The Anchoress of Chesterfield by Chris Nickson

Author:Chris Nickson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: The History Press

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘What? Attacked?’ At first he couldn’t believe it. Who would dare to do something like that?

‘No one was hurt. Someone firing arrows. But two of the horses were hit.’

‘Did they—’

Strong shook his head.

‘By the time they managed to organise a chase, the man had vanished. My lord sent someone to ask for a few of my men to help in the search. But I thought you should know.’

Attacking a lord… how could anyone attempt that? Why? Was it desperation?

‘Is he coming back here?’

‘He’s staying at the manor, exactly as he planned,’ the coroner said. ‘Returning to Chesterfield would look like he was running away.’

Of course. Honour. L’Honfleur would be safer in Chesterfield than out on the moors. But he had to show his men that he was strong.

Who would have tried to kill him? Had it been a real attempt? A skilled archer should be able to hit his target at a good distance. Maybe that hadn’t been the intention. Not to assassinate, but to scare.

He stopped himself before he could speak. He didn’t know, he hadn’t been there. He had no idea how far away the archer had been. Everything was a guess.

‘Don’t tell anyone,’ Strong said. ‘I know people will hear, but later rather than sooner.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Who did this is involved in everything else. I want him found.’

It was a dismissal. Outside, as clouds started to gather over the peaks to the west, he stood and thought, then began to walk.

• • •

‘No, Master, no one’s brought a horse here today.’ The man leaned on his shovel, turned his head and spat. ‘No one’s taken one out, either.’ He shrugged and looked around. ‘No business at all.’

It was hardly a surprise. He looked around the stables. It was dirty, stinking of dung. Even to his eyes, the horses in the stalls looked ungroomed, with a touch of wildness in their eyes.

Two men had taken horses from the second stable. But they were regular customers, on their way up to Sheffield and then to York; they made the journey every month. None had brought one in.

There was one more place, just beyond the bridge over the Hipper.

‘A man hired a black gelding this morning,’ the ostler said. ‘Due back tomorrow, and if he doesn’t bring it, I’ll see him hanged for a horse thief.’

‘Who took it?’

‘I’ve not seen him before. He told me his name was Edward from Wingerworth and that he needed to get to Glossop.’ The man shrugged. ‘He had the money.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘A light green tunic and hood, black hose.’ He shrugged again. ‘Not as tall as you. Dark hair, I think. I didn’t look closely.’

‘Was he carrying a bow?’

‘He was. Why?’

It might not be the same man; so many knew how to use the bow. But a feeling bubbled inside him that this was who he sought.

‘When he comes back tomorrow, keep him talking and send someone for the coroner.’

The man frowned. ‘The coroner? Why? Who are you?’

‘I’ll have the captain of his guard come and tell you, to make it official.

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