The riders ahead rounded the curve and he saw they carried torches, the light piercing the mists around them. Tis not thieves, thought Edgar with relief. Thieves would carry no light. The riders wore livery, but he could not make out the design. They must be some great lord’s men on an errand for their master, who would not stop to trouble two weary travelers on the road. He felt Magda stir behind him. “What is it?” she asked. “Are we home?”
“Nay,” he whispered. “Be still and wait for them to pass.” Magda stiffened, but stayed silent.
When the riders were almost upon them, they reined their horses in and stopped, holding their torches high. Edgar could see the light flickering on the gelding’s mane and knew that any chance the riders would pass was gone. “Who goes there?” called the first rider, drawing a sword. “Declare yourself!”
“I am Edgar Westcote, a free farmer,” said Edgar, edging his horse back onto the road. “I am riding home to Market Weighton from York.”
“Westcote? Did you say Westcote?” said the rider. “We are looking for Magda Westcote on the authority of the Archdeacon of York.”
Magda gasped and clutched at Edgar’s back. Edgar kicked the gelding and rode to the center of the road. “What business has the Archdeacon with my wife?” he asked.
The second horseman was now behind him, and he too had drawn his sword. Edgar realized that they were trapped. They would have no choice but to do what the horsemen wanted. The rider held his torch closer to examine first Edgar’s face, then Magda’s. “My orders are to bring Magda Westcote to the Archdeacon. Why is not my concern. Will you come quietly?”
“Aye,” said Edgar. “I am unarmed, save my knife. We will come quietly.”
Twas Sir John, he thought. It must be. What lies has he told the Archdeacon about Magda?
Chapter 9
York, April 1273
The bells at Holy Trinity had not yet rung Prime when Thomas woke Cordwainer to say that Brother Michael was below. Cordwainer sat up in his bed and rubbed his eyes. “God’s blood, has he been questioning the nuns in the night?” he asked. “Is it even dawn?”
“Tis just past Lauds,” replied Thomas, setting his candle on the chest beside the bed. “The sun is rising, or would be if twere not behind the clouds. We’ll have rain again today.”
Cordwainer grunted and began to pull on his hose as Thomas laid out his shirt and gown. “Did he say what he’s here for?”
“Aye, tis the suspect the Archdeacon mentioned. She’s being held at Saint Peter’s with her husband. We’re to go as soon as we can to question her. The Archdeacon is waiting.”
“The Archdeacon may wait till I’ve broken my fast,” Cordwainer grumbled. “I’ll not walk to the Minster on an empty stomach.”
“Aye, Master,” said Thomas, turning to go. “Careful on the stairs.”
“I always am, Thomas.”
When Cordwainer had descended to the front room, Brother Michael was sitting at the table across from Thomas eating toasted bread and cheese. The cat Isolde sat at his feet, her white paws hidden in the rushes, her face turned upwards in hope of a scrap. The two young men were chatting amiably, laughing over a shared jest. Cordwainer grunted. What could possibly be funny at this hour of the morning? As he crossed to the table to join them, the cat padded over to sit by his chair.
The door at the back of the house opened and shut again, and the young monk looked up in surprise. “Tis my housekeeper,” Cordwainer said, “with the day’s fresh bread.” He sat and poured a cup of watered wine for himself as Thomas rose and went to the kitchen. He was pouring his second cup when Thomas returned with a plate of bread and cheese. “Would you like me to toast it, Master?”
“Nay, not if tis fresh.” Cordwainer looked at Brother Michael with a frown. “We do not normally rise till we have fresh bread. Tis pity that, coming so early, you had to make do with day-old.”
“I broke my fast at Saint Mary’s,” said Brother Michael with a smile. “I was just keeping Thomas company till you rose.”
Cordwainer snorted and began to eat, slipping a bit of cheese to Isolde. “I suppose you’ve been up since Matins,” he said. “Have you been to Saint Peter’s already and seen this suspect?”
“Nay, I’ve not been to the Archdeacon’s yet. A messenger was sent to Saint Mary’s just before Lauds, and I came straight here.”
Cordwainer grunted again and scowled at his bread, his annoyance that the Archdeacon had taken control of the investigation vying with his irritation at the early hour. Twas time to do some work on his own. “Thomas,” he said. “Today I want you to let them know at the Castle that Sir John’s inquest will be tomorrow morning. Talk to Osric Foss again and tell him he’s on the jury, he and whoever else had dealings with Sir John while he was there. Then fill out the number of the jury as usual. And find Rolf and tell him I want him to testify.”
“Aye, Master,” said Thomas. “Why Rolf?”
“Twas Rolf who saw him on his way into York,” said Cordwainer. “I want to know where he went.”
Thomas nodded and stood. “I’ll be on my way, then,” he said. He smiled at Brother Michael, “God give you good day, Brother.”
“And you, Thomas.”
Cordwainer turned to the monk. “Before you go to Clementhorpe today, I need you to tell whoever is in charge of Sir John’s body that it must be brought to the Castle tomorrow at Prime.”
“Aye,” said Brother Michael. “Will you want Lady Claire’s body as well?”
“Nay, she was killed in the Church’s liberty. Tis to be handled however the Church decides.”
Brother Michael’s face fell. “I hope that doesn’t mean me,” he said. “I shall have to ask the Archdeacon how he thinks I should proceed.”
Cordwainer grimaced. “I believe he has already told you,” he said. “I’ll wager he wants us both to decide his suspect is the killer and have done with it.” He rose and took his cloak and scrip from their peg, ignoring the look of protest on Brother Michael’s face. “Come, let us see who this suspect is and what she knows.”
They walked to Saint Peter’s through a spattering of rain under fast-moving clouds. A cold wind flattened their clothing against their legs and Cordwainer shivered. Neither his boots nor his cloak were dry from the soaking the day before and he could feel the moisture seeping from the damp wool onto his shoulders. Nor had the muddy street dried from yesterday’s rain, and he had several times to steady himself on Brother Michael’s shoulder to keep from slipping. When they had passed the Minster gate and the Archdeacon’s servants had ushered them into a small chamber with a low fire burning in a stone fireplace, he stood as close to the flames as he could, watching steam rise from the drying mud on his boots.
Within moments the Archdeacon arrived, followed by two guards holding a thick-set woman by the arms between them. Coils of dark hair hung from beneath a wet headscarf around her face, and her gown showed dark patches of damp on the shoulders and back. Frightened dark eyes peered around the room over a thin-lipped mouth and strong chin.
“This is Magda Westcote,” said the Archdeacon. “She lives on her husband’s farm, which just happens to border Sir John Talbot’s land. She is also a self-avowed herbalist, who just happens to grow wolfsbane in her garden. And she just happened to be in York the night of the murder. I think it clear that we have found our killer.”
Cordwainer nodded. “Perhaps,” he said. “How did you find her?”
“She and her husband were on the road from York to Market Weighton in the dead of night. My guards apprehended them.”
“Did they attempt to flee?”
“Nay,” the Archdeacon admitted. “They came easily enough. But the guards were armed. They could not have escaped.”
Cordwainer turned to the guards, who stood stolidly with expressionless faces. “Release her and let her sit here by the fire. She is wet and cold, and she will not run away. Where could she go?”
“You doubt her guilt?” asked Godfrey. “What mo
re do you want?”
“I want proof, your Grace,” said Cordwainer. “I want to question her, to hear her side of things. I want to investigate these killings, not arrest the first person who comes to hand. I also want some hot wine, both for me and for Mistress Westcote.”
The guards looked to the Archdeacon, who stood with his lips pursed. Finally, he nodded. “Wait outside the door,” he told them. “If she tries to run, put her in shackles.” He turned to a servant, “Bring hot wine – for all of us.” Arms folded, he stared at Cordwainer. “Proceed.”
Cordwainer took Magda by the hand and led her to the fire. “Sit and warm yourself, Mistress” he said. “When you are ready, tell me what you have to say to the Archdeacon’s accusation.”
Magda stared into the fire, her jaws clenched. Cordwainer waited, aware of the Archdeacon’s eyes on his back. Slowly, her mouth relaxed and she blinked back tears. The servant handed Cordwainer a cup of steaming wine, which he pressed into Magda’s hands. Taking a cup for himself, he sat back and watched as Magda took a long swallow. “Now,” he said, “is what the Archdeacon said true?”
The dark eyes turned to him. “Tis true our farm is by Sir John’s, and tis true I grow herbs in my garden and folk come to me for cures. When he asked, I didn’t know what wolfsbane were, but he said twas the same as monkshood, and aye, I grow that. Folk use it to kill rats. But I have killed no one, not with wolfsbane, not in any way.”
“Were you in York two nights ago?”
“Nay, not during the night,” she said. “Edgar – that’s my husband – bought a Writ of Novel Dis…something, I don’t remember, twas to show that Sir John had stolen our meadow. But the writ were so dear we could not afford to stay the night in York, so we camped under a hedge outside the walls. We came in when the Bar opened up in the morning. The last of our coin went to stable our horse. Twas why we were riding home in the night; we had no coin to stay last night neither.”
“Which Bar was it?”
Magda bit her lower lip. “Twas Micklegate.” At an exasperated snort from the Archdeacon, she added, “Tis true, you can ask the ostler! He will remember, for Edgar spoke to him about selling our horse.”
“Which would tell us nothing,” said Godfrey. “It would be a simple matter to slip in the day before and out again in the morning to bring the horse to the stables once Sir John was dead.”
Magda gasped and looked wildly from the Archdeacon to Cordwainer. “Sir John is dead? Then we needn’t have spent the coin after all!” She burst into tears.
Archdeacon Godfrey blew out a long breath. “Stop blubbering, woman!” he commanded. “Of course, Sir John is dead, as you know because you killed him with your wolfsbane and his Lady wife before him. You must repent and pray that God forgives you for your sins.”
Magda’s wine cup dropped to the floor as she reached out to grasp Cordwainer’s hand. “Nay! I’ve killed no one, not Sir John, not his Lady. I did not know they were dead! You must believe me!” Her tears fell on Cordwainer’s hand and her breath came in gasping sobs.
“Calm yourself, Mistress,” said Cordwainer. “I promise we will find the truth of it.” He waited, holding her hand, until the sobs diminished. Her surprise at the news of Sir John’s death seemed real, as did her distress at spending the coin for the now-useless writ. He did not believe she was a killer. “Now, Mistress Westcote, did Lady Claire ever purchase wolfsbane – monkshood – from you? Or did you give her some as physik?”
“Nay,” said Magda, shaking her head. “Lady Claire did not come to me, ever. If she bought herbs, twas in Hull or York.”
“Did anyone from the manor come to you? For monkshood?”
Magda hesitated, biting her lip. “Twas a long time ago. A maidservant from the manor would buy monkshood to kill rats, she said. But she was run off the manor when she got with child, twas said by Sir John. No one from the manor has bought it since.”
“Why do you continue to grow it, then?” asked Cordwainer.
“Folk from the village use it,” she said. “And I can sell it to the apothecaries. An apothecary in York bought all I had, just yesterday.”
“Which apothecary was that?”
“Twas Master Holt, he bought all the herbs I had to sell.” She raised her chin in defiance. “He said twas because he hated Sir John, as all decent folk do. I did not kill him, but I am not sorry he is dead. My Edgar used the King’s law to fight him, not poison, and we won in the Petty Assize. Twas some other poor soul who Sir John ruined what killed him.”
“And who might that have been?” asked the Archdeacon. “You had the means, aye, and the opportunity as well.”
Magda looked down at her hands, her defiance gone. “I do not know. Tweren’t me.”
Cordwainer stood and looked at the Archdeacon. “I believe we can let Mistress Westcote go home with her husband, your Grace. We can summon them again if necessary. The inquest into Sir John’s death is tomorrow morning, should you wish to attend.”
“Nay, the woman will bide here,” replied Godfrey. “I am not so trusting as to let her go. She says Lady Claire did not come to her, but she could be lying. It would be easy to sell her the wolfsbane while telling her it was something else – headache powder, perhaps.”
“What of her husband? Will you keep him here as well?”
“Nay, the husband may go. I do not believe a man could have entered Clementhorpe unnoticed. It is a woman we are looking for, and I am convinced it is this woman. If you are not, I grant you until Holy Week to find whomever you believe to be the criminal. If you have found no one, Mistress Westcote will stay locked in a cell to await the Archbishop’s court.”
“As is your right, your Grace,” said Cordwainer. “Please see to it that Sir John’s body is at the Castle in the morning for the inquest. Have you notified Sir John’s daughter yet?”
“Aye, I’ve sent a courier to her husband’s manor near Knaresborough,” Godfrey replied. “It will be a day or so before she can arrive.”
“Please let me know when she does.” He turned to look at Magda. “If you are innocent,” he said, “I promise I shall prove you so.” With a nod to Brother Michael, he left the chamber and proceeded to the outer door, where a servant stood to see him out. He was striding down Lop Lane towards Petergate when he heard his named called out from behind. He stopped and turned to look. Brother Michael was running down the lane towards him, his pale hair billowing around his head and his robes fluttering behind him.
“Master Cordwainer,” said the monk, puffing hard as he came up to stand next to him. “I’m glad I caught you. I am going to Clementhorpe to talk to the nuns. I thought we might walk together.”
Cordwainer gaped at him. “The Archdeacon still wants you to question the nuns?” he asked. “I thought his mind was made up.”
Brother Michael flushed. “I did not tell him where I was going. He did not forbid me to do it. I, I still want to help.”
Cordwainer snorted. “You do not believe twas Mistress Westcote?”
“I don’t know what to believe. She seemed so surprised that Sir John was dead. Do you truly think she could play-act so well if she were the killer?”
“I’ve seen those who could,” Cordwainer replied, “and tis possible the Archdeacon is right. But nay, I do not think she was acting. We must look further. Are you certain you wish to help? Abbot Simeon may not be pleased, nor the Archdeacon.”
"If the Abbot tells me I must stop, I will. But until then, since you cannot question the nuns without violating the liberty, I will do what I can.”
“Aye, and I’ll be grateful for it,” said Cordwainer, turning down Stonegate. “Just don’t go getting yourself into trouble on my account.” He tried to set his anger at the Archdeacon aside as they walked. Twas sinful to be angry and twould do no good. The Church was always concerned that no scandal touched its clerics or its institutions, twas no wonder Godfrey wanted the matter ended too quickly.
His anger had diminished by the time they passed Ad
am’s new shop, and Cordwainer glanced in the open doorway and lifted a hand to his son. Adam rushed into the street and called after him. “Papa, when you have time, I’ve a tapestry you might like!”
Cordwainer stopped and looked back. “Go on,” he said to Brother Michael. “I need to see what my son has for me.”
Brother Michael nodded, looking at Adam with his wide grin, then back to Cordwainer. “Then God give you good day, Master. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
Cordwainer grunted and walked to where Adam stood waiting in the street. “Let me see it,” he said. “I’m in a hurry.”
“You are always in a hurry, Papa,” said Adam, stepping back to allow Cordwainer to enter the shop first. The room still smelled of spices, but the displays looked finished and the glass cups were washed and back on their shelf. Cordwainer glanced around and nodded his approval. The apprentice Jankyn gave a cheery nod in return and disappeared behind the striped curtain into the workroom. When he returned, he carried a long roll of heavy green wool in his arms, staggering slightly under the weight. With a grunt, he dropped it onto the counter, the ends hanging down on either side.
Adam carefully unrolled the wool across the counter and down onto the rush-strewn floor. The tapestry depicted a forest filled with flowering plants. In the center a knight knelt to his lady, who sat on a carved seat wearing a white gown and a simpering smile. Cordwainer cocked his head to one side and looked at it, then shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I like the forest well enough, but I would not want to look at that smile each morning – I would end by ripping it from the wall.”
Adam laughed and began to roll the tapestry back. “Then I shall keep looking,” he said. “What color did you choose for your cushions?”
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 9