The Anchoress of Chesterfield

by Chris Nickson

  ‘We should take the children later,’ John said. ‘It won’t be too busy yet.’

  Suddenly the air was filled with chatter. He held up his hand and waited for silence.

  ‘Later,’ he repeated. He was about to say more when the thudding came on the door.

  The young man standing there had a guileless look. He seemed barely older than Katherine’s brother Walter. Certainly wealthier, though, and with the self-assurance money brought. In good silks and well-made woollen hose, with his shoes in a fashionable point, he introduced himself.

  ‘I’m Jeffrey of Hardwick. The coroner said you might be able to use my services.’

  The lad had a winning smile, full of charm, and was holding a hat between clean, soft hands. Not someone who’d ever done manual work for a living.

  ‘You’re welcome, Master. I’m John the Carpenter.’ As soon as they were through the screens, his family was there, waiting and expectant. He named Jeffrey, who was immediately on his knees with the children, before standing and offering a courtly bow to Katherine.

  ‘I’m honoured, good Dame,’ he said as she blushed deep red.

  John shooed them all away until he and Jeffrey were sitting at the table with a jug of ale and a pair of mazers that had belonged to old Martha.

  ‘Did Sir Mark tell you what I need?’

  ‘Someone who knows the Unthanks,’ he replied with a bright smile. ‘They’re distant cousins of mine. I’ve been around them all my life.’

  ‘I need information,’ John said.

  ‘I’m good at that.’ The young man’s expression became serious. ‘I handle the business for my family’s lands, the fleeces, the crops, the rents. God gave me a gift. My family uses it. Like you with wood, I imagine.’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Maybe it is.’

  Jeffrey glanced around the room. ‘I’d never imagined a trade would pay as well as this. The coroner said you own another house as well.’

  ‘It’s a long story. Would you be willing to find out information about the Unthanks?’

  ‘Does this have to do with the killing of Gertrude?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Then I’ll gladly do it. I’m related to her, too.’ He gave a smile and shook his head. ‘Another long story. It seems we both have them.’

  John sketched out what he needed to learn. Jeffrey listened closely, asking questions to make points a little clearer. He had a sharp mind, quick to grasp ideas and see problems. By the time they’d finished, John was certain the lad would discover the truth and do it speedily.

  ‘Time is vital,’ he said.

  The young man nodded. ‘I should be able to find all this out in a day. I’ll talk to my cousins. They’ll all be coming in for the fair, anyway, and all the trading beforehand.’

  As they parted at the door, Jeffrey smiled once more.

  ‘Sir Mark said you wanted to see my lord. He has some time this afternoon.’

  ‘I’m glad you told me.’

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow morning, John, and tell you what I’ve learned.’

  • • •

  Today l’Honfleur was wearing an unfashionable burgundy houppelande trimmed around the neck with dark fur. He paced around the room, the lavender and rose scent rising from the rushes.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘My lord,’ John said, ‘I know the people on your manor claim they had nothing to do with your daughter’s death. But the villagers in Calow said the riders might have been wearing your livery.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘They might have been wearing my livery. They don’t know. They’re not sure. It could have been anything. And I told you, I don’t have a piebald horse in my stable.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ He’d thought this through; now he needed to convince the man. ‘But Gertrude would have known your livery well, wouldn’t she?’ She’d have known it her whole life.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you think she would trust something that didn’t look real?’

  That was enough to make l’Honfleur pause.

  ‘No, she’d know better that that. What about the men, though? She knows them all. And the horses? She’d recognise them.’

  ‘It would be simple enough to leave the animals on the other side of the church. And the men could claim they were new in your service.’

  L’Honfleur took two or three breaths before he replied. ‘You’re suggesting that two of my men lent their clothes to the people who killed my daughter.’ His voice was bitter.

  ‘I don’t know, my lord. It’s one possibility, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s quite an accusation. How are you going to discover if it’s true?’

  ‘I need to be at your manor near Hathersage for a day or two.’

  L’Honfleur raised his eyebrows. ‘And what will you do there? A carpenter is hardly likely to be a welcome guest, is he? Or do you intend to tell them you’re investigating my daughter’s death?’

  ‘Master, do you need any carpentry work at the manor?’

  ‘Of course, there are always jobs to be done. The men do most of it themselves, the same as everywhere else.’

  ‘Perhaps this time you decided to hire someone who can do the job properly.’

  ‘Why do you feel you’ll be able to worm out the truth? Assuming there’s any to be found, of course.’

  ‘My lord, you’re willing to pay me fifty pounds to discover who was responsible. That means you must believe I can do it.’

  ‘No, Carpenter. It means I’m desperate. Nothing more than that.’

  ‘Then trust me, Master, please. We still have time before the fair.’

  Silence filled the room as l’Honfleur stared out of the window and bit his lip. Eventually he turned.

  ‘I don’t like the idea that any of my men have betrayed me. I can’t believe it of them. But you’re right, we need to find out.’ He sighed. ‘Come here after dinner tomorrow. I’ll give you a letter for the reeve at the manor, telling him what work I want you to do.’

  ‘Please, my lord, don’t tell him the real reason I’m there. No one should know. It needs to be between us.’

  ‘Very well,’ he agreed after a moment.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘It’ll only be for one night,’ John said as they crossed the market square. ‘Two at the most, I promise.’ Juliana had run ahead to stand on the edge of the field where the stalls were going up.

  Martha held his hand, dragging him along, and Richard walked solemnly beside Katherine.

  ‘I know,’ she answered. Her eyes gave a look that said enough, no more discussion about it now.

  The air was filled with the scent of spices and cooking meat. Strange music played, an odd, hypnotic melody that seemed to slip in and out of tune, performed on a bagpipe. Juliana came running back, pointing in fear as a giant strode along. John laughed.

  ‘It’s just a man.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘He’s walking on stilts, see? They’re made of wood so he looks tall.’

  Even with so few booths set up, it was still a spectacle to take the breath away. He let Juliana guide Martha around, keeping an eye on them both. After a few minutes Richard wandered quietly away.

  He was alone with his wife, walking between the stalls. Pulled here and there by the music, the burbles of strange dialects and languages, the smells that caught his nose.

  ‘You know, it surprises me every year,’ he said with a voice full of wonder. ‘There’s so much here. It’s as if everyone in the world has come to Chesterfield.’

  But Katherine was distracted; she acted as if he hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Will the visit to the manor be dangerous?’

  ‘Of course not,’ John told her. ‘They won’t know why I’m there. I’ll be another workman, doing a few jobs. Nothing more than that.’

  The torches flaring in the dusk caught her eyes. They held a world of worry.

  ‘It will be fine.’ He squeezed her hand.

  ‘Be careful what you say, husband.’

>   She was right. He’d do better to stay cautious and alert. He was going out there because he believed something was wrong. That someone on the manor had something to hide.

  They’d be watching, on their guard.

  Before bed, as the children slept, John sat in the hall and sharpened his knife on a whetstone. He didn’t want to use it, to draw blood or to kill. Sometimes, though, life left no other choice.

  • • •

  Jeffrey of Hardwick was as good as his word. John and his family had barely finished breaking their fast than he was at the door, charming them all before he drew John aside into the garden.

  ‘What have you learned about the Unthanks?’

  ‘Enough to be sure they’re not behind all this,’ the young man answered. He stroked his chin as he walked around, bending to pluck a few blades of grass and chew on them. ‘They still resent that the marriage never happened. But it was a long time ago now. Years. They have no love for my lord, they never will have—’

  ‘But?’ John asked.

  ‘But they would never do anything like that to someone’s child. They swear to it and I believe them. You’ll need to look elsewhere.’

  ‘Thank you, Master.’ It confirmed what he believed, but it didn’t make his job any easier.

  ‘Not Master,’ Jeffrey told him with a soft chuckle. ‘No need for that. You’re the man with two fine houses. I have nothing except what my family grants me. I should be the one calling you master.’

  It was enough to make him smile.

  • • •

  He ate dinner before he left, a hurried farewell to his wife before scrambling out along the road to Cutthorpe. He carried the leather satchel on his shoulder and a small pack on his back with clean linen and his other pair of leggings. The air was fresh and clear, the sun showing off the brilliant purples and greens of the late heather. There were only a few other travellers on the road, every one of them heading to Chesterfield. Some led weary packhorses, others carried their goods on their backs, tradesmen or travellers. All of them in search of money.

  John exchanged a few words as he passed. But none wanted to stop. They had their rhythm, they had their destination; it was better to keep on placing one foot in front of another.

  He’d followed this road before, enough for it to feel familiar. It took him past Owler Bar and over the high track across the moors. There was little here beyond sheep and a few trees that had been stunted and blasted by the wind. His feet kicked up dust and his legs ached.

  Finally, with Higger Tor close and the crags on the horizon, he turned and followed the path to the manor house, half a mile away. It was built of thick stone, with a slate roof. No defences against man, but who would ever attack here?

  A stable, a barn, the kitchen tucked away in the garden. And the house itself; nothing especially grand or large. But serviceable against the weather, where the views on a day like this ranged to hills ten miles away and more. When the cloud came down it might seem to be the only place on earth.

  John passed l’Honfleur’s letter to the manor reeve, standing silent like a man in the presence of his superior.

  The reeve read it twice before he bothered to look at him.

  ‘We have men here who could do this work. Or there’s someone in Hathersage, married to my wife’s sister. Why would my lord send you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Master. He’s seen my work in Chesterfield.’ Easy to tell he wasn’t going to be welcomed here. If the reeve resented him, so would everyone else on the manor.

  The man snorted. He was large, with the red face and bulbous nose of a man who’d filched too much of his lord’s wine.

  ‘You’ll have to find a bed in the hayloft, we don’t have any room for people like you in the house.’ He drew in breath and yelled: ‘Hubert!’ A few seconds passed with no response and he called the name once more.

  Finally an old man arrived, his ruddy face hidden by a bushy white beard, dragging a lame leg as he walked. His tunic was spattered with dirt, the pipe of his hood drooped down his back, and his boots looked as though they’d not been cleaned since he bought them.

  ‘Master,’ he said.

  ‘My lord has sent a carpenter from Chesterfield.’ The words came out as a sneer. ‘Show him what needs to be done. He’ll eat with the men and sleep in the hayloft. You understand.’

  Hubert bowed his head in acknowledgement and walked off, stopping after a few paces and staring at John.

  ‘Come on.’

  He hurried after the man; the reeve had already gone.

  ‘Don’t know nothing, that lad,’ Hubert muttered. ‘Been here half a year and reckons he has the measure of this place inside and out.’

  ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘Can’t understand this land ’less you’ve been here ten year or more,’ Hubert continued. ‘Got four jobs for you. Start in the barn. You know my lord, do you?’

  ‘Yes,’ John answered, ‘I do.’ Hubert’s mind seemed to jump like a flea. ‘Why?’

  ‘Always good to me. Didn’t turn me off when I hurt my leg. That reeve, he’d see the back of me if he could. All he sees in this place is profit.’

  Overall, the manor appeared in good order, everything tidy. In the barn, two of the stalls needed new boards and fresh wood across the bottom of the door. But inside, exactly as l’Honfleur had told him, there was no piebald horse. Just a roan, a gelding, and a foal that was close to grown, alongside the ox to pull the plough in the field. No horses out being ridden, according to Hubert. All the leather halters were well-soaped and supple. Maybe the reeve only cared about turning a profit, but he was certainly looking after things here.

  Hubert stood and watched as John worked. Silent and vanishing into his thoughts. He’d talk, then the words would drift off into silence. But after a lifetime of living on the manor, he knew every inch of ground and all the men who worked here.

  ‘Good men, are they?’ John finished sawing the wood and checked once again that it was the right fit.

  ‘Good enough,’ the old man said grudgingly. ‘Not like it were when I was young, though. Men would do anything for their lord then. Whatever he asked.’

  ‘Are they loyal?’ John asked as he nailed the final board in place, putting his weight against it to be sure it would hold firm. Hubert had given him the opening he needed for the questions.

  ‘Them old ones were. Too many young ’uns these days. Look around and you can see them whispering in corners and turning away.’

  ‘That’s the stall finished. What’s the next job?’ He didn’t want to force the conversation and leave Hubert with suspicions that might stick in his mind.

  There was a task in the kitchen, then the remaining two in the buttery, working until the shadows were long and dusk was rising, thick and deep as velvet. John dropped in questions as he worked: how the manor ran, where the sheep roamed, more about the men.

  By supper he knew more. Not everything, but enough to make him wonder about two of the young squires, a pair of brothers who were out here to learn their manners and weaponry from l’Honfleur.

  ‘They reckon they’re better than us and they make sure we all know it.’ Hubert turned his head and spat into the dirt. ‘You ever been treated like you were nothing?’

  John gave a bitter laugh. ‘Is there anyone who hasn’t?’

  ‘Aye, but them two… you’d think they owned the world. I know the manor their father has, too, up above Edale. All peat and rocks, it’s hardly worth the bother. Won’t bring either of them a living if they end up as old as Methuselah. But the way they act, you’d think they could buy and sell the likes of you and me.’

  ‘They probably could.’ He wiped down the tools with an oily rag, applying a fresh edge to the chisel with a whetstone before packing everything away in the leather satchel.

  Supper was in the hall. No grand affair, nobody at the high table, just the workers from the manor who doled out pottage that had been cooking for days. The men looked warily at John, th
e way people always did with strangers. He spotted the squires, two young men with thick, fair hair, sitting together and leaning their heads towards each other as they talked. They were watching him.

  John finished the meal without talking to a soul in the hall. They seemed to take pains to ignore him. Very likely the reeve had warned them away from him. Whenever he did try to speak to someone, the man simply turned his head and ignored him. It was as if they believed he couldn’t be trusted, that they knew something about him. His eyes flickered around the faces in the hall. He hadn’t seen any of them at l’Honfleur’s house in Chesterfield. The fact that he was here investigating Gertrude’s death was supposed to be secret. And yet… he wondered.

  Outside, the night air was sweet and clear, the barn and the hayloft just ahead of him. Back in the hall, chatter had started. One of the men had begun to sing a song and others were laughing. It had all come to life as soon as he left.

  Maybe it was nothing. Perhaps he was sensing things that weren’t there. But as he climbed the ladder to the hayloft, ripples of fear cascaded through him. He wasn’t safe in this place. It was out in the middle of nowhere. Someone could kill him and his body could readily disappear in all those miles of moorland. Maybe all the wolves of England were dead, the way people claimed, but there were plenty of other creatures who could do their damage. And none was more dangerous than man.

  He pushed some horse blankets together to make a figure and spread the sheet over it before he picked out a dark corner for himself. The rough planks of the hayloft were hard against his bones. Never mind; he’d spend one uncomfortable night, but it was better to be safe and stay alive when his senses were pushing him to take care.

  Well hidden, he blew out the rush light and settled down into a doze. His ears were cocked for any sound, the knife close by his hand in case of danger. And it would come, something told him that. It would come.

  He jerked awake at each snuffling of the animals. Three times, four, listening just long enough to realise it was nothing.

  And then again. Deep in the night, everything black around him. John raised his head and listened. Something was different. A smell in the air. Sweat, dirt, a very human scent. He closed his hand around the knife hilt, ready to move.