The Saltergate Psalter by Chris Nickson

Newbold. All of it empty time. He might as well do something to fill it. There was something here that just wasn’t right, even if he didn’t know what it was yet.

CHAPTER NINE
    ‘Do you think he killed them?’ Walter asked.
    John stifled a yawn. Already it felt like a long day and it had barely begun.
    ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
    ‘But why would he do that?’
    That was the question.
    ‘Everyone seems happy with the idea that Edward and Gilbert fought and killed each other.’ He watched as Walter nodded. ‘Maybe they did. But it seems too simple to me, too easy. And both of them had their purses stolen.’ He tried to put his thoughts into words but how could he describe what was nothing more than an instinct?
    ‘It feels wrong. I can’t even say why.’ He let his thoughts turn and they came back to a single person. ‘Who would know about Julian?’
    The boy stayed quiet for a long time.
    ‘I can think of someone,’ he replied eventually. ‘Christian of Dronfield.’
    Dronfield. Where poor dead Nicholas had been born. Not even a handful of miles from Chesterfield.
    ‘How do they know each other?’
    Walter shook his head. ‘I don’t know. But they seem to talk a lot at every Saturday market.’
    A friend, then, and one who might not want to say much.
    ‘Anyone else?’
    ‘Not that I know, John.’
    ‘Then we’d better start walking. We can be in Dronfield before dinner.’
    • • •
    The road was dry, few carts around. Somewhere along the valley he heard a cow lowing. It was fertile land here, out towards Unstone, the grass and the growing shoots of wheat lush on the hillside. A few late blossoms remained on the apple trees, the sun catching the brilliance of a magpie’s feathers as it flickered through the branches. A pair of crows were fighting over something, their caws briefly filling the air.
    Everything was so peaceful, so placid, that it was hard to believe that just a few years before God had turned his back on the world. The sun was warm on his face, not too hot, as perfect a spring day as anyone could wish. Just right for a walk.
    The village was clustered around a thin, gurgling stream that meandered through the bottom of the valley. The church stood halfway up the hillside, close to a long stone barn and an inn. At the peak, the manor house, staring down over everything. He’d passed through here once before, when he was first making his way to Chesterfield. The priest had shared his food and offered a bench in his house for sleeping.
    It seemed like a contented place, one that might have looked exactly the same a hundred years before. A few of the cottages were abandoned, neglected and crumbling, but most were carefully tended, large gardens growing behind them.
    John led the way to the alehouse, a cramped old building, its business shown by a green branch hanging over the door. Inside, the place was clean and airy, shutters thrown back to the sun, fresh rushes and lavender strewn on the floor. A woman was bent over, tapping a barrel, filling a mug and holding it up before tasting it and giving a little smile of satisfaction at her work.
    ‘A good brew, Mistress?’
    She turned quickly, slopping a little of the drink over the rim. A tall woman, heavily built, past her middle years but still looking strong and smiling with pride.
    ‘Indeed it is, Masters. Perhaps you should try it.’
    ‘We will,’ John told her. ‘And two bowls of pottage.’
    He paid and they sat at a bench, staring out through an unglazed window. In the distance men worked on their strips of land, tending the growing crops. A horse and cart moved lazily along the main street. It was like so many other villages he’d seen on his travels, where people lived and died surrounded by their joys and their sorrows.
    ‘Do you know where we can find Christian?’ he asked the woman as she brought the food. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.
    ‘The manor house, like as not. If he’s not there he’ll be going