York, April 1273
Sir John Talbot pulled his mount up short at the gatehouse to Saint Peter’s liberty, where two guards in the Archbishop’s livery stood blocking his way with swords drawn. He had returned to his manor from teaching that peasant Westcote a lesson to find a courier from the Archdeacon waiting in the yard with the news of his wife’s death. The blasted messenger had known no details and twas too late to ride out, so he had drunk the night away. At dawn he had ridden without stopping to York, the courier and his steward Jarrold trailing behind. The fools were most likely stabling their horses as the gatekeepers demanded and would be shuffling their way up the street like the other commoners of this overgrown village. He slid from his saddle and tossed the reins of the sweating horse to one of the guards, then turned to the second. “Take me to the Archdeacon,” he demanded. “Now!”
The guards stared at him impassively, and for a moment he thought they would defy him, but finally the second guard sheathed his sword and with a jerk of his head indicating that Sir John should follow, turned up a path into the Minster liberty without a word. He followed on the guard’s heels until they were met by a monk who introduced himself as the Archdeacon’s secretary. The monk was at least polite as he walked with him to the Archdeacon’s residence and showed him into large room with open windows all along the west wall.
Once seated with a goblet of wine in hand, Sir John allowed himself to relax enough to take in his surroundings. The rich tapestries and tall brass candlesticks were fine enough, though twas pity they weren’t silver. No rushes on the floor to catch the dirt, twas polished to a high shine. Turning in his chair, he saw that a servant was already sweeping up the dust he had tracked in and gave a barking laugh. He eyed the Archdeacon’s chair with its embroidered cushions and carved armrests. Twas taller than any other seat in the room, giving the Archdeacon the advantage in conversation, a clever move. Twas more comfortable than the rest as well, most likely. These priests didn’t miss a trick.
He would find out what had happened to Claire and demand justice be done, however she had died. Twas likely she fought a thief who tried to rob her: the city was rife with them, and she had been carrying gold. Or perhaps twas simply a tavern keeper selling rotted food. He would see the whoreson hanged, and then Jarrold would arrange for her to be taken back to the manor for burial. The Archdeacon would no doubt offer to bury her in some church or monastery as Claire had wanted, but twould be in exchange for a hefty donation. He would not pay some lily-livered cleric good coin when she could rest at home for eternity, not when he needed the coin for the Sheriff. Jarrold had explained the Assize to him, had assured him he need only pay off de Bury and the meadow would be judged legally his. He smirked at the thought, then hastily rearranged his features as the door opened behind him.
Archdeacon Godfrey entered the chamber followed by a clerk with a wax tablet and stylus. John rose and gave a curt nod as Godfrey sketched a cross in the air in blessing. The clerk settled himself in a chair by the wall to write down instructions from the Archdeacon and to record any agreements they made that might have legal implications. Without greeting or preamble, Sir John demanded, “How did she die?”
“Our Lord called her in the middle of the night,” replied Godfrey, taking his seat and gesturing for Sir John to do likewise. “Your daughter Lily found her in the morning.”
Sir John remained standing. Let the Archdeacon look up at him. “How?” he repeated. “How did she die?”
“Lady Claire was suffering from a headache and asked the Infirmarian at Clementhorpe for physik. She apparently mixed a measure of wolfsbane that she had carried from home into the powder, but mistook the amount. Twas an accidental poisoning by her own hand. We found the wolfsbane fallen from her bag.”
“Accident? Wolfsbane? What lies are these? My wife carried no physik in her bag, nor would she be so stupid as to mix wolfsbane into headache powder. Tis used to kill rats!” Sir John’s face was crimson, his eyes black beads set deep in the red. “Nay, twas murder! The nuns have murdered her. I demand that justice be done!”
“Sit, my lord, and calm yourself,” replied Godfrey. “You are understandably upset by Lady Claire’s sudden passing, but there is no need for wild accusations. Sit, and let us pray. God has called her to Himself, we must accept the will of Our Lord.”
“I accept nothing!” Sir John paced the floor in front of the Archdeacon’s chair, trying to make sense of what he had been told. “I tell you my wife did not carry wolfsbane with her – why should she? Tis deadly poison. Have you questioned the Infirmarian?”
“Aye,” said Godfrey. “She is innocent of any wrongdoing.”
“You would say that, of course, she’s your nun. You clerics stick together.”
“Sir John, sit! You are not thinking rationally. Why should a nun of Clementhorpe wish to murder your wife?”
John threw himself into his chair and glared up at the Archdeacon. “I say again that my wife did not carry wolfsbane with her in her bag. Twas put there by someone else.” He held up his hand to silence Godfrey’s reply as a sudden thought occurred to him. “Aye, or if she did carry it, she was told twas something it wasn’t, something safe.”
“Who would do such a thing? And why?”
“Magda Westcote,” said John. “Aye, twas her, I know it.” His brow furrowed as he set himself to think through the plot.
“Who is Magda Westcote?”
“The wife of a peasant who claims a meadow of mine as his own,” replied Sir John. “She fancies herself an apothecary, though she is but a peasant with little knowledge or skill. The village folk go to her for physik. Tis possible my wife visited her for a simple rather than send all the way to York or Hull, and Magda poisoned her for her pains. A wicked woman by all accounts; the fools in the village think her a witch.”
Archdeacon Godfrey leaned forward. “Why would this Magda wish to poison Lady Claire?”
Sir John rose from his seat and resumed his pacing, thinking furiously. “Because her husband has purchased a Writ of Novel Disseisin against me for my meadow; tis to be heard tomorrow. They think to distract me by Claire’s death, perhaps keep me from attending the hearing, where they know I will dispute the jurors – the Sheriff has appointed a panel of commoners from Market Weighton as jury, as if commoners were fit to judge a dispute over land. Aye, twas Magda who gave Claire the wolfsbane, I’d stake my life on’t.”
Godfrey pursed his lips, thinking. “What you say makes some sense, perhaps more sense than that Lady Claire would knowingly add wolfsbane to her physik, and mismeasure it as well. The Coroner thought it might be murder. You say Westcote will be in York tomorrow for the Petty Assize? Will his wife accompany him, do you think?”
“Nay, he will need someone on his farm while he is here,” said John, “to milk his cow and feed his flock of chickens. Twill be all he has left when I’m done with him. The witch will bide at home.”
“I will send men to apprehend her.” Godfrey glanced at the clerk, who nodded. “In the meantime, Sir John, you must do nothing to exact revenge. The killing took place within the Church’s liberty; Holy Church will see justice done.”
Sir John returned to his seat, but said nothing. The Archdeacon stared at him till he caught his gaze. Finally, John grunted in assent. Godfrey nodded. “We will sing requiem for Lady Claire here at the Minster if you wish, and the Prioress has given her consent for burial at Clementhorpe.”
“Nay, she’ll be buried on the manor land. I’ll have Jarrold send to fetch her home. She’ll not lie in the place she was killed.”
“Twill be as you wish. Now, about your daughter, Lily – ”
“We have given her to Clementhorpe. She will stay with the nuns.” Sir John rose again and strode toward the door.
“But, Sir John, tis impossible….” Cut off by Sir John’s departure, Godfrey fell silent, suppressing a curse.
◆◆◆
De Bury looked up from his writing desk and stared in alarm when th
e pounding sounded on his chamber door. What had got into Cyril? Or if twas not Cyril, who was it and where was that blasted clerk? He rose from his chair as a short, red-faced man with puffy skin and small bloodshot eyes opened the door, the clerk frantic behind him. “Sheriff de Bury,” the man announced, “I am Sir John Talbot.”
“Tis all right, Cyril,” said de Bury. He twisted his hand in a signal to his clerk. Cyril’s eyes widened, and he scurried away, leaving the door open. “Sir John, God give you good day. Please sit.”
Sir John sat in the uncushioned chair facing de Bury. An expression of irritated discomfort flitted across his face, followed by an ingratiating smile. “I have come,” he said, “about the Petty Assize to be held tomorrow.”
“Aye,” replied de Bury, keeping his face impassive with an effort. He had rarely taken such an instant dislike to a man, perhaps twas the sly look in his eyes and the lying simper, or perhaps twas simply that he knew the knight was here to bribe him. He fingered the quill on his table as wondered what Sir John would offer, how he would broach the subject.
“I want to assure you the meadow in question is mine,” Sir John continued, “and twould be a grave miscarriage of justice if twere to be found otherwise.”
“Tis a matter for the jury to decide,” said de Bury. “The meadow is under the King’s protection till then, to be used by neither Master Westcote nor yourself until a decision is made.”
“The jury,” Sir John sneered. “Tis made up of commoners from the village, or so my steward informs me. I am certain they will accede to whatever you decide.” He placed a leather pouch on the table and pushed it towards the Sheriff.
“The law states that jurors must be freemen living near to the disputed property,” said de Bury. “It does not specify noble or common. Nor do I decide the matter. Twould be a crime for me to attempt to influence the jury’s decision.” He looked at the pouch. “Tis also a crime to bribe an officer of the Crown – or of the city.”
“You fear tis not enough?” replied Sir John. “Take a look. Tis gold in that purse, not silver. I’ll wager tis more than you are paid in a twelvemonth, my lord Sheriff.”
De Bury’s temper flared. “Take your gold and leave this chamber, Sir John, or I shall arrest you for attempting to suborn a sworn officer of the Crown.”
Sir John’s face reddened into purple. “The meadow is mine!” he shouted. “You will judge it so in the Assize!” His hand went to the dagger at his belt.
“I am warning you, Sir John,” said de Bury, his eyes on the dagger. “You shall spend the night in the King’s jail.”
Sir John leapt to his feet as a hand grasped his wrist. Two bailiffs stood with unsheathed swords in the doorway, a third held Sir John fast by the arms. The clerk Cyril stood behind them, his sour look replaced by wide-eyed excitement. The blood drained from Sir John’s face, and he gaped at the Sheriff in white-faced fury. De Bury returned his stare, holding the knight’s gaze until the fury changed to fear. De Bury sighed. “Let him go,” he said. “But I warn you again, Sir John. There will be bailiffs at the Petty Assize tomorrow, and bailiffs are already guarding that meadow. I shall not be so lenient again.”
Chapter 7
York, April 1273
The morning dawned in a blaze of red, promising rain to come. The breeze through Cordwainer’s window was cold, and he shut and latched the shutters before dressing. The warm weather had been too good to last, twas only April after all. He pulled a thick woolen gown over his linen shirt, tied his belt around it, and descended the stairs.
Thomas sat at the table fingering a length of dark green fabric and looking speculatively at Cordwainer’s chair by the window. “Are you certain you want the color so dark, Master?” he asked.
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. “Tis not the stews, I want nothing gaudy. What is there to eat?”
Thomas dropped the cloth on the table and jumped from his seat. “In a minute, Master,” he said, rushing toward the kitchen.
Cordwainer sat at the table waiting. Perhaps he should ask Agytha to bring the food, even with Thomas home in the morning. And should Thomas continue to call him ‘Master,’ now that he was legally a son and heir? Twould be wrong for the lad to call him ‘Papa,’ as Adam did, twould be disrespect to his real father. He could not imagine Thomas calling him ‘Matthew,’ as if they were equals. But what else was there? He snorted softly to himself. Perhaps twas best to take this slowly.
When Thomas returned with his plate of bread and cheese, he spoke, “Have you broken your fast yet? Now that you are no longer a manservant, you should eat here with me.”
A look of surprise came over Thomas’s face, and he grinned. “Aye, Master, I will in future. Today I’ve already broken my fast. But I’ll keep you company if you wish.”
“I do wish,” Cordwainer replied. “Sit and have a cup of ale with me. Tell me what Adam has been having you do.”
Thomas nodded. “Let me get the ale.” He stepped quickly to the kitchen, returning with a flagon and two cups. After filling the cups, he sat. “Tis mostly learning the stock and minding the shop so far,” he said, “learning to tell the different grades of wool, the weaves and thicknesses. And he’s taught me how to do the accounts, but twas easy since I already do yours, just more complicated and larger amounts.”
Cordwainer snorted and stabbed at the cheese with his knife. “Much larger amounts, I would hope.”
“Aye. And in May, Adam says I’m to go with him to help oversee the shearing and slaughter, meet the men we buy from, and help with packing the clip and fleeces for transport. I’ll be gone for most of a week, if you can spare me.”
“Aye, I believe I can last a week if I must,” said Cordwainer. “I’m not decrepit yet.” He swallowed the last of his bread and washed it down with a gulp of ale. “It certainly sounds as if he has enough for you to do. Tis a wonder he can spare you.”
Thomas flushed and looked away. “If you’ve finished eating, Master, I’ll trim your beard and hair for you. Tis all crooked, with ragged ends. And I’ll get your hair tied back proper.”
Cordwainer narrowed his eyes. Twas good to have Thomas back again, but the lad’s blush made him wonder if he and Adam had been entirely truthful with him. Had Adam sent Thomas home because he feared Cordwainer could not get on without him? Twould be like Adam to think so, always going on about how he should give up his life in the city and go to live with his son and grandchildren. But he had no intention of acceding to Adam’s wishes. York was his life, if he left the city he would surely die. He was only sixty-two years old; he did not plan on dying just yet.
As Thomas worked with razor and shears, Cordwainer told him about his visit to Clementhorpe and the death of Lady Claire. Thomas shook his head when he was done. “It doesn’t sound like an accidental death to me, Master,” he said. “More like self-murder, or even murder. Why is the Archdeacon calling it accident?”
“To avoid the scandal of a murder or suicide at the nunnery and to keep Sir John happy. He would not like to have it known his wife killed herself, if she did.” He brushed beard clippings from his lap into the rushes as Thomas moved behind him. “And remember that Sir John owns a great swath of land and profits from the rents. Tis the Archdeacon who must raise the funds to finish construction of the Minster.”
“But Master, a man of God like the Archdeacon should not conceal the truth just to get a donation for the Minster!”
“Nay, he should not. But an Archdeacon is always more a businessman than a man of God,” replied Cordwainer, “concerned with the practical rather than the spiritual, else the great works like the Minster would never be built. This one is no better or worse than any other.”
Thomas was opening his mouth to answer when a knock came at the front door. Allowing the shears to spring open, he dropped them on the table, walked to the door and opened it as Cordwainer stood to follow. A heavy-set man with a cropped beard stood clasping his hands beneath a long apron. “Be this the Coroner’s house?” he asked, reve
aling a broken tooth on his lower jaw.
“Aye,” said Thomas, as Cordwainer came up behind him. “What is it?”
“Tis a body in my tavern, tis what it is,” said the man. “He were fine last night, but he’s stark dead now.”
Thomas stepped back. “Come in and talk to Master Cordwainer,” he said. “Tis him you want, Master – ?”
“Foss, Osric Foss.” He stepped through the door and nodded to Cordwainer. “Tis like this. I own a tavern on Davygate, with rooms to let above stairs. He took a room last night, but when the wife went up to see if he needed owt this morning, he were dead in his bed and a bad sight to see, all twisted-like with his mouth stuck open.”
Cordwainer pulled his cloak and scrip from their peg by the door. “Did you know the man? What’s his name?”
“He said he were a knight from down Market Weighton, though why a knight would want to stay in my tavern is a puzzle. He paid right enough, coin in advance for a private chamber. Name’s Sir John something.”
Cordwainer stopped halfway through the door, causing Osric to bump into him. “Talbot? Sir John Talbot?”
“Aye, that’s it, begging your pardon, Master. Talbot. Tis what he said.”
Cordwainer snorted and stepped out into the street. “Davygate, you say? Is it the Silver Swan?”
“Aye, so tis,” replied Osric with a sudden grin. “Do you know it?”
“Not as well as I shall, I’ll wager,” said Cordwainer.
◆◆◆
Edgar Westcote stood with two of his neighbors in an anteroom of one of the Castle buildings waiting for the bailiff to call him to the Petty Assize. A smoking brazier warmed the room and a row of cresset torches burned in sconces for light, for no windows pierced the walls. The air was hot and stuffy, smelling of smoke, sweat and wet wool. Folk milled about, many in costly clothing with fine leather boots and furred garments. Edgar felt self-conscious in his farmer’s smock and worn leggings, and he kept himself pressed to the wall as far from the brazier as he could.
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 6