[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose

by Joyce Lionarons

  “Her daughter? And you refused?” said the Archdeacon. “But why on earth….” He stopped and took a deep breath. “We shall discuss your decision later, in private. For now, the important thing is that you saw no sign of despondency.”

  Godfrey turned to Cordwainer. “Come, Master Coroner, if I am to consult you for your expertise, I am entitled to an answer. Speak.”

  Cordwainer grimaced. “I believe, your Grace, that tis impossible to determine with certainty. As you say, we could argue the question all day and come no nearer to an answer. You do not wish to consider the possibility that the death is a murder. If tis a question between accident and self-murder, in a case such as this, tis my practice to lean toward compassion. May our Lord in heaven be her judge.”

  The Archdeacon nodded his satisfaction. “When her limbs have softened sufficiently, please have the sisters prepare her body,” he said to the Prioress. “She will lie in the chapel here until her husband can come for her. You and I will speak below stairs of the daughter.”

  “Aye, your Grace,” said Alyse.

  Godfrey picked up the small pouch of poison and tied the lace tightly. “I will take this to keep it safe. Perhaps I can learn why Lady Claire was carrying it from Sir John.” He turned to Cordwainer and Stefan. “I thank you, my lord de Vale and Master Cordwainer, for your expertise in deciding the matter. I trust I need not remind you that our discussion today is not to be spoken of elsewhere.”

  “Of course, your Grace,” said Stefan, as Cordwainer nodded assent.

  “Father Gabriel, I thank you for your help, such as it was.” Gabriel flushed and looked away. “Abbot Simeon – where is Abbot Simeon?”

  “Here, your Grace,” said Simeon from the door.

  “Simeon, thank you for accompanying me. There is no need for you to wait while I speak with Prioress Alyse. I believe I can find my way back to the Minster on my own.” The Archdeacon looked once more towards the bed where Lady Claire lay, crossed himself, and swept from the room. His boots echoed on the staircase as he descended.

  Prioress Alyse smiled sadly at Cordwainer. “I, too, thank you for coming, and you as well, my lord de Vale, Father Gabriel. I must not keep the Archdeacon waiting. May you go with God.” She followed Godfrey down the stairs.

  Abbot Simeon shook his head as he watched her go, then stepped into the room. “I would not like to have to explain to the Archdeacon my reasoning for refusing a novice from one of the largest landowners in Yorkshire,” he said. He gave a wry smile. “Though perhaps if I had the Prioress’s courage, much trouble could have been avoided.”

  Cordwainer nodded, the memory of a Saint Mary’s novice who had killed two women and attacked the Prioress three months earlier fresh in his mind. “Tis always plain in hindsight what should have been done,” he said. “Has Brother Ambrose been tried for his crimes?”

  “Nay, not yet,” Simeon replied. “His Grace the Archbishop has not been in York since the death of King Henry, and I daresay will not be until Edward is back from pilgrimage and can be crowned. I pray it may be soon; tis a dangerous thing for a land to be without a king.”

  “Edward has been pronounced King even though he is not yet crowned,” said Gabriel. “Or so tis said.”

  “Tis also said the pilgrimage has been cut short, and Longshanks on his way home,” said Stefan. “I see no cause for alarm. Mortimer will keep the Barons in line, and tis certain Burnel will be Edward’s Chancellor. Along with His Grace the Archbishop, the regents should have no trouble keeping the peace until he arrives.”

  “Aye, the Prince, or the King if that is what we are to call him, is coming home, but too slowly,” said Simeon. “Tis almost a year since Henry died. Edward cannot arrive too soon for me. Perhaps then His Grace the Archbishop may return to spiritual concerns. The Archdeacon is a good man, but he needs must spend his time on practical matters. We are in need of spiritual guidance.”

  “Tis more than spiritual guidance we need,” argued Gabriel. “The law needs enforcing and the lords great and small brought under control. Nay, I am not speaking of treason,” he added as Stefan began to protest. “We do not see it so much in York, perhaps, for Sheriff de Bury is an honest man. But other folk are suffering from outrages perpetrated by the great upon the small with no recourse save to a Sheriff who cares more for his purse than for justice. Tis to be hoped that Edward will put it right when he comes.”

  Cordwainer found his stick and edged toward the staircase. Politics bored him, though he knew he should pay more attention to them as they so often led to war. Twas the unending prattle about matters that could not be affected by folk such as they that drove him mad. He cleared his throat. “God give you good day, Stefan, Father,” he said. “Tis time I were on my way.”

  “Wait, Matthew, and I will walk with you,” said Stefan. “Will you join us, Father? My lord Abbot?”

  “Nay,” said Simeon. “I will watch by the body till the sisters come, and pray. May God go with you.”

  “Aye, I’ll come,” said Gabriel. “But we must walk quickly. I am needed at Saint Leonard’s.”

  Cordwainer and Stefan descended the stair in silence, followed by the canon. The brown-eyed nun waited by the guesthouse door to escort them from the nunnery. When the gate was shut and barred behind them, Gabriel let out a long breath in relief. “I felt a right fool in there,” he said. “Stefan, are you certain the lady died of poison? She looked to me as if she had suffocated.”

  “Aye,” said Stefan, “twas the poison. Aconite freezes the muscles of the heart and lungs. She died trying to draw breath.”

  Gabriel nodded. He strode quickly up Bishopsgate, then turned with a look of surprise and waited for the others to catch up. Cordwainer trudged stolidly along the road, thinking about Lady Claire’s death. It made no sense save as suicide or murder. Twas wrong to call it accident. Twould not be so bad if he could convince himself twas suicide, though he shuddered at the thought. But if twas murder, a killer was loose in York. The Priory was not in his jurisdiction, he reminded himself. Twas the Archdeacon’s problem. Yet he feared twould become his problem if the killer struck again.

  He glanced around, trying to recover his pleasure in the sunny day, and realized that Father Gabriel was far ahead. But his hip had begun to ache, and he was sweating in his heavy cloak. With a loud snort he stopped and handed his scrip and stick to Stefan. “Let me get this off before I faint,” he said. Shrugging off the heavy wool, he draped the cloak over his arm while Stefan waited, then positioned the scrip on his shoulder.

  Gabriel walked back a few paces and called out to them, “I must hurry to Saint Leonard’s. God give you good day!” He turned and scurried up the road toward the postern gate.

  Cordwainer snorted again. “Is he truly a decent physician?” he asked. “He did look a fool next to you.”

  “Aye, he is,” Stefan replied. “But his skill lies in wounds and broken limbs, not poisons. I suppose the Archdeacon wanted a man of the Church to discover the cause of the lady’s death, as it occurred in the liberty. I was happy to help.”

  They walked in companionable silence through the postern and into the city. As they made their way down Skeldergate, Stefan chuckled. “Matthew,” he said, “are you feeling all right?”

  “Aye. Whatever would make you ask that?”

  “Tis just that I have never seen you diplomatic before. You know as well as I that the Lady’s death was no accident. Not that I care where she is buried. If the Archdeacon wants to call a suicide an accident to avoid a scandal for a wealthy donor, so be it. You are not usually so accommodating.”

  Cordwainer grunted. “Aye,” he said. “But the Archdeacon is right that tis not my jurisdiction, and he was already angry with Prioress Alyse for summoning me. Twas she who would have borne his anger had I argued, and twas he who would make the final decision on the Lady’s death. I do not argue when twill do no good and hurt another besides.”

  Stefan laughed. “You are right, of course, though I would never h
ave thought to hear such words from you. Perhaps you are finally learning your limitations,” he said. “Tis said we grow wise as we grow older – though you have shown no sign of it so far.”

  Cordwainer lifted his stick and struck Stefan lightly on the back. “Tis because I have not yet grown old, whatever my years may be. Yet I am wiser than you, you young scamp!”

  “Aye, and older,” said Stefan.

  Chapter 3

  York, April 1273

  Prioress Alyse stood with the Archdeacon in her reception chamber, her hands clenched tightly together within her sleeves. A stack of vellum on her writing table ruffled in the breeze from the open window, and her veil fluttered. Tallow candles stood unlit in the sunshine, and the silver threads worked into a tapestry of the Annunciation glittered behind her. A girl of fifteen with a pale, moon-shaped face sat on a low bench that ran along the wall. She wore a linen headscarf and an unadorned gown of brown wool. Although both Alyse and Godfrey were watching her closely, she seemed oblivious to their presence. A thin coil of blond hair had escaped her scarf and she had tucked the end into her mouth and was chewing on it. On her lap lay a carved wooden doll, which she was carefully undressing.

  “As you can see, the girl has not the makings of a nun,” said Alyse. “She is too simple to be taught the Office, she cannot even dress herself properly without help. She would be unable to fulfill the duties of a novice, much less a nun.”

  Reaching down, she pulled the hair from the girl’s mouth. The girl rolled her eyes up to Alyse and her face creased in an open-mouthed smile. Her eyes rolled to Godfrey as the smile rounded into an oval. At his frown, her head dropped, and she continued pulling at the doll’s clothing.

  “Can she speak?”

  “Aye, though it is sometimes hard to understand what she says.”

  Godfrey sighed. “I do understand your reservations,” he said. “But the girl is the daughter of Sir John Talbot, whom I had planned to ask for a donation to help pay for the building of the Minster. How can we accept his coin if we cannot accept his daughter?”

  Alyse took a breath and straightened her back as her anger flared. “The vocation of a nun is not for sale, nor is a convent a waste bin for the unwanted daughters of the wealthy. Would you have me be guilty of the sin of simony, your Grace?”

  “Nay, of course not,” said Godfrey, “and I would advise you to watch your tongue, lest you accuse me of the same sin. There is no question of exchange. I simply want you to consider if there is any function at all she might perform in your nunnery that would allow you to admit her, even if she cannot do as the others. You might regard it as an act of charity.”

  Alyse closed her eyes and prayed for patience. “It is possible that she might, with proper supervision of course, be taught to perform simple manual labor.”

  Godfrey’s face reddened. “Do not try my temper, Reverend Mother. I will not have Sir John’s daughter be a lay sister or a servant. If it was this you suggested to Lady Claire, it is no wonder she left you in anger.”

  “I suggested to Lady Claire that Lily be cared for by the nuns at Saint Leonard’s, as she cannot care for herself.”

  At her name, the girl raised her head and smiled again, then shrank back in fear as the Archdeacon burst out, “You what? As if she were an indigent orphan? It is no wonder Lady Claire was angry. You will suggest nothing of the sort to Sir John when he arrives. And if he desires burial on the nunnery grounds for his wife, I will expect you to find room for her – Why is the girl crying?”

  “You have frightened her,” said Alyse as she knelt by Lily, caressing the girl’s round cheek and tucking her hair back into the scarf. Lily’s sobs diminished, and she gave Alyse another open-mouthed smile. “Lady Claire may have burial at Clementhorpe if Sir John wishes, but he shall have to take his daughter home with him.”

  Godfrey clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he spoke in a gentler tone. “I will pray for guidance in this matter, Prioress, and I ask you to do the same. We will speak of it again before Sir John arrives, and if God wills it, we will have found a solution by then. I do not wish to interfere in the selection of your novices.”

  But you will, thought Alyse, if I do not change my mind. She held out her hand to Lily, who took it and stood, letting the doll slide to the floor. Why am I certain you would not require Simeon to admit an unfit monk? Aloud, she replied, “Yes, your Grace. I will pray.”

  When the Archdeacon had gone, she gazed down at Lily, wondering if she could perhaps be wrong. Such a sweet girl, but she would need care for the rest of her life. There was nothing she could do in the nunnery save make work for the nuns – or the lay sisters, more likely. “Come, Lily, let us walk in the orchard and pray,” she said. Lily smiled at her.

  They walked together out into the sunlight, then in under the shadows of the trees. Lily began to sing in a high voice, a wordless crooning broken by cries of pleasure as a bird perched above them or a mouse crept through the grass. Alyse prayed that a place might be found for her somewhere. She could not become a nun.

  Blanche

  Talbot Manor, December 1267

  The great hall was filled with the odors of Christmas. Julian was baking mincemeat pies, a great haunch of venison was roasting by the fire in the cookhouse, and Blanche stood with her arms full of fragrant pine boughs and bright sprigs of holly, handing them one by one to Gib on his ladder, who was draping the boughs between the great torches in their iron sconces, placing the holly with its glossy red berries between each loop. Lily sat among the rushes on the floor playing with a wooden doll, her nursemaid Lizzie keeping a watchful eye. Logs crackled and sputtered in the fireplace, and Lily sang a hymn without the words in an endless la la la. Lady Claire and Marie had gone to Hull shopping for gifts, and Sir John was blessedly out hunting. Blanche hummed along with Lily’s hymn until the last of the boughs were hung.

  “Tis beautiful!” Lizzie announced, clapping her hands. “Even better than last year. Gib, you’re a marvel.” The kitchen boy mumbled something into the wall, blushing a deep crimson as Blanche added her approval to Lizzie’s. Even Lily looked up and cooed appreciatively.

  With a crash, the iron-studded doors at the front of the hall slammed open, and Sir John and his hunting master entered along with the steward Eric Holt and two manservants carrying a gutted deer lashed upside down on a pole between them. Lily screamed in terror at the noise, clapping her hands over her ears. Blood dripped from the carcass as the men carried it up the center of the hall, the hunting dogs circling and snapping at the drops as they fell. As they passed the small group of servants by the wall, the largest dog made a wild leap, knocking Lily to her back.

  Lizzie sprang up as Lily began to howl, pulling the girl onto her feet and rushing her past the fireplace and out the door. Gib leapt down from the ladder with a low curse meant for Blanche’s ears, and she followed close behind him out of the hall and down the path to the cookhouse as Sir John called loudly for wine behind them.

  “Don’t bring her in here!” Julian snapped at Lizzie as Blanche rushed in. Lizzie turned and pushed Lily back outside. The sound of the girl’s wailing echoed from the manor house walls as Lizzie took her back into the passageway to the hall and pushed her up the staircase.

  Pulling the mazers from their shelf, Blanche broached a new cask of wine and filled the largest flagon she could find. The men would drink for the rest of the day, and she wished to enter the hall as seldom as possible. With a deep breath she lifted the flagon and turned to find the servants with the deer carcass behind her. Julian waved her cleaver and shouted, “Take that to the cold house! Make certain tis butchered properly before you leave it, or I’ll have your heads.”

  As the men moved toward the garden door, Blanche pushed past into Julian’s view. “Give Sir John his wine and be back right quick,” the cook snapped. “I want that blood cleaned from my floor before the rats in the cellar smell it.”

  Blanche nodded and rushed back to
the great hall. Sir John had seated himself in his chair, and a bench had been pulled from the wall for Holt and the hunting master. The dogs had settled by the fire and lay panting in the rushes. She set the mazers on the end of the bench and poured, handing the first to Sir John, who grasped it with both hands and emptied the wine into his mouth. “Wassail!” he shouted as the other men raised their bowls.

  Leaving the flagon on the bench, Blanche turned towards the back passageway. Sir John’s arms went around her waist, pulling her onto his lap. Forcing a smile, she struggled to rise, but he held her fast, one hand groping up to her breast. The hunting master gave a great guffaw, but Holt shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

  “My lord, I am needed in the kitchen,” she said, pulling his hand away. He slapped her wrist and grabbed again at her breast, pinching the nipple hard enough that tears started into her eyes.

  “My lord, let her go,” said Holt. “You’ve hurt and frightened her.” Sir John gaped at him, then scowled as the sound of hoofbeats rose outside the still-open door. “Do not presume to tell me what I can do with my servants, Eric,” he said, his eyes narrowing as he tightened his grip around Blanche. “Do not forget that elevated as you are, you are but a servant as well.” He held Holt’s eyes for a long moment, then barked out a laugh. “Though as my lady wife is home, I will let the wench go.”

  With a final, vicious twist to her nipple, he pushed Blanche away. She scurried from the hall, grateful to have kept her footing, as Lady Claire stepped inside.

  Blanche entered the cookhouse with a gasp of relief, to be met with a slap from Julian’s right hand. “You were to come straight back, not stay flirting with Sir John and his men,” said the cook. “Now scrub that floor before I have your head!”