The Anchoress of Chesterfield

by Chris Nickson

  But it left another question. What else was there? Who else might have had the power and the connections to arrange and desire Gertrude’s death? Try as he might, John couldn’t think of another name.

  He needed to look again. To ask more questions.

  • • •

  The labourers at the church were finishing for the day as he passed. They climbed down the scaffolding, young men full of laughter and high spirits, hardly needing to look where they put their feet. They were sure about themselves and life. Noise followed them along the street and into the alehouse of Low Pavement.

  John waited, allowing time for them to be served and to settle before he entered. The day was dying and the shadows were long. All the old men gathered together near the back of the room, crowded around a table. John bought his mug of ale and joined them, greeting with a nod or a single word.

  He listened to the idle chatter for a few minutes.

  ‘What do you think about the death of Gertrude?’ he asked.

  ‘Thought you were the one looking into it,’ one man said with a harsh laugh. ‘In’t that right? You should be the one telling us.’

  ‘I’m curious to hear what you say. You’ve lived here a long time—’

  ‘All my life.’

  ‘—and you know the people. You must have ideas.’

  ‘What he means is he doesn’t have a clue.’ More laughter. The words were closer to the bone than they imagined.

  He simply smiled. ‘Tell me. I want to know. If I had any money, I’d buy you drinks.’

  It was desperation. He knew it; behind the laughter, the men at the table probably knew it, too. But they might have some ideas. They knew Chesterfield and the people who lived here.

  ‘Who would want to kill the anchoress?’ John asked.

  ‘No one,’ a man answered, serious now. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on the table. More hair grew from his ears and nostrils than on his head, and the white stubble was thick on his cheeks. ‘There’s not a soul in this town who’d want to hurt a girl like her.’

  ‘Someone did.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be one of us,’ another said. ‘My wife went out to see her and get her blessing. Holy, that was what she said, and all the others who saw her said the same thing.’

  He looked from one face to the next, all around the table. Every one of them nodded in agreement. ‘Then who would want her dead?’

  ‘Rich folk,’ a voice said. ‘Has to be. A poor man isn’t going to gain from it, is he? We all liked her. Didn’t you ever go out there, Carpenter? You or your wife, get her to pray for that son of yours?’

  John shook his head. The idea of having Gertrude pray for Richard’s health had never even come into his mind. He didn’t believe it could change anything; God had already set that course. But it might have made the path easier, and there were always miracles. He dragged himself back to the conversation.

  ‘Family.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid. Why would her own family do anything to her?’

  ‘I’m not saying they did. The carpenter’s asking who killed her. I’m giving a possibility, that’s all. From all I’ve heard…’ the man glanced around to be sure nobody was watching, and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper ‘…her father has been ruthless with a few of his enemies in the past.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ someone else replied with a shake of his head. ‘He doted on that girl. He had since she was tiny.’

  ‘Maybe she did something wrong.’

  ‘How’s she going to do that? Come on, tell me. She’s been out living in the anchorite cell for a year. What could she do that was wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? It’s not my family.’

  The conversation continued, waves of it, but after a while he stopped listening. The talk was going round and round, saying nothing at all. The men didn’t know anything, but they were enjoying the speculation as they drank. It gave them something different to think about, to stir up old rumours and gossip. John had hoped there might be some incident they’d remember, a little fact lost in time. But it seemed there was nothing at all. He listened politely for a few minutes, then took his leave.

  Full dark had fallen, most people were at home, eating their suppers and preparing for bed. Noises came, the soft whinny of a horse in a stable, a raised voice in an argument behind the shutters of a house, but so much of the town was silent.

  He knew the way back to Knifesmithgate. He could tell just where he was by the feel and the smell of a street. Up above, thousands upon thousands of stars shone, more than any man could begin to count. A perfect display of God’s power, the beauty of a universe. He stood and looked at them for a moment, lost among them and wondering what each little piece of light up there contained.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Finally, he started to walk again. But something was wrong. He wasn’t alone. There was nothing he could hear, and nothing he could see in the blackness. He could only feel it. Someone was there. He slipped his knife from its sheath and listened closely, hardly daring to breathe.

  John sensed the attack; he couldn’t see it. Movement that made the air flutter against his cheek. It was enough of a warning that he could throw himself to one side, landing in a crouch, and hearing a grunt of frustration.

  How many of them? One? Two? It couldn’t be more than that, they’d be making noise and getting in each other’s way. Most likely a man on his own.

  Staying low, he moved to his left, listening for the smallest sound. There. The man hadn’t moved. John picked up a few pebbles from the road and tossed them behind his attacker. An old trick, but it worked. He heard a sudden sound as the man turned, trying to discover who might be there.

  It was a chance, the best one he was likely to have. John lunged forward. But a guess. He still couldn’t see him, couldn’t even make out a darker shape against the blackness of the night. He had to hope.

  The point of his knife touched something. It ripped through cloth and into flesh. The man cried out, then quickly stifled it into silence.

  John pulled back, freeing his blade. What had he hit? Much too high for the leg or the belly. Not the chest; he’d have touched hard bone. It must have been the man’s arm. Deep enough to hurt him and make it useless.

  He could hear the man’s breathing now, a low, harsh wheeze. He could smell the thick, foul stench of him. A moment’s hesitation, then the man was skittering away, running down the street.

  For a moment, John thought about following. Catch the man and bring him before the coroner. Strong would make him talk and find out who’d employed him. Then the idea passed.

  If he’d been younger, if he hadn’t had a wife and family, John would have done it. He’d have plunged after the man without a thought. But his responsibilities stopped him. Chesterfield wasn’t that large. It shouldn’t be difficult to find a man with a knife wound to his arm.

  He was breathing hard as he turned for home. Suddenly, all the fear hit him. He’d hardly done a thing, but he was drained, so frightened he could barely move. The attacker wasn’t a robber who’d gone after his purse. He was too sharp, too silent for that. He was a man who was paid to kill. With just a little more luck he’d have succeeded.

  The squires, the stranger he’d encountered on the way back from Baslow, the attack on l’Honfleur when he was hunting and now this. A shiver ran through him. In his mind he knew he was probably safe, but he still kept the knife in his hand until he’d locked and barred the front door of his house behind him.

  The place was quiet and dark, everyone already asleep. Better that way; he didn’t have to explain anything. No need to use his tinder box to start a flame in one of the rushlights; he knew the hall well enough to reach for the jug and a mug of ale. Sitting quietly on the bench, he let it all play through again in his mind.

  There were three questions, he decided as his thoughts calmed. First, who’d done it? He didn’t know. But in the morning he’d tell the coroner; his men
could begin searching for someone with a wound to his arm. Second was why? That was easy: he must be coming closer to the person behind Gertrude’s murder. It was the only explanation. And third, how? That wasn’t so simple. His attacker had been good, used to following in the dark. Someone trained for it. An assassin.

  • • •

  The day was still young when a servant wearing the coroner’s green livery and badge showed him through to the hall. Strong sat at the table, reading through papers. He had bread and cheese and ale at his side as he worked. The clerk hovered close by, but was dismissed as soon as Strong saw John.

  ‘You look like a man who hasn’t slept, Carpenter. Is something troubling you?’

  ‘Plenty, Master.’

  He ran through all that had happened the night before. The coroner was right, he’d barely managed a moment’s rest. As soon as he closed his eyes it had been there. He’d slipped out early, while everyone still slept. He could start things happening, and it meant a little longer until he had to explain the attack to Katherine.

  ‘You’re certain you hurt him?’

  ‘Yes, Master. There were still a few flecks of blood on my knife when I looked this morning.’

  A nod of understanding. The coroner stroked his chin as he thought.

  ‘Who were you talking to in the alehouse?’

  ‘A table of old men. People who’ve lived here all their lives.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked, his voice full of curiosity.

  ‘They’d know about the old resentments and enmities, and who might want to hurt my lord and his family.’

  ‘Did anyone overhear your conversation?’

  ‘Master, I don’t know. It was busy, quite loud… I wasn’t watching.’

  ‘When did you know someone was following you?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I sensed him.’

  ‘Sensed him?’ The coroner cocked his head to one side. ‘How?’

  ‘I just knew he was there.’ He tried to find the right words. ‘I felt him.’

  ‘Were you ever a soldier?’

  John’s eyes widened, astonished at the question. ‘Me? No, Master, never.’

  ‘I’ve known soldiers say that,’ Strong told him. ‘They claim they develop a feeling. It can keep them alive in battle.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘You’re a strange man for a carpenter.’

  ‘I told you before, Master: I’m lucky, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re certainly right about that. You’re alive and you’re unhurt. That’s what matters. Are you sure you wounded this man in his arm?’

  ‘It seemed like it.’ John replied. But the hesitation was there in his voice.

  ‘You’re not sure.’

  ‘It was dark, Master. Black. I couldn’t see where my blow landed.’

  The coroner held up a hand to stop him.

  ‘I’m not criticising you, Carpenter. I just want to be certain. But my men will keep their eyes open and they’ll question anyone suspicious. I strongly doubt we have any assassins in town, though,’ he added with a smile. ‘We’re small. This isn’t London or York.’

  ‘He knew what he was doing.’

  ‘We’ll find out when we catch him. Did you learn anything worthwhile from your old men?’

  He shook his head. ‘Nothing at all. Not even much old gossip.’

  ‘Then you’d better find something if you’re going to earn that fifty pounds.’

  ‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘I know.’

  ‘One last thing, Carpenter. The man who rented the horse from the ostler. He’s still not returned it. Now’s it’s theft. He’ll hang when we catch him.’

  • • •

  Sooner or later he had to tell Katherine. He’d put it off, but now the coroner knew, the news would break across Chesterfield like a wave. It was inevitable. Like any town, it thrived on news and gossip, turning it over and over, examining every shred of it. She needed to hear it from him.

  She was on her knees in the garden, taking up the last of the carrots. Martha was scrabbling in the dirt, loving every moment. Richard sat on a bench close to the back wall, in the warmth of the sunlight.

  Katherine kept working as he spoke, digging up each purple carrot and wiping the dirt from it before cutting off the green top with a deft flick of her knife. When he’d finished she turned her head towards him.

  ‘You won this time.’ There was no bitterness or anger in her voice, only a world of sorrow. ‘What happens the next time, or the one after that? You won’t know, you’ll be dead. I’ll be the one here with the children. What will l’Honfleur or Strong do for them? Tell me that, husband.’

  He knew the answer just as well as she did.

  ‘It means I’m on the right path.’

  ‘And you don’t know exactly which path it is.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘You said that yourself.’

  ‘I have until the fair begins.’

  ‘No. You have to stay alive,’ she reminded him. ‘I love you with all my heart, but remember: luck can run out.’

  He reached out, taking hold of her hand and pulling her to her feet. Martha stopped playing to watch as John held his wife close, hugging her hard. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the rough material of her gown, the pleasure of her flesh beneath the clothes.

  ‘I will be careful,’ he promised.

  ‘How many times have you said that before? It’s promise after promise and you always break it. Until this began, I honestly believed I could trust you again. But listen to yourself: all you do is play with words. And you play with us.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Katherine pushed herself back and glared at him. ‘How many times have people tried to kill you since you began work on this? Go on, husband, how many?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘Four.’ She repeated the word as she stared into his eyes. ‘And do you think there’ll be more? No, don’t look away. Be honest with me for once.’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted after a long silence. ‘Someone might try again. That’s the truth. All of it.’

  ‘Is it worth your life?’ Her voice was quiet, but somehow it had more power than a scream.

  ‘Of course it’s not. But this is our chance at something better. If I earn that money, we can live without always worrying about the next farthing. Not just me and you, but the children, too. They won’t always be scraping and shifting for money. But,’ John added as she began to open her mouth, ‘do you think I ever had any choice in it? The coroner sent a man to fetch me at the start. Do you remember that? My Lord l’Honfleur took over and told me what he wanted me to do. You know how powerful he is. When have I ever had the chance to walk away? You can blame me if you like. But please remember that none of this was my doing.’ He squeezed her hand lightly and gave a sad smile. ‘Please.’

  ‘I know. I know all that. But how do you think I feel? Every time you go out, I pray and hope that you’ll come home safely this time. They’re the same worries I used to have years ago when you did this. I thought they’d gone, but they’re worse than ever now.’ She bowed her head and tucked a few strands of hair back into her wimple.

  ‘We have more to lose,’ he said. ‘I understand that. You know why I’m doing this; I just told you. I wish I didn’t have to; I’d rather be working with Alan and building something.’ He thought of the leather satchel sitting in the hall and the tools inside, the most familiar things in his life, extensions of his hands. ‘But it is what it is. I can’t change that and neither can you. We can’t wish it away.’

  ‘Then what are we going to do, husband?’

  ‘Keep on,’ he told her. He wanted to believe in prayer. He knew that she did, without question. ‘And pray. I couldn’t have avoided what happened last night. The other times… perhaps I can be more careful.’

  ‘But careful won’t bring an answer, will it?’

  John pursed his lips. ‘No,’ he said, ‘probably not.’

  Slowly, she moved away, reaching out a hand to take hold of Martha, and walked back into the hou
se. The hem of her homespun gown trailed in the dirt. From the way she moved her head and the set of her shoulders, John could tell that she was crying. His heart ached. He’d tried to explain, to make her understand. No matter which way he turned, he couldn’t win.

  ‘Papa.’ Richard’s voice jerked him back into the day. He took a seat on the bench next to his son.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Why do you make her cry?’ The boy wasn’t resentful. He was curious, wanting to know.

  ‘I don’t do it deliberately. Sometimes… sometimes I disappoint her.’

  ‘Why?’

  He tried to find the words to satisfy. But they weren’t there, they were jumbled and lost in his head.

  ‘Because sometimes I can’t be a good enough man.’ He patted Richard on the thigh. The lad was so thin, he looked so weary and fragile. The hose sagged on his legs, and his jacket had to be cinched tight with a belt. Even the hood, a cheerful red, seemed too big for his head. ‘Maybe you will be when you grow up.’ The boy wouldn’t be alive then. There wasn’t a miracle big enough in the world to keep him here that long.

  • • •

  ‘My cousin the coroner told me.’

  He’d been leaning on the wall around the churchyard, staring at nothing and letting his thoughts drift, seeing where they led him. John didn’t hear Jeffrey of Hardwick come close until he was standing two feet away.

  ‘Have they found anyone yet?’

  ‘No, but maybe they will. You weren’t hurt at all?’

  He stood upright and held out his arms. The jacket was dusty, mended so many times that it was more thread than cloth, and his hose and boots were old. But there was no blood.

  ‘Not a scratch.’

  ‘How did you know he was there?’ Jeffrey asked.

  ‘I just knew.’ He couldn’t begin to give reasons for a feeling.

  ‘And you caught him?’

  ‘Caught? No. I stabbed him. I was lucky, that’s all.’

  But Jeffrey looked as if he didn’t believe that.