The Saltergate Psalter by Chris Nickson Read Free Book Online

sorry.’
    ‘Don’t be. It’s the way of the world and it always has been. So you want to know about Timothy?’
    ‘Yes, I do.’
    Durrant leaned towards the boy who was standing patiently. ‘Go on home. The carpenter will look after me and make sure I get there. Won’t you?’
    ‘Of course,’ John agreed, surprised by the trust.
    ‘And now you can take me to the alehouse and buy me a mug or two.’
    • • •
    The man settled with his hands around the cup. His head moved, as if he was curious about everything around him. His fingernails were short, hands clean. His linen was neat. It seemed that his servants cared for him. A leather jerkin was tied neatly over the top.
    ‘You want to know about Timothy,’ Durrant said. His hands shook a little as he picked up the cup, but not enough to spill the liquid.
    ‘You knew him for a long time, I believe,’ John said.
    ‘I’m probably the last one here who remembers him as a boy.’ The words seemed to come out reluctantly, as if he had to fight them to speak. But he smiled as he spoke. ‘We used to hunt and hawk together.’ He sighed. ‘A long time ago.’
    ‘You weren’t always blind?’
    ‘No.’ Durrant gave a quick shake of his head. ‘Not until I was thirty. One morning I was as fine as I’d ever been. Half a year later I couldn’t see a thing.’ He cocked his head to the side. ‘You sound like a young man.’
    ‘I am,’ John told him.
    ‘Are you married?’
    John smiled. ‘Yes, Master. Not long ago.’
    ‘Treasure her,’ Durrant said seriously. ‘I miss my wife’s face more than anything, even though she’s long dead.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ was the only answer he could give. After a pause, he asked, ‘What was Timothy like?’
    ‘Like a brother sometimes. Distant at other times.’ The words arrived slowly, with difficulty. But it was a battle he endured many times a day. ‘I never saw him lose his temper.’
    ‘When did Nicholas become his servant?’
    ‘Let me see.’ His words vanished into thought. All around them, men who’d come for the market stood, talking as they drank. One, with a heavy beard, wearing torn hose and a patched shirt, told a joke, finishing in a bellow of laughter. Durrant didn’t even seem to notice them. ‘We must have been twenty-five. It was after his parents died, I know that. Nick was still a boy then.’ He sighed.
    ‘Did you visit Timothy?’
    ‘A few times a year.’ He ran a hand over his chin. ‘Not that we ever had much to say. When you’re old and can’t do much, memories of when you were strong become embarrassing.’
    ‘Did Timothy have any enemies?’
    Durrant shook his head. ‘If he ever did, he outlived them.’ He gave a wan smile. ‘But no, none I know of. Tell me, what was taken?’
    ‘Money.’ John paused. ‘Did he ever mention a psalter to you?’
    Durrant smiled.
    ‘Yes. When my sight was going, he showed it to me. It was the last thing I ever saw, apart from my wife’s face. Such a beautiful book.’ His thoughts drifted away for a moment. ‘Is that gone too?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘He told me he had plans for it when he died. Maybe he’d already done something with it?’
    ‘He hadn’t,’ John said. Certainly not if he’d shown it to Father Geoffrey.
    ‘So sad.’ His words hung in the air. He lifted the mug and emptied it in a long draught. ‘Take me home, please. I’ve had enough of the world for today.’
    It felt strange to walk with a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. They talked haltingly, the weather, the way the crops were growing, until they stopped in front of Durrant’s house.
    ‘I’ve one favour to ask of you,’ the man said.
    ‘If I can, Master.’
    ‘Please, come and tell me about your progress.’
    ‘Gladly.’ John smiled.
    He watched as Durrant’s hands moved on the door, opening it and stepping inside carefully, waiting until it closed before he walked away.
    Trying to find out about Timothy was like grabbing smoke. The only one who’d