[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose

by Joyce Lionarons

  “Dark green, twas why the forest was good,” Cordwainer replied. “Find me another in green without a smirking maiden, and I shall buy it.”

  He left the shop and continued on his way to Davygate, careful to keep his footing in the mud. When he entered the Silver Swan tavern, Osric hailed him from the back of the room, and he made his way through the tables and benches to sit across from the taverner at a scarred trestle table lit by a tallow candle. Osric put the stool he’d been mending on the floor by his feet.

  “Tis early yet, but I’ve got good strong ale if you’d like it, Master,” he said.

  “Aye,” said Cordwainer, “I would. I was up with Lauds this morning, and tis not yet Prime. I feel like it should be Terce and dinner time.”

  Osric laughed, a strange whistling sound through the gap from his broken tooth. “Sit and I’ll fetch it,” he said, jumping up from his seat. “Twill just be a moment.”

  Cordwainer watched him go, twisting around on his stool to survey the room, wondering again why a knight would choose such a place to stay. Three old men sat on a bench near the fire sipping ale and arguing, but the remainder of the room was empty at the early hour. Aye, twas clean enough, with fresh rushes on the floor and the tabletops wiped down from the last night’s spilled ale. The room above stairs had also been clean, and he had noticed no fleas in the bed nor bites on the body, a rarity in tavern accommodations. Still, twas a place for common folk coming in from the country to visit city relatives, traveling peddlers, artisans, and the like. Twas more likely for a knight to stay at one of the closer manor houses, or perhaps in the Minster guest house. What had Sir John been doing here?

  Osric returned with two tankards of ale, foam dripping down the sides and onto the table. He sat with a sigh and took a long draught. “Tis good ale, if I do say so,” he said. “What brings you here, Master Coroner? I’ve no bodies for you today.”

  “I want you to tell me about Sir John,” said Cordwainer, taking a swallow. Osric was right, twas good ale and very strong. “What sort of mood was he in when he came here? Did he say aught about his business in York?”

  “Nay, he said nowt as to why he were here,” answered Osric. “But he were angry over summat, that were plain. He weren’t a man you’d want angry with you, neither.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Osric chewed ruminatively at the inside of his cheek. “Tis like this, Master,” he said. “A man don’t stay running a tavern long if he can’t tell who is like to cause trouble, who is like to pull a knife if there’s a fight. That Sir John, I’d wager he’d pull the knife when no one were looking, have his man dead on the floor and be gone afore folk knew owt were happening.”

  “Not a man you’d want in your tavern, then, I wouldn’t think,” said Cordwainer. “But you didn’t turn him away.”

  “Nay,” said Osric. “Twere too late for that. He were in a rage afore he came in and to cross him were trouble. I could but hope for the best. He were bent on getting himself soused, from what I could see. Drank two tankards of ale without a stop for a breath and demanded a third. When he took a flagon to his room and stayed there, I were happy to see him go. I thought all were well till morning.”

  “Did anyone go up to the room while he was there?” asked Cordwainer.

  “Nay, not that I saw, but you’d want to ask the wife. Twere three men staying in the room below him what went up, but twas late, and they so drunk I had to help them on the stairs.”

  “No one else went above all night? A woman, perhaps?”

  Osric contemplated his ale in silence.

  Cordwainer waited. “There was a woman, wasn’t there?”

  “Aye, twas a woman with the three, a maudlyn, I’d wager. She weren’t dressed as one or the wife would have run her off – she don’t hold with letting them in. But what other sort of woman would go with three men? I thought to stop her going up, thinking to save trouble with the wife in the morning, you understand, but twere well past curfew and I don’t like putting a woman out into the dark, Master Coroner. It ain’t right.”

  “Did she leave with the three in the morning?”

  Osric shook his head. “I can’t say if she did, twas such a to do with finding the body. I don’t remember that I saw her in the morning, but that don’t mean she weren’t there.”

  “What did she look like? Young, old, fat, thin?”

  “She were young, but not over young, maybe twenty or thereabout. She weren’t fat, nor thin neither. Dark hair. Wore a white scarf, but the hair showed. Grey dress, with the front coming unlaced, like a maudlyn might wear it. Tweren’t nowt special about her, lest it were that her jaw weren’t quite straight, like maybe it were broke sometime in the past.”

  “If you see her in here again, let me know,” said Cordwainer. “I want to talk to her. But don’t let her know you’ve told me.”

  Osric gave him a wink and a nod. Cordwainer finished his ale and stood, reaching into his scrip. He pulled out some coins and offered them to Osric, who waved them away. “You can pay for your ale once you have the killer,” he said. “You’ve brought me more custom than I’ve had for a year, what with finding the body and the Archdeacon’s men coming. Folk want to see where twas, and they drink while they’re here.”

  “Then I thank you for your time,” said Cordwainer, “and for the ale.” He picked up his stick and went out onto Davygate. The rain had dwindled to a cold and penetrating grey mist and his hip ached, but the strong ale had warmed him and he set out for home thinking about the woman in grey.

  When he arrived at his house on Saint Martin’s Lane, Agytha had finished sewing the cushion for his chair by the window and was working on the cover for the footstool. He spread his wet cloak on the table in front of the fire and turned to his chair. Isolde lay curled on the new cushion. When Cordwainer approached she yawned and stretched, her claws extended from her white paws. He scooped her up and sat, placing her on his lap. “What’s for dinner?” he asked as the cat leapt to the floor. He bent and pulled off his wet boots, groping in the rushes for his house shoes.

  “Tis still Lent, Master,” said Agytha, biting off her thread and giving a pat to the footstool. “I’ve made fish stew. Will you have it now, or will you wait for Thomas?”

  “I’ll wait,” said Cordwainer. “Twas an early morning. Perhaps I’ll rest my eyes for a while.” He pulled the dry shoes onto his feet and leaned back in the chair. Within moments he was fast asleep.

  ◆◆◆

  Edgar Westcote walked down Micklegate toward the stable by the Bar trying to fight down his rising panic. The anxious ride back to York in the night and early morning had left him lightheaded from lack of sleep and food, and he had nearly fainted when the Archdeacon’s secretary had told him Magda would be held for murder, to be tried by the Archbishop’s court. In answer to his questions, the secretary had told him that Lady Claire was dead in Clementhorpe nunnery, poisoned by wolfsbane, and Sir John dead the same way on the night he and Magda had spent beneath the hedge. He tried to remember if Magda had brought wolfsbane with her to sell to the apothecary and feared that she had. But why should that matter, if twas all sold? Aye, but sold the day after Sir John died. His thoughts whirled through the fog in his mind. Magda had said she wished Sir John dead, but she would never have killed him, he was certain of it. Besides they’d been in Market Weighton when Lady Claire died, and the neighbors who had spent the night under the hedge with them could testify that Magda had been there all night when Sir John was killed.

  But twas not all night, not really. Where had Magda gone while he spoke with the ostler about the gelding? He had waited hours for her to return, flushed and laughing with the smell of ale on her breath. She had stopped in a tavern, she’d said, and got talking to the tavern mistress and forgot the time. They had been the last to leave the city through Micklegate Bar that night as the bells rang Compline, the gatekeeper grumbling as he barred the gate behind them.

  He could not decide what was most importa
nt for him to do next. The oats needed planting. He could not expect Dafydd and his brothers to sow his oat field for him as well as the wheat. They needed wages for their work, not the hope that he would have enough coin once he returned to pay them for work he had not asked them to do. But if his farm were to prosper, he needed both crops, and the oats must go in soon. His neighbors would surely have left the city by now, and if he rode the gelding home today, he could ask them to come back to testify for Magda once the planting was done. But twould mean abandoning his wife, leaving her alone in a jail in this cursed city. He pictured the jail at Market Weighton in his mind, a dark cell too low to stand up in, filled with rats and filth, and he shuddered.

  Or he could stay and try to find the tavern mistress, for he would need her testimony as well if Magda were to be released. Perhaps he would be allowed to visit Magda in her cell, and she could tell him where the tavern was, and he could reassure her that he was working for her release. He longed to see her, to know for himself how she had been treated. But staying would take coin he didn’t have and would never have if the planting weren’t done.

  In desperation he turned down a lane to his left where a wooden cross rose above the rooftops. Entering the silent church, he fell to his knees on the cold stone in front of the rood screen and prayed for guidance. When he got stiffly to his feet an hour later, he had decided. He would sell the gelding and remain in York. He would not abandon Magda, not even for the few days twould take to return home for the planting and come back. They would survive the winter somehow. With his mind made up, he headed for the stables by Micklegate.

  Chapter 10

  York, April 1273

  By morning the clouds had thickened and a steady rain was falling. With Thomas at his side, Cordwainer made his way through the muddy streets with their streaming center gutters over Ouse Bridge and across the city to the Castle for the inquest into Sir John’s death. Servants had been in the inquest chamber already, and torches burned in their sconces at the front of the room, while braziers smoked from each side toward the back. Cordwainer shrugged off his rain-soaked cloak and spread it on a bench near one of the braziers, hoping that at least some of the moisture would dry by the end of the proceedings. He longed to take off his wet boots as well, but twas no help for that; he could not conduct an inquest in his hose. He held his hands over the brazier to take the chill from his fingers, then walked to his chair at the front, leaning heavily on his stick. He sat wriggling his toes in his boots to warm them and waited for the jurors to arrive.

  A few spectators came in and huddled in the shadows around the braziers. Their faces were familiar though Cordwainer knew none of their names. Drawn by the presence of death, they haunted the inquests, viewing the corpses, crossing themselves, muttering with each other about the proceedings. He had long ago learned to ignore them.

  Two of the jurors entered next, men summoned by Thomas because they had sat on juries before and Cordwainer knew them to be honest and fair in their judgments. A thin man with pale hair and rumpled clothing shambled in after them, and Cordwainer eyed him curiously. Another poor soul fascinated by death, he thought, but one he’d not seen before. To his surprise, instead of joining the spectators the man shuffled to the front to stand before him.

  “Master Coroner,” he said in a low voice. Cordwainer leaned closer to hear him. “I am Jarrold Thorney, Sir John’s steward. I’ve come to take my Master’s body home for burial after the inquest.”

  “God give you good day,” said Cordwainer. “Tis a sad errand you’ve come on. But tis not in my authority to grant you the body. You need to speak to the Archdeacon or his secretary.”

  Jarrold flushed and nodded. “I beg your pardon, Master,” he whispered. “I knew not who to ask.” He turned and began to shuffle away.

  “Stay,” said Cordwainer. “I need you to identify the body as Sir John. I will call you to testify during the proceedings.”

  Jarrold nodded again and Cordwainer watched as the steward made his way toward one of the braziers, avoiding the other spectators as much as possible. When he turned his head again, the majority of the jurors had been seated at the long bench by the wall. Osric Foss and his wife were standing just inside the entrance, looking confused. Cordwainer rose and approached them.

  “Master Osric,” he said, “you are to sit on the bench with the other jurors. Mistress Alisoun, you will be called to testify first, as finder of the body. Tis not difficult, you simply say what happened.”

  Alisoun Foss raised her chin. She was a small woman in a russet gown with a stiff wimple and white veil. “Difficult or no, I’ll do it,” she said. She gave her husband a push on the back. “Go, sit where the Master told you to.” Walking a few paces into the room, she stood with her arms folded while Osric hurried to the bench.

  Cordwainer walked back to his chair, raising a hand in greeting to Rolf, who had arrived after the steward and was standing with Thomas. Sheriff de Bury stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room. He gestured, and with a snort Cordwainer hoisted himself to his feet again with his stick and made his way into the corridor.

  “Matthew,” said de Bury, “my clerk tells me tis an inquest for Sir John Talbot. How did he die? When?”

  “Twas two days ago now,” Cordwainer replied, irritated that the Sheriff had called him out of the chamber rather than attending the inquest and letting the testimony answer his questions. “As for how, tis for the jury to decide. Tis why we have inquests.”

  “Don’t be difficult, Matthew,” said de Bury, his scar flushing red. “If twas a natural death, I have nothing to say, but if not, perhaps you should know before you start that Sir John came to see me the day he died.”

  “Twas not natural, my lord,” said Cordwainer. His irritation had vanished, replaced by curiosity. He needed to know Sir John’s movements in York. “What did he want?”

  “You know he was in York for a Petty Assize?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “He came to bribe me to make certain the Assize went his way. I almost arrested him for it. I suppose I should have; he’d be alive today.”

  Cordwainer snorted. He knew such bribery was common practice and had wondered sometimes if de Bury were susceptible to such offers. “What sort of bribe did he offer you?”

  “Twas in a pouch. He said twas gold, but I didn’t open it. It could have been silver, or rocks for that matter.”

  Cordwainer nodded. “Aye, twas gold as he said. I found it in his lodgings and wondered why he had it. Thank you, my lord; tis one mystery solved.”

  “Then he was not murdered for it,” said de Bury. “Twas what I feared.”

  “Nay, tis more complicated. A robbery would not explain his wife’s death.”

  De Bury’s jaw dropped. “Lady Claire is dead? How? Why have I heard nothing of it?

  “She was killed at Clementhorpe, my lord,” replied Cordwainer. “The Archdeacon is keeping it quiet, at least for now. He fears scandal for the nunnery.”

  “Blasted clerics and their liberties! And twas murder as well? I suppose that Godfrey is conducting his own investigation, though he knows almost nothing of York?”

  “Aye, my lord, he is. The lady was poisoned like Sir John. His Grace ruled it accidental till Sir John was killed.”

  De Bury opened his mouth to reply, then shook his head and laughed instead. “I’m certain he did. I don’t envy you, Matthew, having to tiptoe round the Archdeacon to do your work – tis not one of your strengths. Try not to antagonize his Grace more than is necessary. I wish you luck.” He turned and walked away, still chuckling.

  Cordwainer stamped back into the inquest chamber muttering under his breath. Twas true he was plain-spoken. Twas true his temper rose when he was faced with foolishness, arrogance, or willful stupidity. There was nothing wrong that. He would not tiptoe for the Archdeacon nor any man else. Twas not tiptoeing that caught killers.

  He sank into his chair with a grunt and glared at the empty trestle table beside him. Ever
yone was there save the Archdeacon’s men with the body. Was Godfrey trying to delay the inquest? Nay, he could see the Archdeacon’s clerk with his wax tablet, looking impatiently toward the door. He drummed his fingers on the end of his stick and waited, cursing his leaky boots and wet feet. Slowly the room, which had gone silent at his entrance, filled with a low hum of conversation as spectators and jurors sought ways to pass the time. Smoke rose from the braziers and torches, gathering in a dirty grey cloud above their heads.

  After a few minutes, Cordwainer snorted in irritation and rose, gesturing to Thomas. “Go see if you can find out what’s happening,” he said. “The body should be here by now.” Thomas nodded and went to put on his sodden cloak and hat.

  He was on the verge of deciding that the inquest must be cancelled and reconvened the next day when Thomas returned. “Tis the cart from the Minster,” he announced. “A broken wheel, stuck in the mud from the rain. They’ve sent back to Saint Peter’s for a new wheel.”

  A hubbub of voices rose in answer. Two of the spectators left, certain the inquest would be postponed. Cordwainer shouted for order and the noise diminished. “We will wait,” he said, “until Sir John’s body arrives. Twill not be long if they have already sent for the wheel.”

  “Nay,” said Osric. “We should go fetch him and carry him here. I have a tavern to open in time for dinner.”

  Two of the jurors seemed inclined to agree and stood, but the rest sat stolidly where they were. Alisoun turned to face her husband. “What? You plan to throw him over your shoulder like a sack of grain? Tis not proper to carry a corpse thus, and him a noble knight,” she said. “Sit down, husband.” Osric sat. A few of the jurors laughed, but she glared them into silence. With a nod at Cordwainer, she resumed her waiting posture. Cordwainer settled back into his chair, and the buzz of conversation resumed. Twould be a long day.