Finally, five wet and bedraggled men in the Archbishop’s livery entered the chamber carrying a wooden coffin and leaving muddy footprints on the stone floor as they lugged their burden to the trestle table by Cordwainer’s chair. They lifted the dripping lid from the coffin and propped it against the wall by one of the torches, then left the room grumbling. Cordwainer stood and stamped his feet.
He cleared his throat and waited for silence, then called on Mistress Foss to testify that the body before them was the same that she had found in the above-stairs room of the tavern.
Alisoun walked to the coffin and crossed herself. “Aye,” she said. “Tis the same.”
“How did you come to find the body?” asked Cordwainer.
“He were a guest in our tavern, tis the Silver Swan on Davygate,” she replied. “He were in our best room, private, as befits a knight, clean, and with a waxed-parchment window. I went above stairs in the morning to freshen his room and see if he needed aught, as I always do.” She smiled at the jurors.
“And what did you find, Mistress?”
Alisoun turned from the jury to Cordwainer. “He were lying on his bed, dead. He were all twisted and with foam and sick on his face, looking like the torments of Hellfire. Gave me a fright, it did. I screamed for my husband, I did, and he come running. Twas then I sent him for you, Master Coroner.”
“Were any other guests ill in your tavern that night?”
“Nay!” replied Mistress Foss, the indignation clear in her voice as the implication of Cordwainer’s question registered. “Tis a clean and honest tavern! No one has ever taken ill from our food or our drink, though Sir John did not eat in the tavern – he but drank our ale.”
Cordwainer hesitated. It had not occurred to him that Sir John might not have supped at the tavern. Now he wondered where the knight had eaten, and if he had been given the poison there. Recalling his train of thought, he asked, “I understand that Sir John did not drink below stairs with the company for long, is that correct?”
“Aye.” Her face had turned hostile, still smarting over the idea that Osric’s ale had poisoned Sir John, and Cordwainer began to understand the taverner’s fear of trouble with his wife.
“Did anyone else go above stairs during the evening?”
Alisoun stood thinking, a frown on her face. “Aye,” she said with a curt nod. “I sent our tavern boy Bart up to ask if Sir John wanted more ale. He knocked at the door, but got no answer. Thinking Sir John asleep, he did not go back.”
“No one else?”
“Nay. The customers have no business above.”
“Thank you, Mistress Foss.” She turned away, muttering loudly, “Ill in my tavern. Has never happened, never will.”
Cordwainer next called Jarrold Thorney to identify the body. The steward obediently shuffled to the table and looked down into the coffin, crossing himself. “Tis Sir John Talbot,” he confirmed. He began to walk towards the door.
“Master Thorney,” said Cordwainer in a loud voice. The steward stopped. “Why was Sir John in York?”
Jarrold turned. “Twere two reasons,” he mumbled. One of the jurors asked him to speak up. Jarrold took a deep breath. “His wife, Lady Claire, is dead at Clementhorpe nunnery. He came to fetch her body home. And he was summoned to a Petty Assize to answer a Writ of Novel Disseisin, brought by the farmer Edgar Westcote.” A hum of voices rose as the jurors whispered to each other. Cordwainer held a hand up for silence. “Do you know of anyone who might wish Sir John dead?” he asked.
A strangled laugh erupted from the steward’s throat. “All who knew him, Master Coroner,” he said. “All who knew him.”
◆◆◆
Cordwainer and Thomas walked back from the Castle with the rain drumming on their cloaks, the street a muddy quagmire beneath their feet. As he trudged through the puddles in his sodden boots, Cordwainer tried to calm his anger at the Archdeacon and, truth be told, at himself. Rolf had testified that Sir John had visited the Archdeacon on his arrival in the city. If he had had the sense to speak to Rolf in advance, he would have known so already and he would have questioned Godfrey, aye, summoned the Archdeacon himself to the inquest to testify. He snorted to himself, wondering if Godfrey were keeping information back deliberately or if he simply did not realize that the conversation was important. Twould be charitable to assume the latter, but he was not feeling charitable towards the Archdeacon. Perhaps Sir John had given some indication of where he planned to go next, even where he had planned to sup the night of his death. He would go back Saint Peter’s and find out, whether Godfrey wished to tell him or no.
Thomas raised the edge of his hat and peered out at him in surprise when he turned toward Petergate. “Are we not going home?” he asked.
“Nay, we are going to the Minster. I want to know what Sir John said to the Archdeacon, and I want to know why the Archdeacon did not see fit to tell me about it earlier.”
“Tis just that I will need to go to Adam’s shop soon,” said Thomas, “and I had hoped to have you home before I go.”
“I am quite capable of walking home on my own, Thomas, even in the rain.”
“Aye, Master.”
His irritation increased as they walked and his suspicion that Adam and Thomas had conspired to protect him grew. He glared at the guard at the Minster gatehouse and did not bother to knock the mud from his boots when he entered the Archdeacon’s residence. A servant led them to a small chamber warmed by a brazier and offered wine, which Cordwainer refused. Ignoring the chairs set for them, he paced by the brazier and coughed in the smoke. Thomas stood silent, an expression of resigned patience on his face.
When Archdeacon Godfrey entered the room, Cordwainer regarded him with distaste. Forgoing any polite greeting, he spoke. “Your Grace, why did you not tell me you had spoken to Sir John the day he was killed?”
Godfrey flushed at his rudeness. “I was unaware that I needed to report my conversations to you, Master Coroner,” he said coldly.
“It did not occur to you that it might be important for my investigation?”
“It was not. We said nothing of importance.”
“Perhaps, your Grace, you would allow me to decide what is important. As Coroner, I have the experience to judge in such matters.”
Godfrey’s eyes narrowed. “And I do not? Very well, Master Cordwainer. We spoke of Lady Claire’s death, and Sir John convinced me it was murder, not accident. He expressed his conviction that Mistress Westcote was the killer, a conviction which, as you know, I share.”
“Did he say aught else?”
“I did not question him as a suspect, if that is what you mean. He was grieving for his wife. I offered sympathy.”
“Did he say where he was going when he left you?”
“Nay, he did not. This interview is at an end, Master Cordwainer. Pray do not return unless I send for you.” The Archdeacon left the chamber.
Cordwainer gave a loud snort. “Now I shall go home, Thomas,” he said. “And you will go to Adam and tell him I need you for the afternoon. We must find out where Sir John ate that night.”
“Aye, Master,” replied Thomas. “I hope the Archdeacon isn’t too angry with you,” he added. “I have never seen you so rude.”
“I wanted the truth, not polite lies.” Cordwainer stepped to the door to push it open.
“Do you think he told the truth?” asked Thomas.
“Perhaps,” said Cordwainer, letting the door fall shut again. “At least we know now how he came to suspect Magda Westcote. Twas worrying me, how he found her. I see no reason why he would lie about where Sir John might go.”
He pushed his way through the door and a waiting servant escorted them out of the building. They walked into the rain again, down Lop Lane to Petergate, where Thomas insisted on seeing Cordwainer home before retracing his steps to Adam’s shop. Cordwainer grumbled and snorted, but was secretly glad for Thomas’s assistance on the slippery streets. His bad hip ached, and he knew he needed to rest soon. Wh
en he got home, he would have Agytha prepare a hot poultice for him. Twould draw out the damp and ease the pain, and he would not be crippled tomorrow.
But as they approached Ouse Bridge Cordwainer was roused from his thoughts by a shout. “Tis the Coroner,” came the voice. “Stop him!” He lifted his hood and squinted through the rain to see that a small crowd had gathered a few paces past the bridge on the riverbank and were now looking up at him. With a sigh, he grasped Thomas’s arm to walk down the bank, sliding in the muddy grasses that lined the river. Jostling and pushing each other, the people cleared a path for him. At the end of the path lay the body of a child. Cordwainer crossed himself and stepped forward, then fell to his knees beside the body. “She were floating in the river,” came a voice above him. “Nibb here pulled her out.”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. The girl looked to be five or six years old, with a dress gone brownish grey in the water and lank brown hair. She had not been in the river long; the fish had not yet gotten to her, and her body had only begun to bloat. Cordwainer reached out and closed the dull brown eyes, then tried to straighten the crumpled legs. The left, he realized, was badly misshapen: shorter than the right, it twisted inward at the hip so that the knee and foot faced sideways. She must have walked with an unsteady, jerking gait, easy to slip and fall into the river if she were playing on the bank. But did no one see her fall?
Reaching a hand out for Thomas’s help, he stood and faced the onlookers. “Do none of you know this child?” he asked. “Come forward and look. I need to find her family.”
Those standing nearest shook their heads, but the crowd had grown larger and several people pushed forward from the back. A woman in a faded green headscarf and threadbare cloak gasped. “Tis Maddy,” she said, lisping through a nearly toothless mouth. “Maddy Cote. Her parents live across the river near All Saints. She were a sweet little thing, always cheerful, though the children mocked her, how she walked.”
Cordwainer thanked her, then looked at Thomas. “We will take the poor child to her parents,” he said. “She is small enough to carry. We cannot leave her lying here in the rain.”
Thomas nodded, then stooped and gathered the girl in his arms. “I can carry her, Master,” he said, “if you can lead the way.”
Cordwainer turned to the woman in the green headscarf. “Mistress,” he said. “Will you show us the house?”
“Aye,” she said, “and when I have I will go for the priest.”
He looked up the riverbank to the street, wondering how he could possibly climb up without falling. Stabbing his stick into the mud, he took a step, then another, sliding backwards as his boots sank in the mire. Strong arms grabbed his on either side, the men smelling strongly of fish. Together they hauled him up the slope as another fisherman helped the green-scarfed woman. He thanked the men and turned to watch Thomas climbing slowly but unaided up the bank with the girl in his arms.
They crossed the bridge, Cordwainer and Mistress Bryche, as she called herself, in front and Thomas carrying Maddy behind. Most of the onlookers hurried away, glad that someone had taken charge of the body and they could go about their business. But several people followed them in a grim procession over the bridge and along the far bank of the Ouse. One by one they dropped aside as it became clear the house was farther than they wanted to walk in the rain.
When they had passed All Saints Church and entered the poor neighborhood by the river, Mistress Bryche stopped at the head of a mud lane leading almost to the riverbank. “Tis there,” she said, pointing, “the second house. I will go find Father Patrick.” She scurried off into the rain in the direction of the church, leaving Cordwainer and Thomas alone with two men and a woman – the rain-soaked remnants of the group that had followed from the bridge.
Cordwainer glared at them. “Do you know the child or her parents?” he asked. “If not, go away with you. Tis not a poppet-show for you to be gawking at.” When they did not move, he brandished his stick at them, and they backed away.
The house was a wattle-and-daub structure with a single story and a thatched roof badly in need of repair. A thin stream of smoke rose from a hole in the center of the roof, and a baby cried close by the shuttered window. As they neared the door, a man’s voice rose from within, “Shut that brat up! Tis bad enough the rain keeps us indoors, I won’t abide that racket!”
Cordwainer rapped on the door with his stick. Master Cote, wearing a ragged cap and undyed gown with a blanket around his shoulders, threw it open and a gust of smoky air wafted from the house. His eyes moved from Cordwainer to Thomas with Maddy’s body. “You’ve found her, have you?” he said. “Bring her in out of the rain.”
Cordwainer stepped into the house with Thomas behind him. A low fire burned in a hearth made of loosely arranged rocks in the center of the floor, its smoke filling the small space before escaping through the roof-hole. Water dripped from overhead in several places, muddying the packed-dirt floor. A small trestle table sat in a corner with three stools, and rolled pallets were laid against the wall. The table held a rushlight and a large tankard. Five children in various states of dress or undress played on the floor, while Mistress Cote, a sad-faced woman in a grey gown, sat on a stool holding the screaming baby to her thin breasts.
When she saw Maddy, tears streamed down her face, but she made no sound. Handing the baby to a boy who sat playing with a wooden horse on the floor, she went to the wall and unrolled a straw pallet, gesturing to Thomas. Thomas placed the girl’s body on the pallet and she crouched next to it, running her hands over Maddy’s still form, her tears mixing with the river water and rain that soaked the girl.
“Tis as I said, she slipped and fell in the river,” said Master Cote, who had not moved from the door. The rain formed a curtain behind him, and he spoke loudly to be heard over its drumming. “Tis a sad thing, but better so, for we cannot feed us all as tis, and the lass would never grow to find a man to care for her, not with a twisted leg.”
Cordwainer stared at him as understanding dawned. “Did she slip and fall, Master Cote, or did you put her in the river yourself?” he asked.
“You could never prove it if I did,” Cote replied with a sneer.
“You might be surprised what can happen at an inquest,” replied Cordwainer. “A jury does not look kindly on the killing of a child.”
Cote spat out the door into the rain. “What do you or your juries know of feeding seven children and a wife, Master Coroner? With no work to be found save if you’re skilled in a trade and a guild member? Go back to your big house and fine dinners and leave us poor folk to get on as we can.”
Cordwainer was opening his mouth to reply when the priest arrived, shaking the rain from his cloak, followed by Mistress Bryche, who immediately rushed to embrace Mistress Cote. The room had grown crowded, and Cordwainer looked at Thomas. “Tis time to go home,” he said.
Pushing his way past the priest, he pulled up his hood and walked out of the house, slipping slightly as he stalked up the muddy lane to the street. Thomas ran to catch up and walk by his side. “Do you truly believe he drowned his daughter, Master?” he asked.
“Aye,” said Cordwainer, pulling his hood forward. “He as much as admitted it.”
“But shouldn’t there be an inquest and a charge of murder? He killed his own child!”
“Aye, there should,” replied Cordwainer, “but twould do more harm than good. Even if the inquest gave a verdict of murder, which is doubtful as most of the jurors would be his neighbors, and if he were judged and hanged, what good would we have done? His house and all in it would be confiscated by the Crown, and Mistress Cote and six children would starve in the street. Is that justice?”
“Twould be justice for Maddy,” said Thomas.
“Aye, but what of Mistress Cote? What of the other children? They are starving now, but at least tis with a roof over their heads.”
“You told me tis not ours to decide such things, but the jury’s and the law’s. Why is this different?”
/>
“Because I cannot face turning Mistress Cote out into the street, Thomas,” said Cordwainer. “I cannot have her and her children on my conscience.”
They walked in silence until Thomas said, “But what if he decides the baby is one too many to feed?”
“Then, Thomas, the babe will die, and I shall have one more sin to atone for.”
Blanche
Talbot Manor, February 1268
As the days went by, Blanche’s bruises faded and her broken jaw began to heal in a crooked line. Sir John had taken Lady Claire and Marie north to the manor of Sir Humphrey Forsythe, whom Marie was to wed once the dowry was agreed on, so she need have no fear for the present. Yet it was more than a fortnight before she could summon the courage to venture down the steep steps and out to the cookhouse, and only then because Julian forbade Lizzie to bring her broth and porridge above stairs. The lethargy that had overwhelmed her in the minutes after the rape continued, and she moved in a grey mist that dulled the world around her. The sharp pains in her abdomen slowly diminished.
The only thing that could rouse her from her stupor was the child Lily. Together they sat amid the rushes in the great hall, playing with Lily’s wooden doll. As Lily sang her wordless songs, Blanche could sometimes almost forget her shame and her rage in the child’s simple innocence. When after a month Sir John returned to the manor with his wife and elder daughter, Lizzie served the wine and food while Blanche stayed in the cookhouse with Julian or sat upstairs in Lily’s small chamber.
At night she lay awake in her room under the sloped rafters, tense with waiting. When Sir John’s heavy tread sounded on the staircase, she whimpered to herself, but did not move. She remained motionless throughout, hardly flinching when he slapped her and commanded her to respond. Only when he had finished and gone down the stairs again did she allow herself to cry, to rise from her bed and wash in the darkness, to curl herself into a ball beneath her blanket and sleep.
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 11