Chapter 11
York, April 1273
Edgar Westcote trudged down Skeldergate in the rain, wishing himself back on his farm by Market Weighton. The stink of the city in his nostrils sickened him, the smoke, the waste of folk and animals in the ditches and gutters, even the river smelled as if twere filled with rotting fish and garbage. The people scurrying through the tunnel-like streets were like ants, never looking up to see the sky, or what little sky could be seen between these jettied, overhanging buildings. Houses and shops and taverns, one after the next. How could folk bear to live this way? Yet he knew the city folk held themselves above those who lived in the countryside – he had been mocked for his clothing and his speech in more than one tavern that day.
He must have visited every tavern south of the river except the one Magda had been in, for not a soul he had spoken to remembered her. Surely, she had not crossed Ouse Bridge? Looking around to get his bearings, he realized he had walked almost to the Old Baile; twas time to turn back, to find another street he had not yet been on, another tavern. Perhaps he would buy himself something to eat in the next one, he had the coin from selling the gelding, and his bed in the inn by Micklegate was paid for. A lane led away to his right and he glimpsed a tavern-stake a few buildings down on the left. Had he been there already? He stood hesitating, and a woman in a grey dress and cloak with a hood over her headscarf bumped into him, both of them sliding in the mud towards the brimming gutter. He caught her arm to keep her from falling, bracing himself against the shutter of a house to his right.
“I’m so sorry, thank you, I – ” said the woman, peering out from her hood at Edgar. Her expression changed, and she pulled herself away from him. Grabbing her hood around her face, she ran up Skeldergate as if from the Devil himself. Edgar stood bewildered. What had he done to frighten her so? As he walked down the lane toward the tavern, he went over the incident in his mind. There was something about her face, something familiar, but he could not decide if he had seen her before or if she simply looked like someone he knew. Was it someone from Market Weighton or had he seen her here in York? He reached the tavern door, squared his shoulders, and went in.
Another dark, rush-lit room, filled with the familiar odors of wood smoke, burning tallow, ale, and fish. His eyes found the stout taverner in his stained apron and he made his way between the tables to talk to him. But nay, the taverner declared himself to be a single man, so Magda certainly hadn’t spent hours talking with his wife. Edgar sighed. He would eat here and go on, and if he didn’t find the right tavern today, he would try again tomorrow. He had settled on the bench by the fire with a trencher of fish pottage when a tow-headed lad in a dripping green cloak came in holding a wet hat in his hands and approached the taverner. He heard the name ‘Sir John Talbot’ and turned his head to listen.
“Nay,” the taverner was saying, “I’ve had no knights supping here that I know of and no one of that description. Maybe he et with t’other fellow’s wife and run off with her.” He cackled at his own joke and pointed at Edgar, still laughing, then turned away to serve another customer. The tow-head looked at Edgar and shrugged, then came to sit on the bench beside him.
“Do you know what he’s talking about?” he asked. “I didn’t understand the jest.”
Edgar studied him as he chewed his food. Fifteen, maybe sixteen years old, with an open, honest face and intelligent blue eyes. Plain clothes of good quality. He swallowed and said, “Why are you looking for Sir John? Tis said he died.”
“Aye,” said the lad. “Dead of poison. My Master wants to know where he supped the night he died, so we may find where he ate the poison.”
“Your Master? Who is that?”
“Master Matthew Cordwainer, the King’s Coroner. I am Thomas Morlond, his…assistant.”
Edgar took another bite of pottage, chewed, and swallowed. “I thought twas all decided, and a woman jailed for the crime.”
“Aye and nay. The Archdeacon is holding a woman for the death of Lady Claire, but my Master is not so sure she is guilty. There is no real proof, and she hasn’t confessed. If twere in the King’s jurisdiction, I doubt they would hold her.”
Edgar picked up his ale cup, then put it down when he realized his hand was shaking. The King’s Coroner not sure of Magda’s guilt! Perhaps there was hope after all. He looked again at Thomas, wondering if he could trust the lad’s words. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“Nay, should I?”
“My name is Edgar Westcote.”
Thomas looked blank for a moment, then his face lit up. “You’re Magda Westcote’s husband!” he said. “My Master is certain to want to speak to you.”
“Aye, I will speak with him,” said Edgar. “But first I must find the tavern where Magda talked with the tavern mistress or taverner’s wife the day Sir John was killed. If I can find the taverner’s wife, I will have witnesses to swear where she was all the time we were in York and can have her released.”
Thomas nodded. “A witness, aye, tis what you need.” He glanced at Edgar’s wet cloak where it lay on the bench. “Where have you looked so far?”
Edgar admitted that he was no longer certain, for he did not know the city and had been lost and found himself again several times.
“Then let us visit a few more taverns with our questions together,” replied Thomas. “Afterwards, I will take you to Master Cordwainer’s house.”
Edgar smiled for the first time in two days. Perhaps he had found an ally in this horrid city. “Let me finish eating first,” he said, “and I will come with you.”
◆◆◆
Steam rose from Cordwainer’s cloak where it lay spread on the table before the fire. The room smelled of wet wool and cooked fish. Tis the smell of Lent, he thought, as he sat in his chair by the window with his feet on the newly-padded footstool. A hot poultice was plastered to his hip and the cat Isolde slept on his lap. His mind was uneasy as he thought about his day. The Archdeacon was likely to be even more intractable now that he was angry. If he had tiptoed, as de Bury put it, would he have gained the same knowledge? Aye, most likely. A part of him knew that he and Godfrey were two of a kind, each unable to give way to the other. Perhaps he should learn to be more diplomatic.
But twas not the Archdeacon that kept him from being comfortable in his mind; twas the girl Maddy. He hoped he had not sinned by walking away from the Cote house without calling for an inquest. Twas true he could not prove that Cote had drowned the girl, and without a confession of guilt twas unlikely the man would hang. Twas also true that if he did hang, his wife and children would starve. Cote’s cold logic, that twas better to sacrifice the damaged girl so the rest could eat, chilled him. He could not imagine making such a choice. He prayed that he had done the right thing and that if not, he would be forgiven his sin, for he had done it out of compassion. He would talk to Father Edward about it when he made his confession.
His thoughts turned to the woman in grey who had gone above stairs with the drunken guests in the Silver Swan. Osric had said she did not look like a maudlyn, save that the front of her dress was unlaced. Maudlyns favored bright colors, gaudy clothing to attract their custom. If the men were as drunk as Osric said, twould be possible for her to leave them passed out in their room and climb the ladder to Sir John’s chamber. Yet she would still have had to find a way to make him take the wolfsbane in his ale, and if she were not a maudlyn, would she truly take the chance that the men were drunk enough to pass out? He shook his head. Twas more likely the poison had been put in his supper, wherever twas he ate. Thomas would find out. He had not wanted to ask Adam to release Thomas for the day; twas something he should not do often, but he knew his bad hip would keep him from visiting the taverns himself unless he were lucky enough to find the right one quickly. Thomas had been gone for hours, and twas getting dark.
He shifted in the cushioned chair, easing his hip. The pain had been a constant in his life for so long that he had resigned himself to the perpetual ache
. Twas only when the weather was damp or cold that it kept him from doing what he wanted. Stefan warned him repeatedly that he must not push himself so far that the pain was bad lest he find himself unable to walk at all when he was older. Yet he could not, would not spend his days indoors until he must. Twould mean giving up his position as Coroner and going to live with Adam and his wife outside the city where they could care for him. Twould be living death, no matter that he loved his son and his wife and children. Nay, he would do his best to bear the pain meekly, as Father Martin counselled him, as a shield against sin.
A key rattled in the lock and the door opened to admit Thomas and a man of about thirty with a lined, weather-beaten face and knobbed, callused hands, wearing the clothes of a farmer. Water cascaded from their cloaks into the floor-rushes, and their hair, light and dark, was plastered to their heads. Thomas ran to the kitchen for dry towels as Cordwainer struggled to rise and Isolde leapt from his lap. “Nay, Master,” said the man, “do not get up. I did not come to disturb your comfort.”
Thomas returned mopping his hair with a towel. He extended a second towel to their guest. “Master, this is Edgar Westcote, Magda Westcote’s husband,” he said. “We’ve been searching taverns together.”
“And spending more time without doors than within, it seems,” said Cordwainer. “God give you good day, Master Westcote. Thomas, bring the chairs over here so we may talk.”
Thomas pushed two of the chairs from the table closer to Cordwainer and gestured for Edgar to sit, then returned to the kitchen. Cordwainer waited until Edgar had dried the worst of the rain from his hair and was comfortably seated. Settling his foot back onto his footstool, he asked, “How did you come to be helping Thomas search the taverns, Master Westcote?”
“Twas accident, Master Coroner,” Edgar replied. “I was searching for a tavern mistress my wife spoke to on the evening Sir John was killed. If she will testify that Magda was with her, then I will have witnesses for all the time we were in York. I hoped the Archdeacon would release her.”
“I see,” said Cordwainer. “Did you find her?”
“Nay, nor the tavern where Sir John supped neither,” said Edgar. He shook his head. “Tis a wonder how many taverns there are in this city.”
Thomas entered the room carrying a flagon and cups. Cordwainer snorted. “I’d have thought you would have had enough ale by now,” he said, accepting a cup and placing it on the chest he used as a table next to his chair.
“Nay, we weren’t drinking,” replied Thomas with a laugh, “at least not much. We wanted to be able to find our way home again.”
“How many taverns did you visit?” asked Cordwainer.
“All, or nearly all, on this side of the river,” said Thomas.
“Aye, that’s what worries me,” Edgar added. “I do not think Magda would have crossed the river, for she knew I would be waiting for her. Yet we have found no tavern mistress who remembers her.”
“You have not asked your wife which tavern it was?” said Cordwainer.
“Nay, the Archdeacon would not allow me to see her,” said Edgar, “lest we have a conspiracy.”
“Then I will demand to question her again,” said Cordwainer. “He cannot deny me, and I shall find out for you. Is there aught else you need to know from her?”
“Just make certain she knows I have not abandoned her,” said Edgar, “that I am here in York and am trying to have her released. And there is a clean gown and shift in my pack at the inn that you might bring her, if tis allowed.”
“Twill be allowed, I promise you,” said Cordwainer. “Bring the clothing here in the morning, and I shall see her before Terce.”
“Thank you,” said Edgar, turning his face away, but not before Cordwainer saw the tears welling up in his eyes. He took a sip of his ale and waited until he thought Edgar had recovered himself. “Now,” he said, “I want you to tell me all you know of Sir John and Lady Claire.”
Edgar blinked and looked around as if unsure where to begin. “Sir John is evil,” he said finally, “and his wife no better.”
“You purchased a Writ of Novel Disseisin against him, did you not?”
“Aye, with all the coin we had.”
Cordwainer listened as Edgar described the fencing of his meadow, the destruction of his wheat field, the Petty Assize, and the verdict. “But if this is how he treats his neighbors, he treats his own even worse, whipping them for the slightest offense or no offense at all,” Edgar said. “The workers on his land are serfs, bound to him. Tis said he treats his dogs better.”
“When I asked his steward who might want Sir John dead, he answered ‘all who knew him,’” said Cordwainer. “I begin to understand the response.”
“Aye, his steward, that’s another thing,” said Edgar. “There was a steward before Jarrold, Eric his name was, who tried to stand up to Sir John, to take the part of the serfs. He were beaten, then crippled by Sir John’s dogs and run off as well. Tis said he’s in Lincoln now, but I don’t know that for certain. Twas what I heard.”
“What do you know of Sir John’s daughters?”
“Only that there are two. The younger is, I believe ‘simple’ is the term for it, though Sir John calls her an imbecile. The elder was married a year or so ago and is no longer in Market Weighton. Lady Forsythe, she is now, wed to Sir Humphrey.”
“Did she get on well with her father?”
“I wouldn’t know that, Master. I can’t say I’ve ever seen the daughters. What I’ve told you is the village gossip, no more.”
Cordwainer sighed. “With a man like this, there is never a shortage of suspects or motives,” he said. “But who had the opportunity to put the wolfsbane in Sir John’s food or ale, as well as in the Lady’s wine – that is the question we must answer.”
Edgar stared into the fire. “And that is why it looks so bad for Magda,” he admitted, “for she could have sold Lady Claire the wolfsbane, though I know she didn’t. And I suppose she could have poisoned Sir John as well and lied to me about where she was when she did it. But I know, Master Cordwainer, I know tis not true.”
They sat in silence for several minutes until Edgar rose. “Tis time for me to be going back to the inn at Micklegate,” he said, “before they sell my bed to someone else, and before I fall asleep on my feet. I will be there if you need me.”
Thomas stood and walked with him to the door, making plans to go tavern-hunting in the morning. Cordwainer shifted in his seat again. He hoped for Edgar’s sake that Magda was as innocent as he claimed. Tomorrow he would speak to the tavern boy at the Silver Star and then go visit Magda. If she could not tell a man born and raised in the city where the tavern she had visited was, he would have to rethink the question of her guilt. In any case, twas becoming clear that there was someone in York with ties to Sir John’s manor, someone who held a grudge against the knight or his lady. If twas not Magda or Edgar who had used the wolfsbane, then perhaps keeping Edgar close by his side would allow him to recognize who it was.
Chapter 12
York, April 1273
Cordwainer awoke in the night to the sound of shutters banging and something clattering as it rolled down the lane outside his window. Wind howled in the chimney, and he remembered how as a child the sound had frightened him, certain twas a condemned soul shrieking its way to Hell. A loud curse came from across the street, and the banging shutter slammed shut. He chuckled and turned over, but could not go back to sleep. The bells for Matins rang, and he wondered if Brother Michael had questioned the nuns and whether he had found out anything worth knowing. The monk should have come by to tell him something by now. He imagined Michael rising from his bed and walking through the dim cloister to the church to sing the prayers of the Office. On still nights in summer when his window was open he could often hear the monks singing. Twould not be so bad to rise at midnight in summer, but he could not imagine what twas like in winter to leave a warm bed and kneel in a cold stone church to pray.
His thoughts turn
ed back to his investigation. Edgar had called the Talbots evil. Was a ruined wheat field and a stolen meadow motive enough for murder? Or an unpaid dowry? He had known folk to kill for less. Perhaps he needed to find out more about the folk Sir John had ruined. A steward somewhere near Lincoln. Any number of serfs. God’s blood, would he have to search the entire countryside? He fell into an uneasy sleep and dreamed of riding through a Lincolnshire full of crippled serfs, searching in vain for Jarrold, while Master Cote sneered at him, saying, “Go back to your fine dinners and big house, and let poor folk get on as they can.” He woke with a start when the bells rang Prime, saying, “but the steward is in York!”
“Master?” said Thomas. “Is aught amiss?”
Cordwainer blinked in the dim light that shone through the wool of the bed curtains and shook his head. “Nay, twas but a dream,” he said, sitting up and pushing back the curtain. He stood and opened the shutter a crack. “Tis not raining,” he said. “The wind must have blown it all south.”
“Aye, but tis cold and still windy. You’ll need your cloak today,” said Thomas, handing him his shirt and gown. “Edgar has already come with the clothing for his wife, and we are going out to wake up taverners and their wives. Your breakfast is on the table.”
He dressed quickly and made his way down the stairs in time to greet Edgar and wish him and Thomas good luck as they left the house. Sitting at the table, he gazed in satisfaction at the new cushions on his chair and footstool, scowled at the old tapestry, then turned to his food. The bundle Edgar had brought lay on the table just past his plate, and he drew it closer. Twas not that he didn’t trust Edgar, he told himself, but twas always better to be safe. He untied the loose knot and sorted through the contents. Nay, all was as it seemed, twas just a clean gown and undershift, hosiery, a comb and some hair clips. He bundled it up again and set it aside, finishing his ale. Twould be best to go to Saint Peter’s first, then the tavern. Afterwards, if his hip allowed it, he would see if he could find the apothecary from Market Weighton that Magda had mentioned. Had she said his name? Twas something else to ask her.
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 12