The Saltergate Psalter by Chris Nickson Page B

one.
    Katherine was working out in the garden, hoeing the weeds out from a line of crops. The first shoots of this and that, the soft fern tops of carrots, more he couldn’t identify. He held her close for a moment and told her he needed some rest.
    She eyed him doubtfully. ‘Has something happened?’ she asked him.
    ‘I’ve bought new boots,’ he answered with a grin, pointing to the ones on his feet. ‘These have had their day. Spending money leaves a man weary. We’re not like women.’
    She swatted at him and he ducked back. With luck she’d never hear about the incident with Julian. Walter had been the only witness, he believed. And that was best for everyone.
    The bed brought sweet comfort to his body. He’d rather have been working. Real work, with wood. But things were as they would be. Another day or two and he’d be ready. Before then he could indulge himself in dreams.
    He woke in the middle of the afternoon, refreshed, his mind sharp and alert. He’d promised the man Gabriel that he’d come and mend his door. It was satisfying to put on the leather satchel of tools and feel the weight slapping against his thigh as he walked along Knifesmithgate and crossed the empty market square.
    It was simple work. A moment to see the problem, no more than a quarter of an hour to repair it and see that the door opened and closed smoothly. As he was wiping the tools clean, Gabriel brought two mugs of ale.
    ‘You could have done it yourself,’ John told him.
    The man shook his head ruefully. ‘The last time I tried I only made it worse.’
    ‘People have different skills.’
    ‘I bought and sold.’
    ‘A merchant?’ he asked as he put the tools back in the bag.
    ‘It’s as good a word as any,’ Gabriel said with a shrug. ‘Bits of this and that.’
    ‘A pedlar?’ he guessed.
    ‘No. I couldn’t afford this place on a pedlar’s income. I let Luke stay because he always has good stories and the gossip from all over.’ He smiled. ‘He brings the world to me. What do I owe you?’
    ‘We’ll say a penny. Is that fair?’
    ‘Perfectly.’ He took a coin from the purse on his belt.
    ‘Were you born here?’ John asked idly.
    ‘Born here and this is where I’ll die.’ He stroked his white beard, a glint in his eyes. ‘But I’ve seen plenty in between. As far north as York and all the way down to London.’
    ‘Business?’
    The man nodded. ‘I had the chance to go to France but I didn’t take it.’ He sounded wistful. ‘You’re a young man. Always take your opportunities when they come. If you don’t you’ll only regret it later.’
    ‘I’m a man with a wife and a child on the way.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve seen enough of the world for my tastes. I worked in York for two years.’
    They fell into idle, easy conversation, whiling away the time. The warmth was lulling, the ale strong, and the company pleasant. They exchanged reminiscences and tall tales until John finally stood and picked up the leather bag.
    ‘I knew your wife’s mother,’ Gabriel said. ‘Long ago. She was just a lass then. It’s funny. You see them grow and have children of their own. My sons are scattered now. The two who survived the plague, that is.’
    ‘You must have known Timothy.’
    ‘Never that well,’ Gabriel said slowly. ‘Not at all after his accident. It was a shock to hear he’d been killed, though. And his servant.’
    ‘What was he like?’
    ‘Quiet, I suppose,’ Gabriel answered after some thought. ‘When he wasn’t working he was always off hunting and hawking.’ He shrugged. ‘That was a long time ago.’
    ‘Did you ever hear any talk of him having a book?’
    ‘A book? No–’ He stopped himself. ‘Maybe there was something. I don’t know, it was so far back. Why?’
    ‘He owned a psalter. He’d promised it to the church when he died.’
    ‘And it was gone?’
    ‘Yes,’ John replied.
    ‘It seems to me I remember something about a book, but I don’t know what.’
    ‘It doesn’t