
learning to walk. I suppose she’ll be
toddlin
’ toward
the fire, just about the time Maggie’s got her hands full with the new one. Her
time’s
gettin
’ close now.”

Tyrel nodded as if he knew
anything about that sort of thing. He’d been the youngest of four, and never
knew his mother. The two sisters were so much older that they’d moved off, as
far as Limerick, with husbands. He’d grown up in a house with a rowdy brother
and a father who drank all the time and muttered about the unfairness of his
wife dying like that and leaving him with a worthless baby to care for. All of
Tyrel’s hard work in learning a useful trade earned him no points with the old
man, who’d finally done the world a favor by dying two winters ago.

John stepped closer and looked at
the hinge Tyrel had finished, the first of four.

“It should have a lid,” he mused,
picking up the large hinge and studying it. He set it back. “First things
first. Better get back to it. Tomorrow is market day—I’ll see you then.”

He hurried off without another
word.

“Odd one, that Carver,” said a
man who had bumped shoulders with John as he rushed away. “They say he’s become
even stranger since the day of the lightning strike.”

Tyrel felt a jab of guilt. Had
his careless comment in front of Maggie started a raft of rumors through the
town?

“Last market day,” the man
continued, “my wife wanted to buy two plates. The man would barely speak to
her. Sat there under his measly awning, carving away at some square thing, like
a moody artist. I say artistic genius is one thing, but in this town a man’s
not going to make his living from that foolishness. He’d better be selling
useful things to his regular customers.”

A square item. So, John Carver
must indeed be working on the wooden box he’d mentioned to Tyrel as they carried
the broken tree parts down the hill.

“Don’t understand it, myself,”
the man said. “Carver always seemed personable, friendly.”

“Maybe it was just a mood that
day.”

“Moods—ha! Got no use for no
la-di-da
moods
. Sell me a pair of
horseshoes, would you, Smith?”

Tyrel busied himself with fitting
and shoeing the man’s horse, putting aside his concerns about the change in
John Carver. A personality changed by a lightning strike? It seemed
preposterous. Most likely it was exactly what John had hinted at—his wife was
about to present him with a fifth child and was giving him hell about bringing
in more money. He got an idea.

*
* *

John put the last of his finished
wares into the small handcart and bent over to lift the yoke. Once it began rolling,
the burden moved along easily enough. Maggie had asked that he bring bread,
vegetables and candles when he came home. She made a point about the
candles—he’d been burning far too many of them, working late into the night in
his shop at the side of the house. Making matters worse, her brother Sean added
to the discussion by disparaging the work of an artist, saying John should
instead do something useful with his time, helping out on the plot of farm
land.

He put his brother-in-law’s
comments aside and turned to wave at his wife, feeling a rush of emotion at the
sight of the thin woman, hugely pregnant now, with little Siobhan perched on
her hip and the next two hanging on to her skirts. Her old smile briefly lit
her face, bringing back memories of their courting days. Ethan had begged to
come with his father, but the six-year-old didn’t yet have the stamina to make
it through the long market day without becoming tired and whiny. Maggie was a
good mother and an excellent cook, given what she had to work with. It was no
wonder her temper ran a little short these days. He turned to the rutted road
that led the half-mile to the side gate of the town wall, hurrying, as he was
already getting a late start.

At the gate a stream of patrons
were making their way toward the open square where tables and blankets were
spread with food and wares. A butcher displayed cages of chickens, squawking
wildly, and sides of meat. Someone else showed piles of dirt-crusted potatoes
and carrots; one woman’s table was laden with lengths of cloth. The women who
paused there looked longingly at the pieces dyed in reds and blues, but
purchased the plainer tans and grays which must have been less expensive. An
old man under a wooden shelter hammered at a strip of tin, forming the handle
for a teapot.

John hurried to his customary
spot. Pushing his cart up against the wall of a two-story stone building, he
whipped out two blankets and began setting out his display of plates and
kitchen implements. A section of tree stump made a stool, and his box of
chisels afforded him the ability to work when he wasn’t waiting on a customer.
He looked at the sky. Clear, for a change. If the clouds began to threaten
rain, he would need to get out the poles and tarpaulin of oiled cloth and erect
a shelter over his work area.

His interest quickened as he came
to the cloth-wrapped packet that held the wooden box he’d begun making two
weeks ago. From the smaller of the two lengths of alder branch he’d blocked out
the rough shape of the piece with his hatchet—a rectangle about two hands in
length and one hand wide. The depth would be sufficient for a lady to store her
bits of finery; a man might use it for his pipe; an important courier could use
it for the safe keeping of letters. Perhaps one day a letter to the king would
be carried all the way to London in this very box!

He set the parcel on the open end
of the cart, the place that afforded a reasonably stable surface for working,
then dragged the stump-seat near to it. Peeling back the cloth covering, he
felt a moment’s disappointment.

In his mind, the lidded box was a
fine, polished piece, worthy of that letter to the king. But in reality the
carved quilt pattern had not turned out as well as he had hoped. He had made
the mistake of applying a stain to the entire piece without testing a small bit
first. The walnut oil was too dark in places where it had run into the deeply
carved grooves, and he had been interrupted by the children before he could
properly wipe it down and distribute the color more evenly. It would be
difficult to rework it at this point, but he felt he could do it.

John became aware of someone
standing nearby.

“Good market day,” Tyrel said.

John looked around. No one had
stopped to examine his wares yet, so he could not quite agree with the
statement, but he gave his friend a smile anyway.

“What’s this?” Tyrel was eyeing
the unfinished box.

John wanted to flip the covering
over it once more, but Tyrel had already seen it.

“It isn’t finished,” he said.

“Ah, yes. You mentioned some
hinges for it.” Tyrel reached into his pocket and drew out two small bits of
metal. “A gift. I felt badly for the way my mouth ran off that day.”

John had long since forgiven
Tyrel’s mentioning the lightning to Maggie. He looked at the metal pieces. The
hinges were of fine quality, working smoothly, and just the right size for the
box.

“Now that I see it, I’m thinking
a clasp to latch it closed would be nice too,” the blacksmith said. He held his
fingers up to the place where box and lid came together, measuring. “I shall
come back by the end of day, provided the demand for wheels and tools isn’t too
great.”

John started to protest that he
had no money for metalwork, but the smith had rushed away and two women
approached his display. He diverted his attention to make the sale, pocketing
the small coins the younger woman gave for two of the plates. The money would
provide enough for a half-dozen new candles, the tall ones. He stretched his
fingers, working them to get rid of the residual tingling that still often plagued
him, and sat down to mount the new hinges to the box.

Shouts and a clatter of hooves
grabbed his attention. Two boys, no more than twelve years old, ran through the
market square and ducked into a narrow alley before reaching John’s place.
Rounding the bend in the High Street, came a dark horse. The rider wore the
livery of the Sheriff.

“Where did they go?” the man
demanded from the great height of his saddle, staring down at the shoppers in
the street. “Those two thieves! Where did they go?”

John lowered his gaze and
studiously worked at his hinges. When the sheriff’s man pulled his horse up in
front of John, he glanced up disinterestedly and shrugged. The man rode on.

He supposed that if the thievery
had happened with his own wares he would have welcomed the sheriff’s
intervention, but he doubted this was the case. More likely, one of the wealthy
ladies was missing a small trinket and had reported the two lads as culprits.
Or, they were simply taking something to eat—a loaf of bread or piece of cheese.
They’d looked hungry enough.

This current sheriff—the baron’s
newest appointment—had won no friends here, cultivating a climate of distrust
and practically forcing people to cheat when he imposed dozens of onerous taxes
at the time he took office two years ago. This deputy would find no one in
Galway willing to turn in two young boys who only needed food. John watched the
black horse disappear around a bend in the road as he picked up his smallest
chisel and worked to smooth the rough edges of the box.

The sun was low in the sky by the
time John looked up from his work. A few customers had put some coins into his
pocket but he’d spent the majority of his day adding small touches to the
wooden box, realizing that it would never become the beautiful piece of
craftsmanship he had imagined. He still had several pieces of wood at home,
however, and rather than feeling discouraged he was looking forward to
attempting another.