The Anchoress of Chesterfield

by Chris Nickson

  He went to her, stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. Softly, he explained it all, his lips close to her ear. She wouldn’t turn her head to look at him, gazing straight ahead as she stroked Martha’s hair.

  ‘The money will solve everything,’ he told her.

  ‘I daresay it will.’ Her voice was withering, full of scorn. ‘If you’re alive to enjoy it. Have you forgotten what happened the last time you did all this? You came a hair away from death yourself, John. Do you remember that you promised me you’d never do it again?’

  ‘I do,’ he agreed. ‘But I know those four coins I brought home today are almost all we possess. What else can I do?’

  ‘Maybe work will pick up.’

  Gently, he turned his wife until she was facing him.

  ‘It’s September. There won’t be much more business this year. We both know how the roof leaks, that we need new slates. If I don’t do this, we’re going to have to sell one of the houses to be able to repair the other and stay alive.’

  She knew it well enough. They’d talked about it time after time once their children were asleep. And he knew how much she hated the idea. She didn’t want to believe it. Katherine had grown up in the house on Saltergate. All the warm memories of her childhood lay within its walls. And this place… it was still full of old Martha and the love she had for them.

  ‘It’s dangerous work, husband,’ she said. ‘That’s what scares me.’

  But her voice had softened; John knew she’d accept it. It was necessary. The reward… it would save them. It held out the promise of a good life.

  ‘I’ll be careful. I’ll go to the church and swear on the Bible that I will.’

  ‘You know I can’t stand you doing this,’ Katherine said, and he nodded.

  ‘I don’t like it, either.’ He took hold of her hand and squeezed it lightly. ‘I don’t want to, but what else is there? L’Honfleur has ordered me to look into it. I can’t tell him no, can I? I don’t have the power to refuse his commands.’ Katherine shook her head. Below her anger and pain, she understood the reality of life. ‘Just be grateful he’s willing to pay a fortune for it.’

  ‘Fifty pounds…’ She said nothing for a long time. ‘Do you really think he’ll part with the money?’

  John thought about the look on the man’s face. The sorrow, the anger, the longing.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I do. He seems as honest as anyone in his position. There are witnesses, too; the coroner and his clerk. And Strong is giving me fourpence a day while I work.’

  ‘How much do you trust them all?’

  Very little; that was the answer. Trust had no meaning at all. But he didn’t say a word.

  ‘If l’Honfleur pays, we’ll be safe for years.’

  ‘If he pays,’ Katherine said. She frowned as she spoke. ‘And what happens if you don’t find the person who killed his daughter? Have you thought about that?’

  Of course he had. It had begun to gnaw at the edges of his mind on the walk back from Calow. He hadn’t lied to the coroner and l’Honfleur; John knew he’d been lucky before. But luck could easily stop smiling. It was a fickle mistress; it shifted its favours. And if luck wasn’t with him… l’Honfleur had influence. He had money. If he was angry at the failure, he could do anything he chose and no one would ever question it. No talk of justice and law. A poor man’s death would be nothing. No one with a voice would even care.

  • • •

  Strong lived just beyond West Bar, outside the town itself, in a house he’d had built shortly before John arrived in Chesterfield. The timber frames were solid, standing square and true, the limewash freshly applied this summer. The windows sat sturdy in their frames, and the roof looked tight. Everything snug and neat. The work had been done by proper craftsmen, John thought. The place wasn’t especially large, there was nothing about it that shouted out the status of the owner. But everything looked exact, with no ragged corners or edges. It was considered and careful, like the man himself.

  Strong’s father had been a merchant, selling wool from the hill farmers to the weavers up in York. The business continued after his death, run by a factor. Strong’s only involvement was to take the profit and enjoy his hunting and hawking. And for the last six years, his position of King’s Coroner in Chesterfield.

  The servant who answered the door wore clean, dark hose and a green jacket decorated with the coroner’s badge. He showed John through the screens and into the hall. Glazed windows faced west, trapping the afternoon sun and warming the room.

  A high wall kept the garden private. There was a carefully-tended herb bed and a small orchard of trees – apple, plum, pear, all splayed out against the stone.

  ‘Well, Carpenter, I’m glad you had the sense to take the offer.’

  He hadn’t heard the coroner come down the wooden stairs from the solar. For a large man, Strong was light and easy on his feet. He was at home, so he wore no weapon to knock against his thigh as he walked. There was no sign of the clerk.

  ‘Was there ever any danger of anything else, Master?’

  ‘No.’ Sir Mark laughed, nodded, then poured himself a cup of wine from the jug on the table. He’d changed into a short, embroidered tunic with small pearl buttons, cinched tight at the waist with a leather belt. ‘Still, as far as I’m concerned, you’ve already proved your worth. I suspected she’d been poisoned, but for the life of me I couldn’t see what had done it. You spotted it straight away.’

  ‘Thank you, Master.’ No need to mention that the memory of seeing someone die that way would have him riding the night mare tonight when he settled in his bed. ‘I didn’t ask when we were out there: who was the first finder?’

  ‘A traveller,’ Strong replied and glanced away. ‘A man.’

  ‘Who?’ He felt the coroner wasn’t telling him the full truth.

  ‘A friar on his way to Baslow. I talked to him myself.’ He waved his hand in the air, as if brushing away a fly. ‘Just another of God’s innocents on the road. He answered my questions, he gave the girl her last rites, then I sent him on his way. He was horrified, kept reciting decades of the rosary. Whatever you want to think, I’m convinced he had nothing to do with this. He found the body, that was all.’

  ‘Where did he raise the alarm?’

  ‘In Calow. They sent him here to me.’

  ‘I’d still like to talk to him, Master,’ John said.

  Strong shook his head. ‘Don’t waste your time. He’s gone. There’s no stain of guilt on him.’ The man chuckled to ease the mood. ‘I talked to one or two people after I came back to town. They told me you weren’t always respectful to my predecessor.’ There was a twinkle in his eyes and a light smile on his lips.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ John admitted after a moment.

  ‘I knew de Harville. He could be a difficult man at times. But he had a good heart and he was full of honour in the end.’

  ‘That he was, yes.’ Strong was definitely trying to deflect the talk from the topic of the first finder. He’d leave that lie for now; he could always return to it later. ‘What can you tell me about Gertrude, Master?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The man shrugged. ‘I never met her, never went out to the anchorite cell to talk to her. The first time I saw her was today.’ He exhaled slowly. ‘You heard her father, Carpenter. That’s as much as I know. He owns the manor at Calow, for whatever it’s worth. Next to nothing, from the look of it. It seems like a poor place. I do know he originally built the cell there because his wife asked him to do it. There was a nun at the convent she supported who wanted a solitary life. When his daughter desired the same, how could he refuse her?’

  ‘How long ago did Gertrude join the convent?’

  ‘I have no idea. You’d need to ask him,’ Strong said. He narrowed his eyes and calculated. ‘His wife died a good while ago now, at least ten years. It may even be a fair bit longer.’

  ‘He never remarried?’

  ‘No. He didn’t seem interested, although the fa
mily name will die out with him. He has two daughters. The other one is married. You heard him talk about the betrothal for Gertrude and how that changed when her mother died.’

  He recalled every word l’Honfleur had spoken, all the fragments of his daughter’s short life.

  ‘I told you I’d need some help, Master.’

  ‘I know, and I’ll stand by my agreement. We’re both here to serve my lord. I’m sure he will give you every assistance, too.’ He gave a sly smile. ‘You’ll be a rich man if you solve this, Carpenter.’

  ‘Something close,’ John agreed. ‘I’ll definitely be someone who can pay his bills for once.’

  • • •

  The body had gone from the cell, more stones pulled from the outside wall to remove it. The whole thing would be torn down now, John imagined, and everything used elsewhere. L’Honfleur wouldn’t want it to stand; it would bring too much pain to mind whenever he saw it. A month more and only the tiny church would remain; there would probably be no trace that the cell ever existed. The idea that an anchoress had ever lived there would become memory and legend.

  For now, though, the raw stench of death was strong, with flies and insects crawling over the floor. He bent, peering closely at what was left in the vain hope that it might tell him something more. But if the scraps held any secrets, they were staying well-hidden. Finally, John stood and surveyed the countryside around the building. A single, large field rose along the hill towards the low horizon. It was divided into strips of an acre each to feed the families who lived in Calow. The cluster of four cottages that made up the hamlet stood close to the track from Chesterfield. There was nothing else nearby. Close to the top of the hill was the beginning of a forest that stretched off into the far distance. He followed the thin beaten path between the tall grass that led to the houses.

  No voices, he’d noticed, and no sign of anyone working in the fields. But not silence. That didn’t exist anywhere, he was certain of it. Even out here, the world was alive around him. The rustle of the wind through the leaves, birdsong on the air, the hum and buzz of insects as they flew around. From somewhere in the distance, the breeze carried the bleating of sheep and the lowing of the cattle. All of creation in one place. The noise of the country often surprised him. So loud that it was impossible for a man to think.

  More than twenty years had passed since the pestilence swept through England. It arrived from nowhere. Some folk claimed it was the judgement of God for the sins of the people. John didn’t know. Maybe that was truly what it had been. But it had killed half the people in the country. He’d watched his own father die, his neighbours and relatives, until it seemed there was nothing left. If he’d stayed in his village of Leeds, he’d have starved. Hungry, looking for food, looking for life, he took to the roads to try and survive. That summer, and the one that followed, there hadn’t been enough people to gather the harvest or milk all the cattle. The crops rotted in the field for want of labour. Wherever he went the countryside looked like a wasteland where nature was reclaiming everything it had once possessed before man arrived. That didn’t seem like anything God would do to His people.

  Now it was hard to believe that time had ever existed. The land was in excellent shape once more. All the fields were neatly laid out, the beasts cared for. But the order of life had changed. There were still masters and men; that would always be the way. But these days the ordinary men had more rights. Some little good had come from all those deaths, at least.

  As he approached the small ville he could feel the sorrow hanging breathless and still over it. The place was subdued, as if the loss of Gertrude had been a personal blow. Perhaps that was how the villagers saw it. Having an anchorite, a holy woman, brought prestige to a place. It gave them a name, and it would have meant visitors, people bringing money as they sought advice and guidance from her. Because of Gertrude and her predecessor, people had heard of Calow. Without them, who could have ever noticed that it existed?

  High clouds passed over the afternoon sun as he reached the houses, offering some shade on a bright autumn day. John knocked on one door and waited, hearing the shuffle of feet on the floor inside.

  She was an old woman, with thin wisps of white hair gathered inside a grubby coif. Her face was red, the skin puffy, as if she’d been crying.

  ‘Mistress,’ he introduced himself with a small bow. ‘My name is John. My Lord l’Honfleur has asked me to look into the death of his daughter.’

  Curious, he thought, how easily the words rolled off his tongue.

  ‘I’m Wilhelmina, Master. You’d better come in,’ she said after a moment. ‘It’s a good job you’re young. You’ll have to stand. I only own one stool.’

  She lowered herself on to the joint stool with a sigh. It was a widow’s cottage. A single, small room, with a pallet bed against the wall and a fire burning low in the middle of the beaten earth floor. No rushes covered the dirt. Smoke gathered in the eaves, escaping through a single small hole in the tiles, up by the ridge. The air was thick enough to make his eyes sting; he tried to wipe away the tears that began to run down his cheeks. A pot of soup simmered on a tripod over the heat.

  ‘Did you know her?’ he asked.

  ‘I did,’ the goodwife sighed. ‘We all did. You can see for yourself how few there are of us here. We’re all going to miss her. She’s a sad loss, may God rest her soul. So young and so devout. She prayed for the souls of every one of us of us here. Didn’t matter that we had no money to ask her for a blessing. Who’ll do that now, tell me that?’

  No one, he thought. The death had brought a curse to the hamlet. There would never be another anchoress in Calow. But he kept his own counsel. Better to leave her question without an answer than tell her a truth that would destroy her hopes.

  ‘Who took food to her?’ John asked.

  ‘Every one of us here. Not every day, because she liked to fast, she said it was good for her spirit.’ The woman grimaced as she shifted her weight uncomfortably on the stool. ‘She never went without. We emptied her bucket and took her food. You know an anchoress usually has a servant?’

  John shook his head; he knew nothing about them.

  ‘That’s why they’re rich women, Master. It takes money to live so simply, though who’d believe that? You need someone to look after you. But her father owns this manor. He paid us to take care of her. Pennies,’ she said with a small smile, ‘but it helps. And after we met her, it wasn’t a task, it was an honour. She was a proper holy woman. Everyone knew. They’d come from all over to see her.’ She smiled, filled with pride. ‘A man travelled the roads from Oxford once. Gertrude was famous.’ She considered her words for a moment. ‘And she was very wise, so clever for someone so young. They’d come and bring her food and coins and ask her things.’

  ‘What type of things?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I never heard and she wasn’t likely to tell me, was she?’

  ‘What about the coins?’ He’d seen no trace of any in the cell.

  ‘They were gifts for the convent. Someone would come with a bag and collect them.’

  ‘When was the last time anyone from here went to see her?’ John asked.

  ‘It was three days ago,’ the woman replied with a guilty look. ‘I was supposed to go yesterday, but my ankle had swelled up and I couldn’t walk proper, so I thought I’d leave it until today. It didn’t seem to matter. Young Margery from down the lane said she heard that two men had stopped at the cell the day before, so we thought she’d be all right.’

  Two days ago. It fitted. Very likely it was when she’d been given the food with the death cap mushroom.

  ‘Two men?’

  ‘That’s what she told me. Round here we talked about Gertrude a lot.’ She looked up at him. ‘It’s rare that anything happens in Calow. And she was one of us, you see. She was family. I know she was rich and she’d given herself to God. But she lived out here, same as the rest of us. We tried to look after her.’

  Silence o
vertook her, and John knew what she was thinking. They’d tried to protect the anchoress from harm, but they hadn’t succeeded. How could they?

  ‘This woman, Margery,’ he said. ‘Would she be at home now?’

  ‘Very likely,’ Wilhelmina replied. ‘And if she isn’t, she doesn’t go far. She can’t, not with three little ones. They keep her busy. Her husband works in the fields. Why are you so interested, anyway? Is there something odd about the way she died? I know she was very young…’

  ‘You haven’t heard?’ John asked in astonishment.

  ‘Heard what?’ The woman stared, confused.

  ‘She was poisoned.’

  A hesitation as she drew in a breath, then crossed herself twice.

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesu, that poor, lovely girl. God rest her soul.’ Tears trickled from her eyes. She didn’t bother trying to rub them away, just let them fall. ‘Who would want to poison a girl like her?’

  ‘That’s what her father wants me to discover.’

  ‘Then may the Lord help you, Master. Sweet Jesu, sweet Jesu,’ she muttered over and over.

  ‘Margery,’ he interrupted. ‘You said she saw the men who came.’

  ‘No.’ The woman shook her head. ‘She heard about it. I don’t think she saw them herself. It might have been her husband who told her. He’d have been out working in the fields. He would have seen anyone who was coming or going. You can’t help it out here. See for miles, you can.’

  With so few people on the road around, any stranger would draw attention.

  ‘I didn’t see anyone in the fields as I came here,’ he said.

  ‘The men will be doing something for the bailiff,’ she said. ‘Probably coppicing up in the woods. It’s the season for it. Or they might be up on the common land with the pigs.’

  He was in no rush to leave, happy to let the woman talk about the people of Calow, to listen and to learn. There was young Agnes, her husband Hugo and their four children, Margery and her man and their brood, and Ralph, barely thirty but already widowed twice with two little ones he was paying Agnes to rear. By the time she finished, John felt as if he knew them all, that he was a part of the village.