He felt a touch on his arm, and Dafydd said, “Go to York. We will find seed somehow. All Market Weighton will help. Twill be plowed and planted when you return.”
Edgar looked up to see his workers nodding, their faces full of sympathy and determination. He blinked back tears and nodded, not trusting his voice. Together they led the gelding into the barn as the crows cawed raucously over the field. When Edgar turned to walk to the farmhouse and tell Magda what had happened, he heard the sound of his heavy plow scraping against the floorboards of the barn.
◆◆◆
Cordwainer woke to the sound of the Abbey bells ringing Prime. He pulled the bed curtains back and took a deep breath of the cool fresh air that streamed in through the open window. Twas far too early in the year for such weather to last, but he vowed to enjoy it while it did. He pushed all thought of Lady Claire’s death from his mind; twas the Archdeacon’s problem, not his. A small voice in his heart whispered that twould be his problem if twas murder and the killer struck again, but he resolved to ignore it. There was nothing he could do.
Today would be a good day to see how Adam was getting on with his new shop in the city. Dressing quickly, he washed his face and hands in the basin and made his way down the stairs to the table by the fire. He could hear Agytha, his cook and housekeeper, clattering in the kitchen. As he waited for her to bring his breakfast, he studied the hunting tapestry on the far wall. Threads were sticking out where they shouldn’t be, and the lower edge was unraveling. Parts were so faded he could not tell what they were meant to represent. Why had he not noticed how shabby it had become? The tapestry had been a wedding gift from his late wife’s father, and although Cordwainer had never particularly liked it, it had hung on his wall out of respect for the old man for almost three decades. Twas time to replace it with something else.
His eyes moved to the cushioned chair by the window with its worn padded footstool. Aye, that should be replaced as well. The whole house could use freshening up for spring. Not that the bones of it were bad. Twas solidly built, bricks below with good timber above and a slate roof, an oak door, and glazed windows set in deep casements of stone. The stone fireplaces in the front room, bedchamber, and kitchen were large and drew the smoke as they should. But his things were old, most of them in service for decades. The chairs and trestle table were scarred from years of use, as were the bench with its cabinets beneath and the chest that he used as a table by the chair. A layer of scented rushes covered the floor in front of him – at least they were new, having been put down by Agytha yesterday. Everything else needed to be fixed or replaced. He would start with the tapestry and cushions. Perhaps Adam would have something in the shop that could do.
Agytha came bustling in with a cup of ale and a plate with bread and cheese. She was a short, stout woman in a gown of undyed wool and a long apron, her hair covered by a white linen scarf. “I didn’t realize you were up, Master, you were so quiet. I would have been in sooner. Is there aught else you need?”
“Nay, tis fine. I’m off to Stonegate to see Adam’s new shop when I’ve finished eating. Tis another fine day for a walk!”
“Aye.” Agytha stood next to his chair, twisting her hands in her apron. “Tis said, Master, that when the Crown confiscated the shop from that devil Holbrok, twas left just as twas till it sold. Is that true?”
“Aye, tis true in the main.” Cordwainer turned in his chair to look at her. “If there were aught that might bring a good price, twould have been taken out and sold, but I’ve heard nothing of treasures. Why are you asking?”
“Tis just, if all the spices have been left, and Adam not wanting them…with the little clay jars….”
“I will ask,” said Cordwainer. Agytha nodded and hurried back to the kitchen.
◆◆◆
He made his way up Micklegate to Ouse Bridge with his scrip over his shoulder and his stick in his hand, enjoying the feeling of being outdoors without his heavy cloak for the first time that year. Aye, twas a bit cold, but he had found himself sweating so when he walked home from Clementhorpe the day before and the cloak was heavy to carry. Today looked to be just as warm.
The bridge was crowded as always, the fishmongers crying their wares to the folk passing by, and traffic nearly coming to a halt whenever someone stopped to buy. The odor of fish vied with the smell of the public privy at the middle of the span, and Cordwainer breathed a sigh of relief when he had passed and was walking down towards Ousegate, wondering how the folk who lived in the houses perched on the edges of the bridge could tolerate the stink.
He turned left at Coney Street and made his way along the river to Stonegate, then turned right to go up to Adam’s shop. Here the street was quieter and less crowded than on the bridge, for the shops sold mostly luxury items – gold- and silversmiths did not stand outside in the road to call out to passersby, nor did the booksellers or the purveyors of religious goods to York’s many churches and clerical houses. Twas on this street that Cordwainer’s son Adam would sell the most expensive of his goods imported from the south in exchange for northern wool – silks and velvets, mostly, with a scattering of embroidered cloth, lace, and whatever else had caught his agent’s fancy.
A large wagon piled with crates and sacks was stopped in the street outside where he knew the shop to be, with a line of people jostling and complaining behind it as they tried to squeeze by. As Cordwainer got closer he recognized both Adam and Thomas carrying goods from the wagon into the shop. That could be me and Thomas’s father, he thought, were it twenty, nay, forty years ago. His son Adam had inherited his grey eyes and bushy eyebrows, his long nose and high cheekbones. But Adam’s hair was black and cut fashionably along his jawline, his beard trimmed in the Norman fashion, whereas Cordwainer’s hair and beard had been grey for over twenty years, and he wore his hair long and caught back with a leather thong at his nape.
Thomas was a tow-head as his father had been, with a compact frame and upturned nose. Adam Morlond, Thomas’s father, had been Cordwainer’s manservant and best friend. When Adam’s wife Beatrice died, he had gone off to fight the traitor Simon Montfort for King Henry and had been killed in the battle of Lewes. Cordwainer had raised Thomas from a toddler, and the lad had worked as his manservant until just two months ago. Then Cordwainer had decided to adopt him as a second son to share in his inheritance with Adam. Thomas was now serving a somewhat belated apprenticeship as a Mercer under Adam’s tutelage, and Cordwainer was trying to learn to care for himself without a full-time manservant. All in all, Cordwainer thought, Thomas was doing a better job than he was, but he could not let the lad know that, for fear he would give up the apprenticeship to act as manservant again.
He reached the shop door as the wagon trundled off amid shouts and curses from the folk who had been delayed, and Adam turned to greet him. “I thought twas you coming up the street! Come in and let me show you what we’ve done.”
The mingled scents of a dozen spices still clung to the walls of the shop, now mixed with the smells of newly-cut wood and fresh limewash. The high counter where Peter Holbrok had ground his spices had been lowered and extended to provide space for display, while the shelves behind the counter were slowly being filled with items for sale. A row of Italian glass cups with silver rims sat beside a matching glass flagon, and an elaborately carved silver serving platter balanced on its rim behind them. Ribbons and lace spilled artfully from coffers inlaid with mother of pearl. The highest shelf held a row of fat amber candles, and more candles were lit on shelves along the two side walls. Lower shelves held folded lengths of silk and velvet, their rich colors lustrous in the candlelight.
“I hope you’ve got a good lock on that door,” said Cordwainer. “Tis a Saracen’s treasure house in here!”
Adam laughed. “Aye, twill be locked and barred at night,” he said, “both door and shutters. And don’t forget there is a solar. Jankyn will sleep above stairs nights to keep it safe.”
Cordwainer looked at the steep staircase le
ading up to the second story. “Twill be Jankyn who manages the shop?” he asked.
“Aye, though I will be in and out, especially at the beginning,” said Adam. “Thomas will remain at the shop outside Bootham Bar with the woolens for now.” He glanced at the striped curtain that shielded the workroom in the back and lowered his voice. “I want to speak to you privately about Thomas when we have a chance,” he said. At Cordwainer’s look, he added, “Tis nothing wrong, he’s doing fine.”
As if drawn by the sound of his name, Thomas emerged from behind the curtain, wiping the dust from his hands. “Tis all stacked and stowed, though how Jankyn will find aught he’s looking for, I don’t know.” His eyes brightened when he saw Cordwainer. “God give you good day, Master,” he said. “What do you think of our new shop?”
“Tis beautiful,” said Cordwainer. “But it doesn’t seem to have what I need.”
“And what is that?”
“I’ve decided to throw out that old hunting tapestry and I need something to replace it. Aye, and the cushions on my chair and the covering for the padding on the stool. I’ll need good thick wool for the tapestry and something durable for the chair, not silks or velvets.”
“I can keep an eye out for a tapestry,” said Adam, “though I’ve nothing that would suit just now.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re finally getting rid of that old eyesore, are you? I was beginning to think you’d take it with you to your grave.”
Cordwainer snorted. “Twas a gift from your grandsire, young man. You should show some respect.”
“I’ve just the thing to cover the cushion and stool,” said Thomas, “in the old shop outside the Bar. Shall I bring a few lengths home so you can decide on a color?”
“Aye, if you would,” Cordwainer replied. “Twill save me a walk to the countryside if the weather turns.”
Adam rolled his eyes. “The world doesn’t end at Bootham Bar, you know,” he said. “Tis not that far. Twould do you good to go out of the city now and then.” He looked at Thomas and added, “Why don’t you step over to Petergate and get us something to eat and some ale? I could use it after hauling half the stock from that wagon.”
“Aye, Master Adam,” said Thomas. With a nod at Cordwainer, he left and sprinted away up the street.
Adam led Cordwainer through the curtain to the back of the shop. The small workroom was piled high with boxes and crates; sacks of fabric had been thrown onto the tops of the piles. A rushlight burned at one edge of the worktable next to a heap of small bags. Adam rearranged the boxes until each had a sturdy crate to sit on. Cordwainer eyed his son anxiously as he laid his stick on the floor and sat. “What is the problem you’re having with Thomas?”
“As I said, tis not a problem with Thomas himself,” Adam replied. “He learns quickly and is always happy to turn his hand to whatever task I set him. But you know as well as I that if you had not decided to make Thomas your heir, the Guild would never have granted me another apprentice, and – ”
“There’s been grumbling?”
“Aye, some, but none I can’t handle. Tis more that even with the new shop, I’ve not work enough to give him. He spends half his day following me around, supposedly observing what I do, but in actuality doing nothing at all.”
“What do you propose?” Cordwainer held his breath as he waited for Adam’s reply. If Adam wanted to dismiss Thomas once and for all, twould mean he had no intention of keeping his promise to make Thomas half-owner of the business someday. Adam had raised no objections when Cordwainer had first laid out the scheme, even though it meant his inheritance would be cut in half, but he could be having second thoughts. Cordwainer had not intended his adoption of Thomas to cause a rift with his natural son.
“I propose that Thomas come to me in the afternoons after dinner. Twill let me give him whatever has come up during the morning to do, and twill allow Jankyn and Piers to take a late dinner without closing the shops. And of course, if it happens that you need him at any time, you may send for him.”
Cordwainer let out his breath in a long sigh of relief. “Have you spoken to Thomas about this?”
“Aye, and we have agreed. He wanted me to be the one to tell you, for fear you might think I was displeased with him.”
Cordwainer snorted. “I know the lad would not lie to me. He had nothing to fear.”
“Then tis settled,” said Adam, standing up from his crate. “I will keep him with me for the rest of today to finish setting up the shop. Tomorrow, he will be with you till after dinnertime.”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. He picked up one of the small sacks on the worktable and opened it, inhaling the rich scent of cinnamon. “What do you plan to do with Holbrok’s spices?” he asked. “Sell them till they’re gone?”
“I hadn’t decided. They do make the shop smell nice, but tis possible the Spicers will object if I put them up for sale. Besides, I’m not certain we have room.” He waved an arm around the workroom. “Look at all this!”
“Agytha asked if she could have any you did not want,” said Cordwainer.
“Agytha may have all the spices she desires,” Adam replied, “whatever you can carry. I’ll take the rest home to Mary. And in return I shall have my worktable back.”
A bell chimed as the shop door opened. Adam pulled back the curtain and the odor of cooked fish wafted into the workroom. Thomas came in balancing a stack of pies on one arm, with a flagon of ale in his other hand. He placed the flagon carefully on the box that Adam had been sitting on, then handed round the pies. “Are there cups?” he asked, looking around.
“Aye,” said Adam with a laugh, “on the shelf behind the counter. We will celebrate in luxury.”
Thomas looked puzzled, then smiled. “We shall have to be careful not to break them,” he said. He ducked from the room and returned carrying three glass cups. “These were made for fine wines, not Gammer Brewster’s ale, but they’ll do.” He carefully handed cups to Adam and Cordwainer, then poured the ale. They toasted the shop and drank. Cordwainer placed his cup carefully on the table, well back from the edge. Drinking from something so expensive that could break so easily made him nervous. Folk who owned them did so mainly for display, not use. Thomas gave Adam a questioning look.
“Aye,” said Adam. “Tis all settled as we said. You stay today, but bide with my father until after dinner tomorrow.”
Thomas nodded, then grinned at Cordwainer. “In the morning I’ll trim your beard for you, Master,” he said, “and lace the tie on your hair properly.”
Cordwainer grunted. “Tis well enough as tis,” he said. “Though I’d not mind if you carried the laundry out for Agytha and brought in the firewood.” He poked at his pie in irritation. “Fish again,” he grumbled. “When will it be Easter?”
When they had finished eating and Adam and Thomas were busy in the front of the shop arranging their wares, Cordwainer moved his cup to a shelf and began to investigate the bags on the worktable. A box lay beneath the pile, and he opened it to find a supply of small clay jars with cork stoppers packed in straw. This he stuffed into the bottom of his scrip. He opened the bags one after another, smelling and tasting, arranging the bags of the spices he knew or thought he might like on top of the box until the scrip bulged and he wondered if he would be able to carry the weight. He hefted it in one hand and nodded. There was a bit more room. Standing, he carefully unhooked a string of garlic bulbs from where they hung by the wall and squeezed it into the top. Twas important to keep Agytha happy.
When he emerged from the shop, the day had indeed grown warm, and he trudged down Stonegate happy he had not worn his cloak. By the time he approached the Ouse Bridge, the heavy scrip had begun to chafe, and he was wishing he had packed fewer of the spices. A stray dog prowled at the foot of the bridge, growling and snapping at passersby. Cordwainer raised his stick in threat and the dog slunk away, tail between its legs. A woman behind him let out a sigh of relief, then began complaining loudly that the Mayor should order the bailiffs to keep
such animals from the streets. Cordwainer stepped aside to let her pass, then let the heavy scrip drop to the stone of the bridge and massaged his shoulder. Twas not far now, even if twas uphill on Micklegate. With a grunt, he hefted the scrip and continued, his head down to keep the sun from his eyes.
When he had crossed the bridge, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath and adjust the strap of the scrip. The sound of galloping hoofs reached his ears and he looked up just in time to flatten himself against the bridge guardhouse as a rider thundered past. A chorus of curses followed in his wake as people stopped to stare. A woman who had fallen in her panic was helped to her feet and brushed off, but seemed unhurt.
Cordwainer shook his head in amazement and breathed a prayer of thanksgiving that the rider had harmed no one, at least not yet. Riding a horse through the narrow streets of the city was forbidden save in exceptional circumstances, and each Bar had a stable next to it where travelers could board their mounts. When riding was permitted, twas expected that the rider would keep his horse to a walk. One of the gatekeepers from Micklegate Bar was striding up the street toward the bridge with a grim look on his face, accompanied by a bailiff. People called out complaints, but the two simply nodded and continued walking. Cordwainer recognized his old friend Rolf and hailed him as the men came near. “Hell’s teeth, Rolf! Who was that?”
“Twas Sir John Talbot,” called Rolf, not breaking stride. “He’ll be called to account for it, you may be certain of that.”
Cordwainer watched the two men as they proceeded over the Bridge, then turned back to continue his way home. So that was Lady Claire’s husband. Was it grief that made him so reckless? Tis none of my affair, he reminded himself. Yet if anyone had to deal with Sir John in that state, he hoped twould be the Archdeacon, not Prioress Alyse. After all, he thought with a snort, twas his jurisdiction.
Chapter 6
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 5