Leaving his plate and cup on the table, he put on his cloak and draped his scrip over his shoulder. With his stick in one hand and the bundle in the other, he set out into a bright, blustery day. His cloak fluttered behind him and his gown flattened against his legs as he squinted into the wind and trudged over Ouse Bridge and up to Petergate. The mud was drying fast in the wind, and he did not fear for his footing.
As he neared Lop Lane, a voice called out to him and he turned to look. A beggar woman with a face disfigured by burns sat in a narrow space between two buildings. She held up her arms to him, displaying twisted red scars twining to hands that had only stumps for fingers. He fumbled in his scrip and dropped coins into her lap, wondering how she could have survived a fire that had done such damage.
“God bless you, Master,” she said. He glanced at her ruined face again and realized she was younger than he had thought, the skin around the shiny burns not yet wrinkled, the eyes lashless but bright. Had she no family to care for her? Dead in the fire that burned her, most likely. Continuing to the lane, he contemplated the lot of York’s unfortunates and wondered if it had been the fire in the old Jewry six weeks earlier that had mutilated the woman. He crossed himself and prayed that God might watch over her and all of York’s poor, that He might keep Mistress Cote and her children safe from harm, that his decision not to investigate further into the death of Maddy Cote had been justified.
His spirits lifted at the Saint Peter’s gatehouse when he recognized the guard as his old friend Alf and raised his stick in greeting.
“Master Cordwainer!” Alf exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in weeks! I’ve been watching nights since before the start of Lent, but I’m back to my regular time now. Are you here to see the Archdeacon?”
“Nay,” replied Cordwainer. “He told me not to bother him unless he sent for me. But I need to question the woman who is suspect in the Talbots’ murder. Where is she being held?”
Alf looked troubled. “Master, you know tis not in your jurisdiction to question someone suspect in a crime within the liberties, not without the Archdeacon’s permission. I may not let you in to see her, nay, could not even if I wanted to. Tis the Archdeacon and his secretary have the keys.”
Cordwainer raised a hand to calm him. “Tis fine, Alf. I’m not here to cause trouble for you, not this time. Tis the killing of Sir John I want to talk to her about, tis in my jurisdiction right enough. Where might I find Godfrey’s secretary?”
Alf did not look entirely convinced, but he nodded his acquiescence and turned, sticking his head into the gatehouse behind him. “Out with you now,” he said. “I’ve an errand for you.”
A boy of about ten emerged from the stone structure. His pug nose and cheery smile left no doubt as to his parentage. Cordwainer laughed. “Tis Bert, grown almost to a man,” he said. “Five years ago, when your mother died, he was but as tall as my knee.”
Alf beamed, and Bert blushed, wriggling in embarrassment. “Aye,” said Alf. “They grow fast. Bert’s been helping me out here at the gatehouse, so I don’t have to leave my post when I’m alone. Run to Brother Alcuin, Bert, and tell him the King’s Coroner is here to see him.”
Bert nodded and took off across the Minster grounds as Cordwainer battled to keep his long cloak and gown down around his legs in a sudden gust of wind. Alf gestured to his own leggings and knee-length tunic. “You need to dress for the wind,” he said, laughing, “or you’ll be arse-naked to the world. Tis where the expression ‘bare as the bishop’s bum’ is from, I’ll wager.”
“Nay, tisn’t.” said Cordwainer as he clamped the bundle firmly against his cloak to hold it down. “I thought everyone knew where twas from. Tis the oldest joke I know.” He glanced quickly at the passersby, then leaned forward to tell the bawdy story, but stopped as Bert ran up to duck inside the gatehouse, followed at a slower pace by a tonsured cleric. “Next time,” he promised Alf.
“Master Coroner,” said the cleric as he approached. “I am Brother Alcuin, secretary to the Archdeacon.” The skirts of his robe billowed around his slender frame, and his long nose and close-set eyes reminded Cordwainer of a ferret.
“God give you good day, Brother,” he said. “I need to question Mistress Westcote again in the matter of the killing of Sir John.”
The long nose twitched as the eyes flicked from Cordwainer’s stick to the bundle. “Very well,” said Brother Alcuin. “Follow me.” He led Cordwainer down a gravel path leading to the side of the Minster, then back into a grove of ash trees. When they emerged from the grove, a stone building stood in front of them, its double oak doors studded with iron bolts. Drawing a set of keys from his belt, Alcuin unlocked the doors and stepped inside to light a candle on a shelf by the door. Cordwainer followed, his eyes momentarily blinded by the sudden shift from sunlight to darkness. The small pool of light from the candle illuminated the floor beneath Alcuin’s feet, but little else. He followed the circle of light up a steep staircase to a hallway, where Alcuin placed the candle in a sconce and searched for another key on his belt.
Cordwainer looked down the hallway. Doors led off to either side, and a glazed lancet window blazed with sunlight at the end. The air felt stuffy, as if the building had not been used for a while, but there were no foul odors and the floor beneath his feet was clean. Alcuin unlocked the door and swung it open to reveal a tiny chamber filled with sunlight from two lancet windows in the far wall. A bed with a mattress covered in linen stood to one side, on the other was a small table and a three-legged stool. A crucifix hung between the windows above an unlit brazier. Tis not a prison cell, Cordwainer realized. Tis a monk’s cell or a nun’s.
Magda Westcote sat on the stool with her face in her hands. As the men entered, she raised her head and drew a sharp breath when she saw Cordwainer. “Master, I’d thought you’d forgotten me,” she said, blinking back tears.
“Nay, Mistress, you are not forgotten,” he replied. “Not by me nor by your husband. He sent you this.” Raising the bundle, he reached to hand it to her, but Brother Alcuin intercepted it. “Tis fresh clothing,” said Cordwainer, “nothing more.”
Alcuin nodded as he untied the knot and spread the clothing onto the bed, sorting through it as Cordwainer had done. When he had finished, he stepped back to take his place by the door with a sheepish expression. “My pardon, Mistress,” he murmured.
Magda glanced once at the things on the bed, then turned her eyes to Cordwainer. “You’ve seen him, then, Edgar?” she asked.
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. “He is working with me to find the killer.”
“He cannot!” said Magda in alarm. “He must go home for the planting. Tell him that!”
“Now, Mistress, do not upset yourself,” said Cordwainer. “If all goes well, you will plant your crops with your husband. There is still time.” He looked around the small room again. “Have they treated you well?”
“Aye,” she said, and laughed ruefully. “I feared twould be a dungeon with rats and shackles. Tis just I cannot leave, and the room is small, and there’s naught to do but worry. I am not used to sitting idle. Edgar must go home for the planting, Master. Twill be one less thing for me to worry about.”
Cordwainer nodded. “All in good time, Mistress,” he said. He too was relieved that her prison was a comfortable one, but he could not imagine living for any length of time in the tiny cell. “Mistress, the night Sir John was killed, you went into the city with your husband. While he spoke to the ostler at Micklegate, where did you go?”
Magda stared blankly at him. “I wandered in the streets, staying close so as not to lose myself. When I saw that Edgar would be a while, I stopped into a tavern and drank a cup of ale. The tavern mistress saw my herbs and we started to talk, for she has a small garden, and – ”
“Which tavern?” Cordwainer interrupted. “Do you remember the emblem on the tavern stake? Or the mistress’s name?”
Magda stared at her clasped hands. “Nay, not the emblem. The mistress’s name…aye, tw
as Bess.” She looked up hopefully at Cordwainer. “Is it important?”
“Aye, Mistress. If she will swear you were with her, and the guard that you left the city, we may be able to persuade the Archdeacon to release you. You say twas near Micklegate Bar?”
“Aye, very near. If you were to stand with your back to the Bar, twas to the left. As I said, I feared losing my way.” Her eyes had brightened, and some of the lines smoothed from her face.
Cordwainer thought, but could not remember a tavern in the direction she had indicated. Twas a long time since he had frequented taverns for pleasure. He would ask Thomas, or perhaps Osric Foss would know. Twas no matter, if twas near Micklegate Bar, they would find it. “You also said that you sold all your herbs to an apothecary, one who hated Sir John. Do you remember where his shop was? Or his name?”
“Aye, twas Holt was his name. He were the brother of Sir John’s old steward Eric, the one that was run off the land. His shop were over the river between Ouse Bridge and the Castle, but I don’t know the street. I were lost when I found it, and he gave me directions to find the Castle after.”
Cordwainer nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m afraid I must go now. Is there aught else you need that I might bring you? – that twould be allowed, of course,” he added to Brother Alcuin.
“Nay, unless…” Magda looked at Alcuin. “Would it be possible for me to have sewing? Or a spindle? I need something to do or I shall go mad.”
“I will ask, Mistress,” said Alcuin. He looked at Cordwainer. “Master?”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. He stepped to the door and turned back. “I almost forgot,” he said. “Your husband asked me to tell you he loves you.”
Magda burst into tears.
◆◆◆
As they walked back to the gatehouse with the wind tugging at their robes, Cordwainer continued to rack his brain for the location of the tavern. Twas true he rarely ventured south to Micklegate Bar, although twas the closest gate out of the city from his house. He left through Bootham Bar on the rare occasions he ventured beyond the walls to visit Adam and through the postern by the Old Baile when he went to Clementhorpe. Still, twas his city, and he should know where the taverns were and who ran them. He prayed his memory was not beginning to fail.
So lost was he in his thoughts that he startled when Brother Alcuin spoke. “You do not think twas the woman who killed the Talbots, then?”
“Nay,” he said. “Twas a writ they wanted, not a death.”
Alcuin nodded. They walked on for a few paces. “Gammer,” Alcuin said. “Tis Bess Gammer you want. She owns the Green Leaf tavern on Bar Lane, up by Toft Green.”
Cordwainer stopped in astonishment. “Thank you,” he stammered. “I would not have expected you to know.”
Alcuin smiled. “Because I’m a monk? Or because I came to the city with the Archdeacon? I’m a York man by birth,” he said. “I grew up close by Micklegate Bar, though I was away south for a long while before I was made his Grace’s secretary and sent back north.” He chuckled. “I would not have thought Bess Gammer still alive, but it must be her.” He continued down the path, still chuckling. Cordwainer followed him until the gatehouse came into view.
“You can find your way from here,” said Alcuin. “May God go with you. And Master Coroner…”
Cordwainer turned to look at him.
“Do not judge His Grace too harshly. He is a good man and wants the truth as much as you do, though his patience sometimes fails him. If you can show him Mistress Westcote could not have done the killing, he will release her.”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer, unsure whether he believed Alcuin’s words. “I thank you again, Brother. May God go with you.”
At the gatehouse Alf was waiting for the story of the bishop, but Cordwainer waved him off. “Nay,” he said. “I’ve learned what I needed to know and must hurry. Next time.”
He made his way to the Silver Star on Davygate, certain he would learn nothing from Bart the tavern boy, but equally certain that it was a task that must be done. If he were wrong and the lad knew something worth listening to, he would feel a fool for ignoring him. When he entered the tavern, blinking to clear the dust from his eyes, Osric greeted him warmly, Alisoun with a cool nod. “Tis busy today, Master,” she said. “Pray do not take up the boy’s time. I need him for my customers.”
“Twill be but a moment, Mistress,” Cordwainer replied. He sat with the lad at a table in the back and Osric came with a tankard of ale for him and a wink for Bart. He was a lively-looking lad of about twelve, with brown hair cropped short but sticking up in a pronounced cowlick in the back and bright blue eyes. In answer to Cordwainer’s questioning, he said he had, as Alisoun had testified, knocked on Sir John’s door in the evening, gotten no response, and returned to his work.
“Did you see the woman in grey who went above stairs with the three men?” Cordwainer asked.
“Aye.” Bart grinned at him. “She were a maudlyn, sure as anything.” He gave a quick look to see where his Mistress was, then made an obscene gesture with his hands.
Cordwainer ignored it. “Did you see her leave the next morning?”
“Nay,” he said in surprise. “She left in the night, just afore we locked the door at curfew. She come slipping down the stairs quiet-like, her gown laced up again, and went out without a word, though she were lively enough afore.”
“Did she, now?” said Cordwainer. He thanked Bart and gave him a coin for his trouble. When he stood to go, the boy looked up at him. “Could I finish your ale, Master? You’ve not but touched it.”
“Aye, but don’t tell your Mistress I said so,” replied Cordwainer. Bart grinned and lifted the tankard, draining it in one long draught. Cordwainer snorted and, with a wave of his stick to Osric, left the tavern.
Back on Davygate, he squinted up at the sky. It did not look like rain and the wind had abated somewhat. A long walk on his bad hip was out of the question, but if he hurried he had time to stop by Adam’s shop before going home to tell Thomas and Edgar what he had learned. He liked having the shop so close, being able to drop in and see his son without leaving the city walls. He set off for Stonegate, then paused. An apothecary’s shop stood to his right, its door open to the passing traffic. Twould only take a moment.
He entered the shop and waited while the apothecary stoppered a small clay bottle and handed it to an elderly woman across the counter. “Two drops in each eye before bedtime,” he said. “No more.”
The woman took the bottle and held it close to her face to examine it. “My hands are none too steady, Master,” she quavered. “If tis more than two drops, will summat terrible happen?”
“Aye,” he said. “You will have to come back to buy more. Stop worrying, Mistress, and go home. If tis not better in a week, come back to see me.”
She nodded and turned to go, her red, clouded eyes squinted almost shut. The apothecary watched her until she was out of the door and walking unsteadily up Davygate. With a sigh, he turned to Cordwainer. “How may I help you?”
“I’m looking for an apothecary named Holt,” Cordwainer replied.
“You have found him.”
Cordwainer placed his scrip on the floor by his feet to hide his surprise. He had not thought Holt would be so easy to find. “I am Matthew Cordwainer, King’s Coroner,” he said. “I need to ask you some questions about the killing of Sir John Talbot.”
Holt’s dark eyes became wary, and he picked up a jar from the counter and turned to place it on a shelf. “What is it you want to know?”
“When Magda Westcote came here two days ago, you bought all her herbs,” said Cordwainer. “How much wolfsbane did she sell you?”
Holt turned back to look at him. “Several plants, I’d say six or seven without going to look.”
“Whole plants, not prepared in any way?”
“Dried, at least mostly. But aye, whole plants. I prefer to prepare the herbs myself.”
“Why did you need so much?”
“I didn’t need most of what she sold me. I bought them because her husband was brave enough to defy Sir John.” He fixed his eyes on Cordwainer with a glare. “Nay, I do not believe she killed him, though tis said the Archdeacon does and has imprisoned her.”
“So you did not need any wolfsbane?”
“Aye, in fact, I did. I’d sold all I had the day before.” He reached beneath the counter and brought out a handful of dried lavender, spreading it in front of him as he sorted the plants and separated flowers from leaf. “These are Magda’s plants as well,” he said.
Cordwainer leaned forward. “Was the wolfsbane you sold ground to powder?”
“Aye.” He scooped the flowers from the counter and set them aside, then began stripping the leaves from their stems.
“Who did you sell it to?”
Holt shrugged, shaking his head. “I’d not seen her before. Twas odd, as I know most of my custom. Folk like to go to an apothecary they know and trust.”
“Master Holt, what did she look like? Tis important. She may have been Sir John’s killer.”
Holt looked up from his counter as if visualizing the woman in the middle distance between Cordwainer and the door. “She were middling height, wearing a grey dress and white scarf. I couldn’t see her hair. Brown eyes. Her jaw was funny, like it had been broke and set badly.” His eyes turned back to Cordwainer. “I know tis not much, but there were nowt twould set her off from a hundred women. The odd thing was, I felt I ought to know her, like she were someone I’d known or seen a long time ago. But I cannot remember.” Drawing two pouches from under the counter, he swept the lavender petals into one and the leaves into the second. The stems went into a mortar, and he picked up the pestle to begin grinding them.
Cordwainer watched as Holt worked. “Are you from Market Weighton yourself, Master Holt?”
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 13