The Saltergate Psalter (23 page)

‘Where is it?' John asked quietly.

‘Near the leper hospital. A big tree by a stream, that's what he told me. The water had washed away enough from the bank that he could crawl in among the roots. He might be too big for that now, though. He's grown so tall.'

‘Yes.' He stood. ‘Tell Katherine I've gone back to look for him.'

He didn't want to see the hopelessness on his wife's face. This was the first real possibility he'd had. He hurried, crossing the bridge at the bottom of Soutergate, heart beating fast. The lazar house stood in the distance, a wall surrounding the buildings to keep the lepers away from everyone else.

His eyes scanned the landscape, looking for tall trees and a stream. He spotted the water first, a little beck that meandered along, sluggish after so many dry weeks. As he moved along he could pick out the tree. It was an old oak, the trunk thick and ancient, leaning as if it was drunk. But the bank below it had been eaten away, leaving heavy roots that pushed down searching for earth and home.

‘Walter!' he called, waiting. But no answer.

John scrambled down the bank, grabbing patches of grass to stop himself from tumbling. The only way to come close was by walking along the stream. The roots stood like bars on a jail. The space behind them was large enough for a man to hide.

Closer, he spoke Walter's name again. This time he heard something: a low, faint groan. He splashed through the stream, offering a prayer that it was the lad and he'd live.

He was there, curled in on himself like a child, his head tucked down.

‘Walter,' he said urgently, reaching through to shake the boy. ‘Walter.'

The lad moved his head like a man in a daze. His clothes were covered in dried mud, old blood on his hands.

‘Can you hear me?'

Slowly, Walter nodded.

‘I'll get you out of there. We're going home.' Praise God.

John tried to push the roots apart, using all his strength to move them. But they were too thick, too sturdy, and too close together for him to squeeze through. Walter was still thin enough to crawl inside. But he didn't look to have the strength to come back out.

John sawed at the roots with his knife, working desperately and keeping up constant chatter while he cut. Finally there was a space large enough for him to pass. Holding his breath and tugging himself free from the roots that caught and tugged on his jacket, he was inside.

God's breath, the boy looked bad. Bruises all over his face. Who'd done this to him? How long had he been here? Gently, John moved him, easing him over the dirt towards the entrance. No more than a few inches at a time, and each one bringing a moan of pain.

It took more than an hour to pull him out into the air. By the time it was done John was covered in sweat, boots soaked by the stream. He had to support Walter's weight; the lad still hadn't come to properly, caught on the cusp between sleeping and waking.

It was slow and tiring work. Walter was as heavy and awkward as a sack of stones. They went along the river, pace by pace, until the bank was low enough for him to haul the boy out.

John was panting, breathless. He needed to rest, his legs and shoulder aching, but there was no time. Walter needed to be at home with someone to tend to him. Too many hours had passed already.

He gathered his strength, seeing the distance to the dusty road slowly vanish. But even there it still seemed like a long way into Chesterfield. More than he could manage on his own. But he had to do it. There was no choice.

The rattle of a cart stirred him out of his great concentration. He turned his head, hailing the driver.

‘My brother's been hurt.' Not the full truth but it would do for now. And it wouldn't frighten the man. ‘Can you take us into Chesterfield, Master?'

The farmer looked at them, assessing the danger and the damage before giving a slow nod.

‘In the back, on the hay,' he said.

It was a struggle to lift Walter, but finally he managed it, trying to make the lad comfortable before climbing in himself, exhausted.

‘We live on Saltergate, Master. Do you know it?'

‘Aye. What's happened to him?'

‘A bad fall,' John lied and hoped the driver would believe him.

The journey seemed to drag along. The bullock pulling the cart was slow. By himself, John could have walked faster. But with Walter, this was better.

He studied the boy's face. He was breathing regularly and easily; that was something. The injuries were bad, but they'd probably look better once he was cleaned up. What worried him was the fact that the boy wouldn't surface into wakefulness. Perhaps the wise woman would be able to help.

The cart rumbled with aching slowness up Soutergate, turning by the church before stopping outside the house. John scrambled down, offering the driver a coin for his help. The man raised a callused hand to refuse.

‘It's a charity,' the farmer told him.

‘Then God go with you.'

‘And you. Even more with him.'

Supporting Walter, John kicked at the door until Katherine opened it, her eyes widening in horror when she saw her brother.

‘Help me get him up to the solar.'

It took all his strength to support the boy on the way to his bed. Dame Martha took one look at Walter and dashed off to fetch Wilhelmina the wise woman. Katherine ordered the girls to bring a bowl of water and cloths.

John lowered the boy on to his pallet and started to strip him down to his braies, pulling off jacket, shirt, and hose. Bruises covered his body. Christ's blood, every part of him had suffered a beating. Katherine washed her brother with gentle strokes. The pain she was feeling showed on her face as she looked up at John.

‘Where did you find him?' Her voice was steady.

He recounted the tale, from Martha's memory to the bullock cart dropping them at the door. By the time he'd finished Wilhelmina was climbing to the solar and shooing them away.

The woman's fingers examined Walter, his face, his body. She listened to his breathing, placing her hand over his heart to see how it was beating.

‘Leave me with him,' she ordered. ‘I'll do what I can.'

They went down to the hall, where Martha had gathered the girls close around her skirts. Everyone looked fearful, almost too scared to speak.

‘Why?' Katherine asked finally.

‘I don't know,' John answered. Had the coroner's work earned the boy his beating? Or was it something else? Walter talked so little about what he did. He turned to Martha. ‘Thank you for the hint. I'd never have found him otherwise.'

‘I just pray it wasn't too late,' the dame said.

‘Be glad it was a warm night. He'd have frozen otherwise.'

‘Is Walter going to be all right?' Janette asked. John looked to his wife, not sure how to answer.

‘Let's all pray that he is,' she said gently and put her hands together.

• • •

‘I've given him something to make him sleep,' the wise woman told them when she joined them in the hall. She saw Katherine opening her mouth and continued, ‘I know, he's already asleep. But this will let the body begin to heal itself. There's nothing broken. More rest, proper rest, will help him. Make sure he has enough to drink, too.'

‘Will he wake?' John asked.

‘If God wills it,' Wilhelmina said after a while. ‘There's no reason why not that I can see.'

‘I'll sit with him,' Martha offered.

‘We can take it in turns,' Katherine said.

At the door the woman turned, as if she was going to say more, then shook her head. He'd barely turned the key behind her when someone began to knock. Brother Robert.

‘I heard you'd brought Walter back on a cart. The master said you came to see him this morning.'

‘He's alive, thanks be to God.' He told the story once more as he poured ale for the monk.

‘I'll pray for him, John.'

‘It will all help.'

‘But do you know why it happened? Or where?'

‘No.' They sat at the table. The room felt warm and stuffy, even with the shutters wide open to the air. Where had Walter been attacked? And why had he gone out there, where no one might find him, rather than come home? It all troubled him. It made no sense at all, unless someone was pursuing him. And that brought the question back to who.

‘I'd like to question Arthur of Warwick again. Is he still at the inn?'

‘Yes,' Robert answered. ‘Unless he's disobeyed the master.'

In truth he had very few questions for the man. He just wanted a look at him, to see if his fists were scraped or bloody. Whoever beat Walter would carry marks of his own.

‘John,' Katherine warned. ‘Please.'

‘I'll be careful,' he told her. ‘But I need to know.'

Her mouth became a thin line as she nodded her head. The monk put his arm around her and led her gently to the settle.

The innkeeper was fitting a fresh barrel of ale in place, ready to broach it, when he walked in.

‘Master,' he said warily as he read John's face. ‘How can I help you?'

‘Is Arthur of Warwick here?'

The man shook his head. ‘He went out early. Didn't even break his fast.'

‘Did you see him this morning?'

‘Aye. Why?'

‘Did he have any cuts on bruises on his face or hands?'

‘No,' the innkeeper answered in surprise. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Nothing.' He smiled to ease the man's thoughts. ‘I was just wondering, nothing more.'

He left and leaned against the churchyard wall, trying to put his mind in order. He still needed to see Arthur for himself, to be certain. But it seemed he could put the possibility from his head.

Yet who did that leave?

Christian, perhaps. He had the size and strength. And the anger. He'd need to go to Dronfield to see, and this time he wouldn't go alone.

He started to walk along Knifesmithgate, past the large houses of the merchants and the rich men, then through to the marketplace. He stared at every man he saw, looking at their faces and hands for any sign they'd been in a fight.

But there was nothing. Nor on Beetwell Street, or any other place he went, out along Kalehalegate, Bishop Mill Lane, Tapton Lane, and in the other direction beyond West Bar. After an hour he gave up. To hope to spot someone was putting himself in the hands of chance.

He drifted home again. Brother Robert had gone. Katherine was trying to entertain her young sisters, but the strain showed on her face. One hand cupped her growing belly. He shook his head when she glanced up and went through to the buttery to pour himself some ale.

Walter should sleep for hours yet if the wise woman was right. He trudged up the stairs to the solar. Martha was still there, looking awkward on a low joint stool.

‘Have you found anything?' she whispered.

‘Not yet,' he answered, staring down at the boy's face. He'd taken a battering. Pray God he'd wake with all his wits about him and his memory intact. He reached down, stroking Walter's bare arm above the covers. No more than a few hours since he'd dragged the lad home and the solar already had the cloying stench of the sickroom. But not of death. That wasn't waiting here.

‘Do you have any ideas who did it?' Martha asked.

‘Nothing more than guesses.' Tomorrow he'd go out to Dronfield and take two of the bailiffs. If Christian was guilty, he wouldn't come easily.

He woke with a start, trying to recall what had made him open his eyes. A lantern burned softly on the other side of the solar where Katherine sat, anxiously watching Walter. The girls were asleep, making the soft, snuffling sounds of children at rest, the kitten settled between their bodies.

He slipped from the bed and put his arms around her shoulders.

‘Any change?' he asked softly, lips next to her ear.

‘Nothing.'

‘Go and lie down,' he said. ‘I'll watch him for a while.'

She seemed reluctant to agree, waiting a long time before nodding. He helped her up from the stool, then dressed in his hose, boots and leather jerkin as she settled on the mattress. Soon enough her breathing became gentle and regular as rest carried her away.

Walter twitched and jerked a few times and John was suddenly alert, ready in case he broke the surface of sleep. But he calmed again, eyes never opening, lips curled into a smile.

Time passed, carrying all the usual noises of the night. Quiet coughs, a snore, the hoot of an owl somewhere off in the distance. Eventually he could make out the first streaks of dawn beyond the shutters.

John stood and stretched. His joints felt stiff and he paced around to ease them. Down in the buttery he ate bread and cheese, staring out as the garden slowly became visible in the growing light.

He stopped suddenly, a piece of the loaf halfway to his mouth. He'd seen something from the corner of his eye. A deepening in the shadows as something moved. It could have been an animal – a fox, a badger – but it seemed larger.

John found his belt in the hall and took out the knife. Taking a breath, he unlocked the back door and slipped out, making sure no light showed behind him. Crouched by the corner of the house, he waited, listening intently for the smallest sound, eyes gazing around to try and spot what might be there.

A minute passed, then two. He kept his breathing quiet, holding himself still and ready. Then he heard it, the sound of a boot breaking a twig with a quick, sharp crack. He tensed, hand gripping the hilt of the knife.

The kitchen stood in the garden, built away from the house in case of fire. He saw a shift in the gloom behind it. Heard the noise as someone struck a flint. Without a thought, he was running.

The man had enough of a start to clear the low fence at the bottom of the garden. By the time John was there the footsteps were already fading. He stopped, walking back to the kitchen. The flint and steel lay in the grass by a small bundle of straw.