[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose

by Joyce Lionarons

  Both women wore the black habits, stiff white wimples and black veils of their order, the only sign of the Prioress’s status the cluster of keys hanging from her belt. A wooden crucifix hung at her breast, and Alyse fingered it as she greeted him. Although in early middle age, her pale face was unmarked, and her arched brows and rosebud lips were those of a romance heroine rather than a nun. Once again Cordwainer found himself wondering how a such a beautiful woman had come to make her life in the cloister. To have reached the rank of Prioress, she would have come from good, most likely noble family, and such families were far more likely to make a profitable marriage for a beautiful daughter than to give her – or allow her to go – to God. He pushed the thoughts away, knowing twas none of his concern, and examined his surroundings.

  The room was small, with a narrow curtained bed and a bench with cabinets beneath it. Tallow candles burned on a shelf above the bench, and a single wax candle sat unlit on a low tabletop set on trestles by the bed, which also held a metal basin and wooden pitcher for washing. A pewter cup sat next to the candle, its interior showing the clouded dregs of a measure of wine. A plain wooden cross hung on the wall. Herb-scented rushes were strewn on the floor, and a window set in a deep casement on the far wall was open, but a faint odor of vomit lingered in the room even over the stench of death, and recently-scrubbed floorboards bare of rushes by the bed bore witness to its inhabitant’s illness.

  Cordwainer crossed himself and approached the bed. The curtains and bedclothes had been thrown back and the body of a middle-aged woman clad in a night shift lay contorted on a puffy feather bed – the only trace of luxury in the room. Her mouth gaped, and her bulging eyes were traced red with a network of broken veins. The arched back and twisted torso gave silent testimony to an agonizing death. “She is as we found her,” said the Prioress, “save that we wiped the sick from her face. Her limbs are yet too stiff to straighten.”

  Cordwainer turned to face her. “Was it you who found her, Reverend Mother?”

  Alyse sighed. “Nay. Her daughter was sleeping in the next room and came to wake her when the bells rang for Prime. Her screams brought us running from the chapel.”

  “Where is the daughter now?”

  “Sister Anne took her to the refectory. I am afraid she will be able to tell you nothing. The girl is … simple. I don’t believe she quite understands that her mother is dead – that she even understands what death is.” Alyse nodded toward the bed. “She looks as if she died in great pain. Could such a death be natural?”

  “I do not know. Was she ill when she arrived?”

  “Nay, or at least she did not seem ill. She complained of a headache yesterevening. Sister Cecelia prepared a powder for her, to be mixed into her wine.” A sob came from the second nun, and a spate of fresh tears ran down her cheeks. “Twas the same as I always make,” she burst out. “Twas nothing that might harm her in it!”

  “Hush, Sister, calm yourself,” said Alyse, placing a hand on Cecelia’s arm. “No one believes this your fault.”

  Cordwainer turned to the crying nun. “What was in the powder?” he asked.

  Cecelia sniffled and took a breath. “Twas feverfew mostly, with lavender and sage, and a bit of willow bark. It could not harm her. It could not kill her.” She gasped, struggling to hold back her tears.

  “No one has said it did,” said the Prioress in a stern voice. Cecelia bobbed her head and sniffled again. Her chest heaved as she stifled a sob. Alyse turned her gaze back to Cordwainer. “We must discover how Lady Claire died. How do you suggest we proceed?”

  “Perhaps your Infirmarian…?”

  “Sister Cecelia is our Infirmarian. As you can see, this is beyond her skill.” Cecelia’s face turned a deeper red, and the sob burst out.

  “In that case, Reverend Mother, I should like – ”

  Footsteps sounded on the stair and they turned to look. Simeon, Abbot of Saint Mary’s monastery, entered the room, followed by a barrel-chested man wearing a red robe and hat with a silver crucifix hanging from a chain around his neck. Simeon gave a puzzled nod to Cordwainer. He was a tall, slender man with thoughtful grey eyes and prominent cheekbones. His companion was shorter, with dark eyes, a large nose, and the bearing of a man used to having his way. Although Cordwainer had never seen him before, he knew this could only be Archdeacon Godfrey Giffard, brother to the Archbishop.

  The two clerics crossed themselves and stepped forward to view the body, standing silent for several moments. When they turned, Godfrey’s eyes fixed on Cordwainer. “Who are you?” he demanded. “And why are you here?”

  Cordwainer stammered, “Your Grace, I am Matthew Cordwainer. I was summoned by Prioress Alyse.”

  “Master Cordwainer is the King’s Coroner,” Simeon murmured.

  “King’s Coroner? You know you have no jurisdiction here?”

  “Aye, your Grace.”

  The Archdeacon’s eyes moved to the Prioress. “Why did you summon a secular authority? He has no business here.”

  Prioress Alyse bowed her head, then raised it to look the Archdeacon in the eyes. “I felt, your Grace, that it would be beneficial to consult someone with experience in determining the manner of a death when it is in question, as it is here.”

  The Archdeacon’s face reddened. “Is there no one within the Church whom you would trust to make such a determination? No one we might consult whom we could be confident would not spread word of his findings throughout the city, should the death prove unnatural?”

  “None with the same experience and expertise, your Grace.” Her voice was calm, although Cordwainer could see that her fingers were clutched tightly around the wooden cross. “Master Cordwainer has proven himself in the past to be no gossip.”

  “Tis true, your Grace,” murmured Simeon.

  Godfrey glared at Alyse, then stepped back to the bed to gaze silently at the body of Lady Claire. When he raised his head, he spoke without turning. “If this were your jurisdiction, which it is not, Master Coroner, how would you say that Lady Claire died?”

  “I would hesitate to say anything, your Grace, until she could be examined by a physician. But it does not look like a natural death.”

  Godfrey turned to face him. “A physician, you say. Perhaps a canon of Saint Leonard’s? Which of them would you summon?”

  Cordwainer hesitated. The Archdeacon’s stare could melt iron. “With no disrespect to the canons, your Grace, if twere in my jurisdiction, I would summon my lord Stefan de Vale. He is, I believe, the finest physician in York.”

  Godfrey’s eyes stayed on Cordwainer. “Are you familiar with this de Vale, Abbot Simeon?”

  “Aye, your Grace. He is indeed a fine physician and may be trusted not to spread scandal.”

  “There is no scandal here,” said the Archdeacon. He pursed his lips, scowling. “Very well, summon de Vale.”

  Alyse looked at Sister Cecelia and nodded. Cecelia wiped her eyes. “Do you know, Master Cordwainer, where he can be found?” she asked.

  “Tis morning, he will be at Saint Leonard’s,” replied Cordwainer. “If not, the canons will know where he is.”

  Archdeacon Godfrey raised an eyebrow, “So he is known to the canons? Good. Have one of the canons accompany him here, Sister, do you understand?”

  Cecelia nodded. “Aye, your Grace,” she said. “I will tell the lay sister.”

  “See that you do so.” Godfrey watched as the nun left the room. “Now, Master…Cordwainer, is it? Were this your jurisdiction,” the hint of a smile appeared on Godfrey’s lips, “as we know it is not, what would be your next step?”

  Cordwainer frowned. Did the Archdeacon think this a game? He was tempted to walk out and let Godfrey conduct the investigation himself, but his curiosity and his regard for the Prioress made him stay. “I would look at the Lady’s belongings to see if aught might help me in determining what has happened.”

  “Her belongings? And what might you expect to find?”

  “Tis possible the Lady
was ill before she came to Clementhorpe. She may have physiks that could tell us – or tell my lord Stefan at any rate – the nature of that illness.”

  “I see,” said Godfrey. He nodded once and gestured toward a pair of leather bags that lay open across the bench. “You may proceed.”

  Cordwainer rifled through first one bag, then the other. The first held clean clothing: a gown and undershift, hosiery, a wimple, and two veils. The second had a soft leather pouch stuffed into the top, and he set it aside for further investigation. Below the pouch were soap, hair combs, a small sewing kit, several linen handkerchiefs, and a bundle tied up in cloth. Upon opening it, he found three sheets of unused vellum, two quills, and a stoppered ink pot. There was also a letter that seemed to have been written by Lady Claire’s daughter, for it contained a salutation to ‘Mama.’ If so, mother and daughter were not on the best of terms, for the letter upbraided both the Lady and her husband for reneging on a large part of the daughter’s dowry. It was signed ‘Marie.’

  “Twould appear, your Grace, that there is dissension within Lady Claire’s family.” He offered the letter to the Archdeacon, who glanced briefly at it and handed it back. Cordwainer replaced the letter and writing materials into their cloth and turned his attention to the pouch.

  He lifted it, hefting its weight, then unlaced the top and peered inside. As he had expected, it held coins, mostly silver but with more gold than he would have thought Lady Claire would be likely to carry. “Coins,” he said, “many of them gold.” He tied the top again and placed it into the bag, then bent to set the bag back onto the bench. Something lying amid the rushes caught his eye.

  “Here, what’s this?” As Godfrey leaned over to look, Cordwainer knelt to find a second leather pouch, much smaller than the first, almost invisible in the shadows. He reached for it, then hoisted himself up onto the bench with a loud grunt. Settling himself next to the bags, he picked at the slender lacings with his fingernails. The tight knot refused to give, and he cursed under his breath, ignoring the soft chuckle from the Archdeacon at his profanity. Prioress Alyse drew an eating knife from her belt and offered it to him, but the knot gave way and the pouch opened. Inside was a small quantity of light brown powder.

  “What is it?” asked Godfrey, peering over Cordwainer’s shoulder.

  “I’m not certain, your Grace,” Cordwainer replied. “I would guess tis indeed some sort of physik, it looks like the dried root of a plant, ground very fine.” He licked the end of his finger and touched the powder, then lifted it to his nose and sniffed. He shook his head. “I do not know.” His finger tingled and grew numb. “Whatever tis, tis strong,” he added. “Tis as if my finger burns and is numb at the same time.”

  He was lifting his finger to his mouth to taste when a hand grabbed his arm. “Nay, Matthew, wash that from your hand at once.”

  “Stefan! I’m glad you’re here. What is this physik?”

  “Wash your hand and I will tell you.” Stefan took the pouch from Cordwainer and sniffed delicately, then gently stirred the powder with a dry finger. De Vale was a slender, compact man of medium height, with dark hair and hazel eyes. A university-trained physician at odds with his noble family, whom he had disappointed by choosing a secular life rather than a career in the Church, Stefan divided his time equally between helping the canon-physicians of Saint Leonard’s spitalhouse in the mornings and visiting wealthy, paying patients in the afternoons. He shared with Cordwainer a fascination with history, and the two had long been friends.

  “Tis wolfsbane,” he said, “the root, I think, dried and ground. Tis a deadly poison.”

  “Where is the canon?” asked Godfrey.

  Stefan looked up and started, then bowed his head. “Forgive me, your Grace,” he said. “I was intent on keeping my colleague from poisoning himself and did not notice who else was in the room.”

  “That is no matter,” said Godfrey. “But you were meant to be accompanied by a canon of Saint Leonard’s.”

  Stefan turned, then gestured toward a short man in the brown habit of an Augustinian canon who was trying to push his way into the crowded room. “Come, Father,” Godfrey said, “and tell me if you agree with the physician here.”

  Abbot Simeon flattened himself against the wall so the canon could enter, then squeezed out of the room to join Sister Cecelia by the stairs. Cordwainer, standing by the wash basin, suppressed a snort as the Prioress glanced at him, her lip twitching in a half smile. Stefan handed the pouch to the canon, who glanced into it and shook his head.

  “My lord de Vale would know better than I, your Grace,” he said. “If he thinks tis wolfsbane, tis wolfsbane.” His eyes flicked from the Archdeacon to Stefan and back again, and his pug nose twitched.

  “Are you not also a physician, Father – ?”

  “Gabriel,” said the canon. “Aye, I am a healer, but I am neither as skilled nor as knowledgeable in herblore as my lord de Vale is.”

  Godfrey grunted. “This wolfsbane, as you call it, has it any use as physik?” Father Gabriel looked down with a slight shrug. Godfrey turned to glare at Stefan.

  “Aye,” Stefan replied. “Some use. But it should be administered only by one who is both knowledgeable and experienced. I am not certain I would trust myself with it, tis that deadly.” He looked at the body lying on the bed, then glanced at Cordwainer, clearly puzzled to see him in attendance at a death in the nunnery.

  “Master Cordwainer is helping us with our investigation of Lady Claire’s death,” said Godfrey, “although tis not in his jurisdiction.” A wry smile reached his lips. “I would like you and Father Gabriel to examine the body, my lord de Vale, and tell me if she died from this wolfsbane.”

  After another puzzled look at Cordwainer, Stefan crossed himself and approached the body as Gabriel pushed in beside him. He looked silently, then bent to examine the eyes more closely. His nostrils flared, and he stood, glancing at Gabriel. The canon nodded. Reaching out, Gabriel closed the eyes and pushed at the jaw, slowly closing the mouth. “Her muscles are softening,” he said. “You will soon be able to straighten the body.”

  The two men crossed themselves again and turned to the Archdeacon. Stefan spoke. “Aye, your Grace, I believe tis aconite poisoning from wolfsbane, whether the wolfsbane in the pouch or not, I do not know, though it seems most likely. How was it administered?”

  “She asked the Infirmarian for headache powder to mix in her wine,” said Cordwainer, indicating the pewter cup. “Someone – the lady herself or another – must have added the wolfsbane to the mixture.”

  Stefan picked up the cup by the bed and held it beneath his nose to sniff, then cautiously dipped a finger into the dregs. With a sharp intake of breath, he plunged his hand into the washbasin and washed vigorously. “Aye,” he said. “Twas in the wine.”

  Godfrey turned to Cordwainer. “You said ‘another.’ Are you suggesting this is murder, Master Coroner? Or, may God forgive us, self-murder?”

  “There is no proof, your Grace,” Cordwainer replied, “though either would be possible. There is no evidence of another person having access to the powder once twas delivered, and I am certain the nun who compounded it is innocent. Nor is there a reason to think the Lady planned to kill herself. Tis possible she believed the wolfsbane would strengthen the physik, but added too much by accident.”

  Stefan looked unconvinced. “Wolfsbane would have increased her pain, not lessened it. Are we indeed certain the Infirmarian did not make a mistake?” he asked. “Could she have added the wolfsbane by accident?”

  “Nay,” said Prioress Alyse. “We do not grow wolfsbane in our gardens, and our Infirmarian, limited though she may be in her abilities, is aware of her limitations. She would not keep such poisons to hand. If the wolfsbane caused her death, Lady Claire must have added it herself.”

  Stefan bowed slightly. “And yet aconite poisoning is not a death to be wished for,” he said. “If the Lady truly wanted to die, I cannot believe she would not have found an easier way. You
have seen her body, you know she died in agony.”

  The Archdeacon shifted irritably on his feet. “Accident or self-murder? We cannot debate the matter all day. We must come to a resolution, preferably before we send a messenger to inform her husband of her death. May we agree at least that the Lady was not murdered?”

  They all looked at Cordwainer. “Twould bear looking into,” he said, frowning, “if twere my jurisdiction.”

  Godfrey glared at him. “Which it is not,” he said. “Then I say again: is it accident or self-murder? That is the most important question, as I am certain you understand.”

  Cordwainer nodded. Suicide was an unpardonable sin that damned the soul for all eternity. If they were to determine that Lady Claire had indeed killed herself, she would be forbidden Christian burial and her remains would rest in unconsecrated soil. He stood wrestling with the question. There seemed no logical way that the death could have been accidental. All of his instincts and experience said twas murder, perhaps suicide. If murder, then the killer must have dropped the pouch in their haste to escape. If not, why would Lady Claire have been traveling with wolfsbane at all? Surely, she knew twas poison; if she had mixed it into her wine, twas by design, not accident. He did not think the Archdeacon would accept that conclusion. In any case, he reminded himself, he had no way of knowing what her intentions had been.

  “Prioress Alyse,” he asked, “did Lady Claire seem despondent when you spoke with her? I do not wish you to reveal her secrets, but had she come to Clementhorpe to escape what may have seemed an insurmountable problem?”

  “Nay, there were no secrets, and if anything, she left me angry rather than despondent,” the Prioress replied. “Lady Claire came to offer her daughter to Clementhorpe as a novice. She was angry because I refused to admit her.”