The Anchoress of Chesterfield

by Chris Nickson

  Mostly, he wanted to hear her speak about Gertrude. There was genuine affection in her voice. Wilhelmina cherished the girl almost like the daughter she’d lost decades before and knew Gertrude in a way her father never could. She understood full well that the girl was different from everyone in the hamlet. A religious, from a wealthy family. But somehow there was a bond that was far greater than the divisions. Death happened. God took people when and how He chose, and often there was no reason for it that anyone here could see, beyond His will. You could mourn, but to be human meant you were going to die.

  John had seen how bereft Wilhelmina had been when he told her about the poisoning. The tenderness she felt for the anchoress was very real; it touched him.

  But she could tell him little that was useful about the woman who’d spent the last year living in the anchorite cell. Certainly nothing to help him discover her killers. He came blinking into the light, breathing deep to take in the fresh air after sitting in the tiny, smoky cottage.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the distance, silhouetted against the ridge line, he could pick out the shapes of three men ambling down the hill towards Calow. The men of the ville, John thought. The ones he needed to see.

  He waited, watching them, noticing the way their easy conversation stopped when they spotted him. As they approached, they spread apart, moving the saws and small axes off their shoulders. John held up his hands.

  ‘Peace, Masters, peace, may God go with you.’

  ‘And with you,’ the oldest of them replied. He stopped ten yards away, a thickset man used to heavy, physical work. The others halted, too. John could feel them staring with suspicion.

  ‘My name is John. I’m working for the coroner in Chesterfield.’ Words to make the men uneasy.

  ‘Who’s died?’ the leader asked after a moment. His eyes moved to the other men and back.

  ‘Gertrude, Master. The anchoress.’

  He waited as they crossed themselves.

  ‘This death…’ the man began.

  ‘Was not natural.’ There was no other way to say it. He could see the surprise and horror on their faces. ‘She was found this morning. My Lord l’Honfleur has already been out here. I talked to Dame Wilhelmina; she said that Mistress Margery’s husband might have seen two men by the cell recently.’ John looked into the men’s faces.

  ‘That’s me.’ The man to the right took a pace forward. ‘I’m Cedric. It was what, the day before yesterday? I’m sure it was. I was out in the fields when I saw them.’ He nodded at the man in charge. ‘Me and Ralph.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Very little.’ It was Ralph who answered. ‘We were a fair way off.’ He pointed off into the distance. ‘Over there. We were probably, what, half a mile away, trying to dig out a boggy area. It’s best when it’s been dry for a while.’

  ‘But you definitely saw two men?’

  ‘We saw two riders,’ Cedric replied. He hesitated. ‘We could see the dust from their horses. It’s been dry.’ John nodded. ‘But we were working, didn’t pay too much attention. They were riding towards the church. We were in the middle of something, so we didn’t see them stop there.’ He looked towards Ralph, who shook his head. ‘We didn’t pay them too much mind, Master. No reason, see?’

  ‘Can you tell me anything about these men? Was there anything you could see?’

  He needed something. A place to begin.

  ‘One of the men rode a piebald horse,’ Ralph said. ‘I pointed it out, do you remember? With a big patch of black on its back leg.’

  ‘Yes.’ The other man nodded. ‘You did.’

  Something, but hardly enough.

  ‘What about the men?’ John asked. ‘Could you make out how they were dressed?’

  Ralph shook his head, but Cedric said: ‘I’m not sure, but I think they had red tunics. They were both wearing cloaks, but I thought I saw some red underneath. It was difficult to tell.’

  ‘Bright red? Scarlet?’

  ‘No, it was darker. Like my lord’s livery…’ He searched for the words. ‘The colour of blood.’

  L’Honfleur’s own men? That didn’t seem possible. All the questions, the objections tumbled through his mind.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Cedric kept his gaze steady. ‘I can only tell you what I thought I saw. We were far off, like Ralph said, and I only looked for a moment. No, I can’t be certain, I’m sorry, Master. I wouldn’t dare to take an oath on it.’

  ‘That’s fine. Anything you can tell me helps.’

  He waited, hoping for more. Any scrap, however tiny. But they had nothing to add. That was everything.

  The walk back to Chesterfield felt as if it took hours, the climb up Soutergate like trailing up a mountain. The promise of fifty pounds kept him moving. Enough to answer every worry he had, to let him enjoy life once more. But to earn it he had to find Gertrude’s murderer.

  Maybe it was that simple; maybe it was one of l’Honfleur’s men. But the answer didn’t sit easily in his gut. It didn’t feel right. There was evil at work in this killing. Someone had been willing to let Gertrude suffer for hours on end. Anyone who could use a death cap mushroom to murder had lost their soul.

  He wanted to go home. He was weary. His mouth was dry and his belly was empty. But he kept going through the town, beyond the empty marketplace with its stalls set up for the next morning, and out beyond West Bar to Strong’s house.

  The coroner listened as John recounted what he’d learned in Calow.

  ‘My lord’s own men?’ he asked and frowned.

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking, Master. We need to talk to him.’

  Strong paced around the room. Outside the window, dusk was close, the shadows rising.

  ‘Let me speak to him first,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Master.’ He was happy to give up that task. Let Strong break the news and have l’Honfleur’s fury crash all around him.

  ‘I’ll see him in the morning. He has enough to attend to at the moment, preparing his daughter for burial.’

  ‘What about me, Master? What should I do?’

  ‘Nothing until I’ve talked to him. Just wait, Carpenter. Patience.’

  • • •

  Patience was a fine virtue for a man with money. But a poor man needed to earn, John thought as he walked along Beetwell Street with Alan. The carpentry job was simple enough, it wouldn’t take more than a day. But it meant money in his scrip and food for his family while he wasn’t investigating Gertrude’s death.

  Katherine gave him an appraising stare as he picked up the leather satchel of tools. She had the besom in her hand, sweeping the floor clean before putting down fresh rushes in the hall.

  ‘They want me to wait,’ he said. Martha ran towards him, arms stretched wide, hugging him round the legs. He’d spent time up in the solar with Richard. The boy was restless, moving on his mattress of straw. It pained him to see the lad this way, but there was little he could do. At this rate, they’d be grateful if he saw out the remainder of the year. It was just a matter of time. ‘I might as well earn something for us until they want me again. Thomas needs a new bench built at the smithy.’

  Straightforward work, but there was satisfaction in making every job the best that it could be. Wooden pegs, tapped in and soaked so they’d swell to make a tight, solid fit. Good iron nails to keep everything in place.

  He was absorbed in the task, continuing as Alan went to eat his dinner. Small adjustments so that the last leg was completely square. He’d just finished when Coroner Strong stormed into the forge with two of his men trailing behind.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing, Carpenter?’ His roar was loud enough to make Thomas and his apprentice stop and stare. ‘I told you to wait. When I sent a messenger to your house, your wife said you were working.’

  John stood, wiping his hands against his tunic.

  ‘I am, Master. You can see that for yourself.’ He gestured at the bench, complete and ready in the corner.
‘A poor man works to earn the money to keep body and soul together.’

  ‘I’m paying—’

  ‘Not if I’m not doing any work for you, Master.’ Let them find someone else. Let the fifty pounds slip away. He wasn’t going to be humiliated like this. A craftsman deserved some dignity. He needed the money my lord offered, needed it desperately, but he wouldn’t grovel to earn it.

  Strong closed his mouth. His cheeks were still flushed red with anger. A tunic the colour of faded roses today, black hose and shoes. Every inch a rich man, someone with power.

  ‘You know my lord’s townhouse?’ he said after a long silence.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Go and see him there. He’ll tell you what he wants you to do. I’ll warn you, though, I told him you were attending to your own work.’

  Strong stalked away, his men hurriedly following.

  A few instructions to Alan. He could easily finish the job on his own and do it just as well as the man who’d taught him. They exchanged grins as John oiled his tools and put them back in the satchel.

  He’d often passed l’Honfleur’s Chesterfield house, a sprawling building on Glumangate, set between the High Street and Saltergate. The house itself wasn’t large or overly grand; big enough for the master and his servants. But the kitchen stood apart at the back, built that way for safety in case of fire, and a large stable had been added at the very rear of the yard. The garden stretched out, ending in an orchard of apple trees placed to catch the sun.

  He had to surrender his knife and tools to the servant. That was etiquette, he expected it, the same way he knew he’d have to wait for l’Honfleur to arrive.

  The hall had glazed windows looking out on the garden, with bright, colourful hangings over the plaster. In the centre of the room, on raised flagstones, the fire burned low, just enough to take any edge from the air. The rushes on the floor were strewn with lavender and rose petals, the scents rising as he walked around.

  He heard the ring of boot heels and turned to see l’Honfleur coming from the buttery, eyes dark and mouth set.

  ‘The coroner ordered you to wait. Perhaps you’re a man who doesn’t know how to do what his betters tell him.’

  ‘No, Master, but—’

  ‘You have the chance to make a fortune, Carpenter. Men of your station would be happy to beg for the chance to make fifty pounds. Maybe you don’t want it.’

  John bowed his head. ‘I do, my lord.’

  Fury came off the man in waves. He wasn’t going to be a man ready to hear reason and what life was like for those with no money.

  ‘Why?’ He smashed his fist down on the table, hard enough to make a pewter jug tremble, close to toppling. ‘Why did you disobey?’

  ‘A man needs to fill his time, my lord. I’m a carpenter, I have work. Instead of sitting at home, I could use the hours well.’

  All the words were true, but it was truth bent so far it almost broke. Alan could have done the job at the smithy alone. L’Honfleur stayed silent for a long time. Too long, John thought, ready for a fresh blast of anger.

  ‘In future, when you’re told to wait, you wait.’ He was in control of his voice again, calm, quiet. ‘Sir Mark told me what you’d learned at Calow.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘You were told to wait so I could send a messenger out to my manor near Hathersage. My men all swear they hadn’t seen my daughter. They hadn’t travelled to Calow.’

  ‘Do you believe them?’

  ‘If I didn’t, I’d have dismissed them long ago. And there are no piebald horses in my stables.’

  ‘But the livery…’ John began, then stopped. The men had admitted they couldn’t be sure. The other possibility was that some of l’Honfleur’s men might be lying. But where would they have found the horse?

  ‘Someone in disguise?’ l’Honfleur suggested. ‘It’s possible. We don’t know.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ It brought up the question he needed to ask. But it was one the man wouldn’t want to hear. If he had an answer to give, it would open wounds better left to scar over. ‘Was there anyone who might want to kill your daughter, Master? Or harm you through her?’

  ‘Gertrude?’ he asked in disbelief. ‘Of course not. She was young. She’d done nothing but good in the world. She prayed for people. For their illnesses, for their souls.’ He turned his head to look at John, his eyes filled with sorrow and pain. ‘Why would anyone want to hurt someone like that?’

  The voice trailed to nothing. But there were more words to come. He simply had to find the place to begin.

  L’Honfleur pointed out at the garden on the other side of the glass.

  ‘You see that, Carpenter? The arrangement of everything? My wife began to plan it all after we moved in here. It was her joy. She wanted the herbs, the plants for medicines, the orchard there. Our daughters were three and five, and we thanked God for them.’

  ‘Who is the other one?’ John asked.

  ‘Gwendolyn is the older one,’ the man answered. ‘She’s married now. They live on a manor in Yorkshire, just outside Doncaster. Her husband inherited it when his father died. I’ve sent word to her of her sister’s death.’

  ‘Were they close?’

  ‘No,’ he answered with a sigh. ‘I told you before, Gertrude was her mother’s favourite. Mine too, may God forgive me for it. Do you have children, Carpenter?’

  ‘Three of them, Master.’

  ‘Then perhaps you understand. Whether we will it or not, there’s always one who comes closer to your heart. When Gertrude was seven, my wife took ill. I brought in physicians to examine her. I tried everything they suggested. But none of it helped. She was wasting away. My wife had always been a devout woman. On our wedding day, she gave an endowment to a convent and she continued to support it. She was ill for a year, growing weaker and weaker by the day. I knew there was nothing I could do to help her, but I couldn’t give up.’ He stared at John with the empty gaze of a man who was lost in all he felt. ‘You see that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ His kept his voice hushed, hardly more than a whisper.

  ‘When my wife died, we didn’t know what to do. Gertrude took on my wife’s mantle of religion. She wore it so well that it might have been made for her. The day she turned eleven, she told me she wanted to enter the convent. She had the calling, that was obvious to anyone. How could I refuse her?’

  He didn’t need an answer. He didn’t need anything except the chance to remember.

  ‘It was God’s will. It had to be, and to refuse it would have been unnatural. It would have stained my wife’s memory. Gertrude wanted to withdraw from the world. And as time passed, more and more she craved solitude and contemplation. To be alone with her thoughts and with God. When the old anchoress died after twenty years in the cell, Gertrude asked the Mother Superior if she might take her place.

  ‘The abbess wrote to me,’ l’Honfleur said. ‘She said my daughter’s calling was real and wanted to be sure I could support her as an anchoress. What could I do but agree? I’d have gladly paid for a servant, but there’s nowhere in Calow she could stay. You’ve seen the place. I arranged with the women out there to make sure she was fed and her waste removed.’ Another long hesitation. ‘Since she died I keep wondering… if I’d said no, she’d still be alive. But would someone else be dead instead?’

  ‘I don’t know, Master.’ It was the right answer to give now. But it wasn’t the honest one and they both knew it.

  L’Honfleur started to pace around the hall. His boots crushed the lavender in the rushes and the scent filled the air, as if spring had somehow crept into the room.

  ‘You asked if anyone had a reason to hurt me through Gertrude.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When she was very young, back in the days before my wife’s illness started, we started talking to another family about a possible match between Gertrude and their son. They have a manor out past Cartledge. It abuts mine closer to Hathersage. Gertrude was probably seven or
eight, and their boy was around the same age. We never discussed marriage that seriously. It was something that could wait until the children were a few years older. Then my wife became ill, and after that, my daughter found her vocation.’ He held out his hands, helpless, and looked at them. ‘This family… last autumn their son died. He was still unwed. Their other children all died before they could grow. There is no heir. I hear they have problems with money. I know the father feels I should have forced Gertrude to marry their boy.’ A fleeting, cynical smile. ‘I daresay he’d have found the dowry useful with his creditors. Is that enough reason to kill, do you think, Carpenter?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, my lord.’

  ‘No. Of course, how could you?’

  ‘What is their name?’

  ‘Unthank,’ the man answered. He placed a hand on John’s arm. ‘The father is a man of honour. He might be resentful, but I can’t imagine he would do anything like this.’

  Honour. A grand word that rolled so easily off the tongue, but it was as cheap as any other. From all he’d seen, as soon as desperation arrived, honour and truth and justice all fell away. Survival was all that mattered. Whether you owned a manor or just the clothes on your back, it was always the same.

  Another family with wealth and power. Somewhere he’d never be able to dig out the truth, if there was anything to find.

  ‘My lord…’ John began, but l’Honfleur waved away his words.

  ‘Don’t say it, Carpenter. I can’t believe Sir John Unthank would do anything like this. I’ve known him for decades. But they have servants. Ask them. The family will be gathering for the fair next week. They have a house here in Chesterfield. It stands on the road into town on the far side of the church.’

  John knew it. A grand place on the brow of the hill, rebuilt just a few years earlier, the second and third storeys that jettied out one over the other, looming above the road, with the coat of arms painted in bold colours on the lintel. Glazed windows, the limewash renewed every three years to glow a glittering white.