The White Rose
A Matthew Cordwainer
Medieval Mystery
Joyce Lionarons
©2018 Joyce Lionarons
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries
The Golden Crucifix
Blood Libel
The White Rose
Dark Justice (forthcoming)
Chapter 1
York, April 1273
Lady Claire Talbot lay uncomfortably on the bed in the solar of the Clementhorpe guest house, cursing the stiff-necked Prioress whose unyielding refusal to accept her daughter as a novice had resulted in a pounding headache. Even the unexpected luxury of a goose-feather mattress could not relieve the pain, which rose from the clenched muscles of her neck in unrelenting waves. She rolled onto her back with a groan and tugged at a fold of her night shift that had gotten trapped beneath her. Tomorrow she would make the Prioress see reason or she would complain to the new Archdeacon; aye, that would put the woman in her place. But tonight she must put these thoughts away and sleep somehow despite her throbbing head.
She forced herself to breathe slowly in long, deep breaths, then gasped as a current of nausea passed through her. Whatever was in the headache powder the sweet-faced Infirmarian had mixed for her had done nothing to ease her pain; rather, it had caused an unsettling burning sensation in her mouth and throat that had numbed at the same time. And now it had upset her stomach, which was delicate at the best of times and was churning within her like a boiling cauldron of hot bile. She took another deep breath, willing the nausea to recede.
Her thoughts returned to the confrontation with Prioress Alyse, and the muscles in her neck cramped tighter as her anger rose. How dare the Prioress suggest that Lily might be better off as a ward at Saint Leonard’s spitalhouse? Not fit to be a nun, indeed! What did nuns do but kneel in prayer all day? Lily might be simple, but she could feed and wash herself. With help she could dress in the mornings and put herself to bed at night. And she was sweet-tempered and compliant, which was more than Claire could say for the Prioress. Twas not as if she hadn’t offered a large sum as a donation to the Priory, larger than her husband John had thought necessary. That had seemed to offend the Prioress even more than Lily’s imbecility; she went prattling on about twas sinful to accept coin in return for God’s grace. As if twasn’t sinful to turn a willing girl away because she was simple.
Still, Saint Leonard’s was a possibility if all else failed. She daren’t bring Lily back to Talbot manor; John had made that clear enough. She didn’t truly believe he’d drown the girl as he had sworn he would, but he would make both her and Lily pay somehow. A shudder ran through her. She had learned in the first months of her marriage just how cruel John Talbot could be. Drowning might be a blessing by comparison.
Sweet Mary and all the saints, her stomach burned! Pulling the bed curtain aside, she sat up in the darkness and put her legs over the side of the mattress, thinking to find the chamber pot and keep it ready for what now seemed inevitable. She bent and groped beneath the bed, her fingers finding only rushes and dust, then sat up again to clutch at her abdomen. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and her limbs felt heavy and sluggish. With a gasp she lurched forward and vomited onto the rush-strewn floor, again and again till there was nothing left save long strings of bile. She fell back onto the bed, embarrassed at having fouled the room, but hopeful that she would now begin to recover.
The pounding in her head increased. Fire ran from her stomach up into her throat. She tried to lift her hand to wipe her mouth, but her arm felt too heavy to move. Her lungs ached as she tried to draw in a breath, but her muscles would not obey. She could not breathe. God’s blood, she could not breathe. Panic flooded her as she struggled to pull air into her lungs. The effort arched her back and twisted her spine, but still the air would not come, and Lady Claire realized she would die if help did not come soon. She prayed frantically for forgiveness of her sins, but knew in her heart it was too late and her sins too grievous.
A grey figure holding a candle loomed by her side, and her panic increased. Was this the devil, come for her soul at last? But nay, a familiar voice said, “My lady, are you ill?” She turned her eyes with an effort. Nay, twas impossible. How could the girl be here? Twas the worst of all her sins, come to haunt her on her deathbed. “If you are ill, my lady, why, then you must die.”
Blanche
Talbot Manor, November 1267
Frost lay white on the herb garden and leaves crackled beneath her feet as Blanche made her way down the path to the well just as the sun peeked over the horizon. A hawk circled high overhead in the clear sky, and somewhere a small bird was peeping. The smell of wood smoke drifted from the cookhouse behind her, and she hurried to pull the wooden yoke from her shoulders and set the two pails on the frozen ground. She lowered the bucket into the well. Twas a pretty morning with the leaves turned red and orange on the trees beyond the fields and the frost sparkling in the dawn light, but twas too cold to stay outdoors to enjoy it. She glanced up as the hawk tucked its wings and dropped from the sky. A sharp screech and the hawk rose again, its tiny prey hanging from its talons. Twas a mouse, she thought, or a vole, too small for a rabbit.
She pulled the bucket from the well and half-filled the first pail, then let the bucket drop again, thinking of all the small creatures that made their homes in the harvested field. When both pails were full she bent to lift the yoke onto her shoulders and stood, her back trembling under the weight. Shifting the yoke to correct the balance, she turned to trudge slowly back to the house, longing for the warmth of the kitchen hearth. Water splashed onto her skirt, soaking the thin wool. Above, the hawk was circling again, its sharp eyes searching the field.
Once inside the cookhouse she stretched her back and held her hands in front of the fire, thankful that the hardest work of her day was behind her. Julian the cook was chopping cabbage at the worktable, and the surly kitchen boy Gib was bringing in the morning milk from the barn. Twas Gib should lug the water, she thought to herself, his back is the stronger. She would not mind the milking, her face warm against the side of the cow, out of the weather in the barn. She stretched again, unable to pull the ache from her back, and took a deep breath. The aroma of baking bread mingled with the smell of smoke, hot wine, and burning porridge.
With a gasp she reached for the thick woolen pads on their hook by the fireplace and pulled the pot of porridge from the fire just as Julian turned around with a scowl and slapped her face. “You’ve ruined the porridge again with your dawdling at the well, you filthy slut!” she said. “Take the wine to Sir John and his lady, and then come back for the bread afore tis cold. Go!”
Blanche snatched up the tray. She rushed from the cookhouse and across the yard to the manor house, remembering to pause at the door at the back of the great hall to take a breath and compose herself before entering, her cheek still burning from the slap. Rows of torches pushed into heavy iron sconces burned against the stone walls on both sides, casting dark shadows into the corners. A thick layer of rushes mixed with fragrant herbs covered the stone floor. A dog snuffled in the rushes by the fire, others lay snoring and twitching in their canine dreams beneath the table. From the corner of her eye, Blanche saw a mouse run rustling against the wall.
Sir John sat at the head of a long trestle table lined with wax candles, his back to the massive stone fireplace. He was a short, muscular man whose face bore the broken veins and puffiness of a lifetime of heavy drinking. Dark hair fell from a receding hairline to curl around his neck; an embroidered tunic belted with a fringed sash reached to his knees over leather riding breeches. His black eyes watched Blanche from deep inside red, swollen lids as she set the tray on the polished tabletop.
To Sir John’s right sat Lady Claire in a furred gown of russet wool, her back erect, not a hair showing from beneath her stiff wimple, her eyes on the table before her. At his left slouched their daughter Marie, sullenly picking at the beaded trim on her sleeve. Next was a child of about ten in a plain brown dress, her wide eyes rolling from side to side in her pale, moon-shaped face as she fidgeted in her seat while her nursemaid Lizzie tried to calm her.
“God’s bones!” Sir John shouted, and Blanche jerked in surprise, almost spilling the wine. “Have you taught that fool nothing? If you cannot get her to sit still, she must eat with the servants. I will not break my fast with that imbecile rolling her eyes at me.”
Lizzie flushed, then rose and pulled the girl to her feet. “Come, Lily,” she said. “Julian has porridge for you in the cookhouse.” Lily’s face broke into a smile and she skipped across the rushes, pulling the nursemaid by the hand.
“Hell’s teeth,” said Sir John, shaking his head as he watched them leave. “I should have drowned her in the fishpond as a babe. I may do so yet, for certain she’s no child of mine.” He laughed loudly and slapped his wife’s back when she scowled. “I’ll wager twas a hell-spawned incubus got her on you, my lady, she’s that stupid.” He laughed again and twisted to stare at Blanche. “Where’s my wine?”
Two spots of red appeared high on Lady Claire’s cheeks, but she said nothing. Blanche steadied her grasp on the flagon and poured wine into Sir John’s cup. His hand reached to explore her buttocks and she froze, her jaw clenched. Setting his full cup in front of him, she moved from his reach to pour half a cup for Lady Claire and set the flagon of water by the cup, then stepped around the table to pour a half-cup for Marie. Picking up the tray, she fled from the hall, too slow to escape a final pinch. One day, she promised herself, she would slap him, aye, hard enough to tumble him backwards into the fire. As she burst into the cookhouse, Julian thrust the tray with the toasted bread and cheese into her hands and she pivoted on her heel to go back.
Sir John’s hands were busy pouring himself a second cup of wine as she placed his plate in front of him, and she stepped nimbly around him to serve Lady Claire from the other side. When she put the last plate in front of Marie, Lady Claire frowned at her. “You might at least try to have a pleasant expression on your face,” she said. “Tis sinful to be gloomy when there’s naught to be gloomy about.”
“Aye, my lady,” said Blanche with a forced smile.
When she returned to the cookhouse she banged the tray down onto the work table. Gib looked up with a start, then held his hands in front of himself, leering and wriggling his fingers suggestively. Julian scowled. “You encourage him,” she said. “You must. Twouldn’t happen otherwise.”
“I don’t,” said Blanche, tears starting to her eyes. “I never do!” Lizzie grimaced in sympathy. Lily looked up from her burnt porridge. “Don’t cry,” she said in her slow, slurred voice, offering her bowl to Blanche. “Don’t cry.”
Chapter 2
York, April 1273
Matthew Cordwainer, King’s Coroner of York, unlatched the glazed front window of his house on Saint Martin’s Lane and pushed its two halves open to let in the warm spring air. Almost warm, he corrected himself. Cool. Chilly, in fact. But after a winter spent with windows and shutters tightly latched against snow, sleet, and frigid temperatures, he reveled in the freshness of the morning. The sun shone brightly between roofs of the city houses as it rose, and the day would be warm soon enough. In a fortnight twould be Easter, and spring would truly be here. He put another stick of wood onto the fire and returned to his seat at the oak table, where a half loaf of bread, a thin slab of pale yellow cheese, and a square of butter awaited him. A cup of watered wine sat by a half-empty flagon. He sighed with satisfaction and proceeded to break his fast.
He was finishing his second cup of wine when a knock came at the door. Setting the cup on the table, he sat back and waited. When another knock sounded, he startled to his feet, chastising himself for forgetting. Thomas, his sometime manservant and recently-adopted second son and heir, was with his first, natural son Adam, serving out an apprenticeship as a mercer in the company that he and Adam would one day own jointly. He must learn to answer his door himself.
A stout woman in the grey habit of a Benedictine lay sister stood waiting, her hands clasped beneath the long white scapular that covered the dress front and back. “Master Coroner?” she asked.
“Aye, what is it?”
“Prioress Alyse asks you to come to Clementhorpe as soon as may be,” she said. “There has been a death.”
Cordwainer drew back in surprise. “One of the nuns has died? I have no jurisdiction in the nunnery. Has she informed Abbot Simeon? Or the new Archdeacon?”
“Twas not a nun that died, Master,” she replied. “Twas a visitor, Lady Claire Talbot. She died in the guest house overnight.”
Cordwainer hesitated. As King’s Coroner, he was bound to investigate any unattended death in the city of York and its surroundings, but the religious liberties – including the Saint Peter’s Minster precinct, Saint Leonard’s spitalhouse, Saint Mary’s Abbey, and Clementhorpe Priory – were legal entities unto themselves and guarded their privileges zealously. Were he to be charged with violating those privileges, he could lose any hope of reappointment to his position. Moreover, Archdeacon Godfrey Giffard had only just been appointed by his brother the Archbishop, and Cordwainer did not want to start out on the wrong foot by overstepping his bounds. But neither did he want to refuse Prioress Alyse, whom he liked and respected, and his curiosity had been aroused by her summons. Perhaps her invitation would be enough to allay any ecclesiastical disapproval. “Aye,” he said. “I’ll come.”
Leaving the door open, he drew his cloak and his stiff new leather scrip from their peg and shrugged the cloak around his shoulders, intending to accompany the lay sister to the nunnery. But when he turned back to the door, she was gone. With a snort, he grabbed his stick from where it stood propped at the wall, slung the scrip over his shoulder, and walked out into the lane to look. She was already too far for him to catch up and walking fast with the scapular fluttering in her wake.
He set out down the lane after her. He had gone no more than a few paces when he turned on his heel and returned to the house, where he closed and latched the window. He gave a quick glance around the room. No candles were burning this sunlit morning. What else might he be forgetting? He snorted again and left, locking the door behind him.
He walked briskly down Skeldergate, enjoying the day despite his grim errand. The rains that had plagued the city from the end of February throughout most of March had ended for a time at least, and the dirt street was rutted, but firm and dry. No water dripped from the jettied second stories of the buildings to either side, and the gutter that ran down the center of the street had but a thin trickle of foul-smelling liquid in it. His bad hip ached as it always did, but not as it had in the cold, damp air of winter. He took a deep breath of the morning air. Like the constant noise of carts rumbling and people shouting, the barking of dogs and clucking of chickens; the odors of wood smoke, burning tallow, rotting garbage, and the waste of the city’s human residents and their animals flowing down the river to his left and the gutter to his right were so accustomed that he did not notice them. Twas a glorious spring day.
At the postern by the Old Baile, the guard smiled as he opened the gate. “Tis a fine day for a walk in the countryside, Master Cordwainer,” he said. “May God go with you.”
“Aye,�
� said Cordwainer, raising his stick in salute, “and with you.” He continued to Bishopsgate, noting the buds on the trees and the fresh growth along the roadside with the pleasure of a city man seldom in the country, passed the gnarled oak with its roots snaking up above the earth, and finally arrived at the Clementhorpe gate. Rapping twice with his stick, he settled back on his heels to wait.
He did not have to wait long, for the sound of the heavy iron bar being drawn back came within moments. The gate opened an inch, then swung wide to reveal a young nun with brown eyes and a solemn expression. She nodded to Cordwainer and stepped back to allow him in, but did not wait for his greeting or an explanation for his presence before shutting the gate behind him and striding off toward the guest house. He followed more slowly, watching his footing on the gravel path and looking around the nunnery grounds. The nuns, or perhaps the lay sisters, had been busy since he was last here: the herb and vegetable gardens behind the dormitory had been cleared and early vegetables planted; daffodils and hyacinths bloomed in small beds by the chapel; deadfall and broken limbs had been removed from the orchard. The apple trees were coming into leaf, but had not yet bloomed, and Cordwainer wished the year were later, for twould be a beautiful sight.
The brown-eyed nun waited at the door to the guest house, opening it as he climbed the two stone steps to the entrance. He caught a glimpse of a pleasant reception room filled with light from open windows as he hurried after her up a narrow staircase to the solar. Voices came from a room to his left. The nun knocked once, then opened the door and gestured for him to enter.
The room was filled with the acrid-sweet odor of death. Prioress Alyse and a second nun rose from their knees by the bed as he entered. Most of the ten nuns resident at Clementhorpe never passed the Priory gates again after entering the nunnery, but Cordwainer thought he recognized the woman with Alyse, aye, twas Sister Cecelia. Alyse turned troubled blue eyes to meet his, but Cecelia’s eyes remained downcast, and he could see tears on her cheeks.
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 1