The Anchoress of Chesterfield

by Chris Nickson

  They were good. Almost silent. Not enough noise to wake someone who was sleeping soundly. Two of them, he decided; at first the sounds came from different parts of the barn, as if they were searching around.

  The pair took their time. They were either cautious or confident, he wasn’t sure which. Careful, John decided, after a rung of the ladder to the hayloft creaked, followed by a long, aching silence. Whatever they intended, it was serious. Deadly.

  They were up in the hayloft with him. One of them was not even two feet away; John could have reached out and grabbed the man’s ankle. Instead, he kept very still, barely daring to breathe in case they discovered him.

  There must have been a signal of some kind. Suddenly they were plunging their daggers into the bundle of blankets in the straw. Time after time, a frenzy of stabbing. One of them hissed and they stopped, hurrying down the ladder and away. It was over so quickly that he wondered if he’d dreamed it all.

  But everything had been utterly real.

  John lay perfectly still. They wouldn’t return. In his head he knew that, but his limbs refused to move. If he’d tried to stand, his legs wouldn’t have supported him.

  Sweet love of God, he’d been lucky. By rights he should be dead now and starting his long journey through Purgatory.

  His senses had saved him before, but that was years earlier. Praise God that they still worked and he’d had the wit to listen to them. He let the night wash over his body, feeling the chilly sweat, the helpless quivering. They came and passed. Finally he could sit, hunched over, trembling and cold. More time passed and he was able to stand, careful to hold on to the posts for balance.

  He was still alive, thanks be to God. But what good did that do him out in the moorland in the middle of the night and far from home? What could he do now? He could feel the way his heart was still hammering. The panic was there, clutching at his reason.

  Part of him wanted to run away, to try and find his way back to Chesterfield. But if he set off in the pitch darkness, creeping out of the manor like a thief, he’d end up lost. He didn’t know his way here. It was too easy to lose his footing and break an ankle or a leg.

  Go at first light? Once the men discovered they hadn’t killed him, they’d start hunting him, and there were precious few places to hide out there.

  No. He stood and thought.

  There was only one possibility. He had to appear when the men broke their fast, be there with all the other workers of the manor and try to act as if nothing had happened. He’d watch carefully to see who reacted when they saw his face. It had to be the brothers, the squires. He felt certain of that. Two of them, working so easily together, not even needing words to communicate – who else could it be? If he had any money, he’d have wagered it on that.

  John didn’t attempt to rest. Sleep wouldn’t visit him again tonight. He wondered how many nights it would be until he could rest without the night mare riding through his mind, even in his own bed. He had time before dawn. He sat and thought, trying to work his way through this labyrinth of murder.

  Some parts fitted together, but not enough to make a pattern. There was a trail to follow, starting with whoever had tried to murder him a few hours before. The men might be in l’Honfleur’s house, but were they working for someone else? They had to be, but why? And above all, who? Discover the answer to that and he’d have the real murderer.

  The first streaks of light crept over the horizon. He still felt uneasy but he forced himself to stand and move, to try to act as if no one had tried to stab him in a frenzy.

  He walked around the manor, checking over the work he’d done yesterday. Hubert was by his side, prattling on about the way things had been when he was young. John made idle conversation, hearing about the sheep they kept and how many they lost to wild dogs, the price a fleece brought these days. He let the words run by him, constantly watching for the two squires.

  By the time the bell sounded to draw them to the hall and eat, his belly was rumbling. He laughed at himself; stupid, the way a brush with death left him so hungry. He was the first man in, taking bread and cheese and ale and sitting at one end of the trestle.

  He was there when the brothers arrived. They halted as soon as they saw him, eyes widening and mouths opening wide. Good, John thought, a shock for the pair of you. But he made sure his face showed nothing, giving a short nod in their direction as he ate.

  More men were coming in, talking, keeping their distance from him, just as they had the day before. The brothers each downed a mug of ale and left.

  John took his time. His work was done; all that remained was the walk back to Chesterfield. A fair day with thin, high clouds, not too hot. No sign of rain and he couldn’t smell any on the air.

  But two killers were around.

  He let an hour ease by before he went to find the reeve. Hubert was talking to the man, gesturing and pointing. The reeve sent him away.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked John when they were alone. ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘The old man claims he saw the squires ride off together.’ He shrugged. ‘Says they packed what they brought and took off towards Hathersage like the devil was after them.’

  ‘Have you sent a message to my lord?’

  The reeve glared.

  ‘Why would I do that? Because an old man who’s only half here says he’s seen something?’ He turned his head and spat into the dirt. ‘So they’ve ridden off. They’ve probably gone hawking. They don’t answer to me. He won’t thank me if I send to tell him that, will he?’

  ‘He will if you tell him they tried to stab me in the night.’

  ‘You?’ The reeve laughed, a bellow that started in his stomach and erupted, full-throated and loud. ‘You’re worse than Hubert, and he has his mind in the skies. Christ’s blood, man, why would they want to kill you? Is your work that bad?’

  ‘My lord has hired me to investigate the murder of his daughter,’ John told him. ‘Somehow they know about that. They crept up to the hayloft in the middle of the night with their knives.’

  The reeve shook his head.

  ‘I don’t believe you. You’re a carpenter, not…’ He couldn’t find the words. ‘If they tried to kill you, why isn’t there a scratch on you?’

  ‘I didn’t sleep where they thought. Close enough to be hidden and to hear it all. They saw me still alive this morning. They’ve run off, and you need to send a message to my lord as quickly as possible.’

  They stood facing each other. John could feel the reeve’s anger and disbelief.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you want the person who killed Gertrude found?’ He didn’t raise his voice; he stayed calm, composed.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid. Of course I do.’

  ‘Those two were involved. My lord needs men hunting them.’

  ‘They probably ran back to their father.’

  ‘They should be easy to find, then.’ John smiled. ‘I’m telling you the truth. My oath on it.’

  A moment passed, then the reeve exhaled loudly.

  ‘If you’re lying, my lord will flay you alive.’

  ‘Every word is true.’

  The man’s face was grim. ‘I’m not sure why, but I’m going to believe you. I’ll send a man to Chesterfield. On horseback, before you say anything more. For your sake, I pray to God you’re not lying.’

  He stalked off, shouting for two of the men, and leaving John alone.

  ‘Where did the squires sleep?’ he asked when he found Hubert.

  ‘Right there.’ The old man pointed at an upstairs window, its shutters still closed. ‘But they’re gone.’

  ‘I know. Thank you.’

  The room was empty. They had no more luxury than any of the other servants. Two pallets for sleeping, a small chest standing open at the foot of each one. Nails hammered into the back of the door to hang surcotes and cloaks.

  At first glance, everything had been stripped away. The chests
were empty, no clothes anywhere. John plunged a hand into the straw of the pallets, spreading it, searching for anything that might have been hidden. The brothers had vanished in a rush. People in a hurry were often careless; they made mistakes. There might be something they’d forgotten.

  Luck wasn’t shining on him, John decided when he’d finished. He left the straw strewn across the boards on the floor. Nothing at all.

  Still, it had been worth the time. If he hadn’t looked, he’d never have known.

  • • •

  He had his bag of tools, the small pack strapped to his back, and a leather bottle of weak ale hanging from his belt, next to his scrip. His boots kicked up dust as he followed the track over the moor, back towards Cutthorpe.

  There was nobody else out here. He had the land to himself, walking in the sunlight. High, thin clouds flickered across the sky, tempering the heat. The day felt still and calm. But still he kept looking around, checking in every direction. He felt uneasy, alone and helpless out here.

  L’Honfleur should have received the message by now. He’d have a party beginning their search for the squires. Perhaps the reeve was right and they’d scurried off home, hoping that their father would offer them protection. But they were beyond anything he’d be able to do for them.

  Were they the ones who’d taken Gertrude the meal that killed her? Yes, he was sure they were. But he’d know the full truth once they were caught. And what would happen then? My lord had the ear of important people at court. The King’s mistress listened to him. And he would have a fury for justice forcing him on.

  John had covered two miles when he saw the small cloud on the horizon. Dust; someone else was out travelling. But they were moving too quickly for a man on foot and there was more of it than a single man would raise.

  He felt the chill rise up his spine. They were coming across the moorland, directly towards him.

  He glanced around. Nothing but tussocks and clumps of grass. A few small folds in the ground, not a single one of them big enough to hide a man.

  Move away from the path. That was the first thing. If he did that and stayed low, they wouldn’t be able to see him. Get as far away from here as he could. There might be somewhere he could shelter out of sight.

  Bent over, he began to run. But the weight of the tools, the pack and the bottle made it difficult. The satchel banged against his legs and his calves cramped.

  John judged he’d covered half a mile when he stopped, gasping for breath. He knelt on the grass, staying low, raising his head just enough to follow the trail of dust. It was much closer now. Easy enough to make out a pair of riders swiftly covering the ground. He recognised the horses; he’d seen them in the barn at the manor the night before.

  And the squires were riding them.

  They were going towards the spot where he’d been. That was something. He had a small start on them. But he needed to move faster, to find somewhere they wouldn’t discover when they looked.

  A quick gulp of air and he was running again, trying to ignore the pain in his legs. Keep going, keep going. Far off, he could hear the rhythmic thump of hooves on the dirt.

  He risked a glance over his shoulder. The squires were circling where he’d been, looking around, watching the ground and trying to track him.

  Too close. They were far too close.

  They had swords, they had fast mounts. As soon as they caught sight of him it would only take a minute at the gallop to reach him. When that happened, he was a dead man. All he had to defend himself was a knife.

  No one would ever find his body out here. At best, someone might spot the buzzards and the carrion crows.

  He ran. Breathing hard, bent double, he ran, arms out to keep his footing on the uneven ground as he tried to look ahead. There. Off to the right. A boulder laced with purple heather. The ground seemed to slip away behind it.

  He crawled. He scrabbled, panting, checking behind. They still hadn’t seen him. If this gap was large enough…

  CHAPTER SIX

  John slid down the earth and the thin scree of pebbles. His hose snagged and tore on the branch of a gorse bush. He pulled himself loose, aware of moments passing as his fingers frantically worked at the threads. Fifteen feet to the base of a slim ravine. A tiny stream burbled along the bottom, barely covering the rocks.

  But it was flat enough for him to run. Still awkward, too easy to slip and turn an ankle, but he needed distance. He needed it quickly. A final glance back, seeing nothing, and he was moving.

  The ravine twisted hither and yon. It was impossible to see far ahead. He’d covered a fair distance when he saw the roots of a tree growing out from the side of the hill. The space beneath them looked as if it ran deep and dark. There might be enough room for him to crawl through and push himself out of sight.

  In there, no one would be able spot him from the edge of the ravine. He went as far as he could, feeling the cool earth, the tang of soil. John lay back, feeling his heart pounding, and took a drink from the leather bottle. For now, at least, he was safe.

  A few minutes and he could hear the hooves and voices calling to each other.

  ‘I don’t see him,’ one shouted. ‘It doesn’t look as if he’s been down here.’

  ‘We need to turn back,’ the other said. The voice made him freeze. It sounded as if it was coming from right above his head. ‘If l’Honfleur knows, he’ll have men coming.’

  For a moment, the sound of the horses as they cantered seemed too loud. Then it began to fade until he couldn’t hear it at all. Still, John waited another five minutes before he crept out into the light and looked up, blinking at the brightness.

  No sign of them.

  Very cautiously, John climbed the slope. Gravel slid under his feet. He stopped, listening, waiting, then took hold of a bush and pulled himself high enough to glance over the rim of the spindly valley.

  No sign of the horsemen. Just a faint plume of dust rising in the distance. A final push up, back to the moor, and he took another long drink of the ale as he sat.

  They’d been close. And they might still decide to return.

  John stood. It was time to move.

  • • •

  ‘How—’ Katherine began, then caught full sight of his face. ‘Sweet Jesu, what happened to you?’

  He settled on the bench, grateful to be in the safety of his own home once more. He knew he was covered in dirt and scratches, but they didn’t matter. He was here, he was alive and he was unhurt.

  Martha was toddling around, gazing up and him with a broad, loving smile. He swept her up and cuddled her on his lap. John buried his nose in her hair and smelled the child’s sweet innocence, drawing it deep into him. For the love of God, his daughter made it good to be alive.

  Finally, he told Katherine. Everything, from the moment he arrived at the manor to hurrying through Cutthorpe on his way home, still scared that a pair of mounted devils were pursuing him. He closed his eyes and bounced Martha on his lap as he spoke.

  His wife listened, letting the silence fill the hall after he finished.

  ‘Husband… I know what he’s promised.’ Her voice was quiet and reasoned. She stared at him. ‘I know what it can do for us. But please, listen to what you’ve just told me. Those men tried to kill you twice. God watched over you. I pray that He always will, but tell me, what if He doesn’t? What’s the point of the money if you’re not here to enjoy everything it can do? I’ll have no one, our children won’t have a father.’

  ‘If I don’t do it, we’ll have to sell one of the houses.’

  ‘Then we’ll sell it!’ she shouted. But it was pain behind the words, not anger. ‘I need you here with us. What would I do if you died?’

  ‘I could die at any time,’ John said quietly. ‘Any of us could. That’s God’s will.’

  She shook her head and a strand of hair fell clear of her wimple. ‘But you keep tempting Him!’

  ‘And each time, I pray He’ll preserve me.’ He stroked the soft skin of
her cheek. ‘That He’ll keep us all.’

  But there was Richard, the frail boy who probably wouldn’t be too much longer for this earth…

  ‘I need to speak to l’Honfleur,’ he said. It was easier than having to think about all this to try and resolve it. ‘He needs to know.’

  • • •

  The man held a wooden mazer that was decorated with fine, filigree lines of silver wire. He sipped at the wine it held as he listened.

  ‘At least I know for certain who betrayed me now,’ he said once John had finished. ‘I sent a party out to hunt them as soon as I received the message.’ He sounded bitter and cold. ‘They know what to expect.’ His eyes flickered. ‘No mercy for men who do that.’

  ‘My lord, if you keep them alive, we can discover who paid them and murdered your daughter.’

  He nodded. ‘I told my men to bring them here if they could. But if those brothers choose to fight, then they have orders to kill them.’

  ‘I see.’ Pointless deaths, he thought. More killing. If they were spared, the pair would quickly break under questioning. Then they’d learn everything they needed.

  ‘You did well, Carpenter,’ l’Honfleur said approvingly. ‘Very quickly, too.’

  ‘Thank you, Master.’ No mention of the two instances when he’d come close to death in the last day. But why would a lord ever think of that? The only death that truly mattered to him was his daughter’s.

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘I’ll wait and see what your men can learn from the squires. That can tell me where to go next.’

  L’Honfleur raised an eyebrow. ‘What if they die without speaking? They might, you have to understand that, Carpenter. It would be a matter of honour.’

  He said it as if it were an everyday fact. Honour? He felt he could spit the word. Honour wasn’t trying to stab a man as he slept or chase him down when you were armed and on horseback. Or perhaps honour only applied if you were fighting a man of gentle breeding.

  ‘Of course, my lord.’ He bowed and left the house.

  • • •