“Nay, though I spent time there when my brother were steward to Sir John, twould be five years ago and more, now.”
“Could you have seen her there?”
“Tis possible,” said Holt. He looked up from the mortar. “I’ve tried, Master, and I don’t remember.”
Cordwainer sighed. “If you do remember, send for me or come to Saint Martin’s Lane south of the river. Osric at the Silver Swan knows the house.” He picked up his scrip and turned to go, then hesitated and turned back. “Where is your brother now, Master Holt?”
“Lincolnshire. He’s steward to the Bishop on one of his estates.” He stirred the powder with the pestle, then set to work again.
“Does he ever visit York?”
“Nay. Tis five years or more since I’ve seen him.” Turning from the counter, he selected a clay jar and poured the contents of the mortar into it. “Is there aught else?” he asked.
“Nay,” said Cordwainer. “May God give you good day, Master Holt.”
Blanche
Talbot Manor, April 1268
The window in the cookhouse of Talbot manor was open, and a warm spring breeze blew the scents of the newly-planted fields into the room to mingle with the smells of wood smoke, roasting lamb, and the yellow onions Julian was mincing on the worktable. Gib knelt on the tiled floor, his upper body concealed within the iron soup cauldron he was scrubbing with a stiff brush. Blanche sat on a three-legged stool with a basket in her lap shelling peas, which she dropped into a clay bowl by her side. Her hands moved of their own accord as she listened to the rhythmic thump of Julian’s knife and the quick, scraping rasp of Gib’s brush. When she had finished the peas, she rose to place the bowl on the worktable. Picking up the basket, she turned to the door.
“Tell Gib to take that,” said Julian. “Gib!”
A curse came from the cauldron as something banged on the side of it. He pulled himself from the cauldron rubbing his head. “Aye, what now?” he said.
“Take them shells out to the pigs and bring me some more wood. Ain’t that pot clean yet?”
“Twould be, if the pottage hadn’t burned all on the inside,” he said. “Tain’t my fault.”
Julian raised her fist and he ducked, grabbing the basket and running out the door. “I want that pot polished till it shines,” she shouted after him. Red-faced, she turned to Blanche. “Anything yet?”
“Nay,” said Blanche. “Tis almost three months.”
Julian nodded and reached for a cup on the work table. Thrusting it at Blanche, she said, “Drink this.”
Blanche took the cup and held it to her nose, sniffing. “What is it?” she asked.
“Twill bring your courses on,” said Julian. “Go on, drink.”
Blanche hesitated. “What’s in it? Tis sinful, if I’m with child.”
“You’d rather have Sir John’s baby? Or be driven from the house as a whore?” asked Julian. “Tis nothing harmful, just pennyroyal and tansy, with a bit of saffron and rue. I paid the midwife in the village good coin for it.”
Blanche sipped and winced at the bitter taste. Taking a deep breath, she gulped the rest of the liquid in the cup, then handed it back to Julian. “How long will it take?” she asked, settling herself on the stool.
“A day, maybe two,” replied Julian. “Now get off that stool and fetch some water from the well to wash them turnips. I’ll not have you sitting in my kitchen just waiting for it to start. Sir Humphrey will be here soon with his men and they’ll be wanting their dinner. Go!”
Lizzie served dinner in the great hall as Blanche carried a trencher for herself and Lily above stairs to the girl’s room. Marie had loudly voiced her desire not to be embarrassed by her sister in front of her betrothed, although Sir Humphrey was quite aware of Lily’s handicap, and Sir John was happy for any excuse to banish the girl from his sight. Together they ate roast lamb and turnips from the thick slice of dry bread, which they set on the chest where Lily kept her dolls and the treasures she had found around the estate: a stone with a vein of silver mica running through it, a faded ribbon from one of her mother’s old gowns, multi-colored beads that had once been a necklace. Both were content, glad to be unwatched and unjudged.
By evening Blanche had begun to cramp, and during the night she huddled herself into a ball, moaning and grasping her stomach. When the sun rose, she was nauseated, and the pain had increased to the point that she lay gasping with tears streaming down her face. But still the blood did not come. Julian came to wake her when her absence from the cookhouse became noticeable, and after one look ran for the midwife. But the old woman refused to come, saying that if the blood did not flow, twas God’s will the baby be born.
In the afternoon Blanche felt well enough to venture down the stairs and out to the cookhouse for a slice of toasted bread and some ale. Her face was paler than it had ever been, and she refused to look at Julian or respond to Gib’s teasing. When she had eaten, she returned to the manor and climbed the stairs to Lily’s bedchamber, remaining there until it was time to put the girl to bed. She sat on a cushioned bench by the bed, listening to Lily’s soft breathing behind the bed curtains, wondering how long twould be before her sin was noticed. Twas only a matter of time before Lady Claire would send her away as a whore, and she could think of nowhere to go.
Chapter 13
York, April 1273
Cordwainer let himself into his house on Saint Martin’s Lane to a burst of laughter from Thomas and Edgar. The two were already sitting at the table by the fire with mounds of fish pottage on their plates. A loaf of bread with a dish of butter sat between them, half gone, and the two were toasting each other with Cordwainer’s best wine.
Hanging his cloak on its peg, he went to join them as Thomas jumped up with his mouth full, holding a finger in the air to indicate a moment, and ran to the kitchen. When Cordwainer was seated, Edgar said, “We found the tavern where Sir John supped that night…”
“…and tis none other than the Old Boar, where you like to eat,” finished Thomas, setting a plate of pottage and a cup of wine in front of him. “The taverner remembered him because he came in cursing the Sheriff out loud, then demanded they serve him pork even though tis Lent.”
“And did they?” asked Cordwainer.
“Nay,” said Thomas as he sat and resumed eating. “They hadn’t any and won’t have till Easter. When he stopped shouting, he sat and ate his fish, then left. But Master, we spoke to the cook and the serving girl. There’s no reason to think either might have poisoned him.”
“Did you ask about a woman in grey?”
“Nay,” replied Thomas as Edgar looked up sharply, his brow furrowing. “The tavern master said twas so crowded he would not have noticed the knight if he hadn’t been making trouble. A woman in grey would never have been remembered.”
Cordwainer turned to Edgar. “What do you know of a woman in grey?” he asked.
“I doubt I know aught,” he said, and told them of the woman he had frightened on Skeldergate the day before. “She seemed to know me, but I cannot remember where I’ve seen her before.”
“Market Weighton,” said Cordwainer. “It must be.” He related Marcus Holt’s tale of the woman in grey buying his wolfsbane. “She is our killer, I’m certain of it, and I’m certain she lives, or has lived, in Market Weighton and was mistreated in some way by Sir John. One of you, either you, Edgar, or Holt, must remember who she is. I fear tis the only way we will find her.”
Edgar put his head in his hands. “I have tried and will try again. But I cannot think while Magda sits in the Archbishop’s jail. We have found one of the taverns we sought; we need to find the other.”
“She will not be jailed long,” said Cordwainer. “I also have good news to report: the other tavern is the Green Leaf on Bar Lane, and tis owned by a tavern mistress who gardens, Bess Gammer.”
Edgar gave a cry of joy as Thomas rolled his eyes. “Of course!” he said. “How could I have been so stupid? I’m sorry, Edgar. Tis my
fault we didn’t try it. I could think of nothing down that way, so close to the wall. The Green Leaf!”
Cordwainer snorted, but could not resist a smile at Edgar’s happiness. “You’re too young to be losing your memory,” he said to Thomas. “I’m happy to be able to assist you.”
“Magda told you what it was?” asked Edgar, his eyes bright with excitement. “Then you did see her in the Archbishop’s jail?”
“Aye, I saw her and gave her the clothing,” said Cordwainer. “Tis not a jail as such, tis more like a dormitory for nuns or monks, but unused save the room she is in. And she remembered the tavern mistress as Bess, but not the name of the tavern nor where twas.” He went on to describe Magda’s cell and their conversation. Twould not hurt to let them think he had remembered the tavern himself.
Edgar sighed. “Then tis better than I feared,” he said with a rueful smile. “I was imagining the jail in Market Weighton, which has but a dirt floor and straw. But whatever tis like, I’ll be happier once she’s free. Do you truly believe the Archdeacon will release her if the tavern mistress swears?”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. “He must.”
Edgar sat watching Cordwainer eat, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. Thomas picked up his empty plate and Edgar’s half-eaten meal and carried them to the kitchen. When he returned Edgar had not moved. Cordwainer looked up from his food. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “Go, or twill be judgment day before you’re back!”
Thomas and Edgar sprinted for the door.
Cordwainer finished his meal, then stood to take his plate into the kitchen along with the unfinished bread and butter. Agytha was out somewhere, and his weeks without Thomas had taught him to tidy up after himself when he was alone, at least when he remembered to. The shelf above the worktable now held two rows of small clay spice jars, each labeled with a cypher of Agytha’s devising. Setting his plate down, he spent a moment trying to match the cyphers to the spices, then shook his head in defeat. He placed the bread in its box, covered the butter and put it into the cool storage chest outside the door. With a satisfied grunt, he returned to the front room and sat in his chair, putting both feet on the footstool. Closing his eyes, he dozed in a half-dream until Thomas’s key rattled in the door.
It opened to admit the tiniest woman Cordwainer had ever seen, made tinier by her hunched posture that thrust her head forward below her shoulders. Grey hair hung on either side of her wrinkled face from beneath a faded headscarf, and knotted hands grasped a short black walking stick, but her eyes were bright beneath their drooping lids and she surveyed the room before her with interest before turning to Cordwainer. “You must be Simon’s son,” she said with a cackle. “You’re the spit and image of your father. He brought you to the Green Leaf when my Cedric were alive, aye, many a time, and you but a babe in arms.”
Cordwainer sat up straight, wondering how old Bess Gammer could be. He would not have thought there were any who could remember him as a babe in arms. “And you must be Mistress Gammer,” he said. “I’m glad to meet you again.”
“What’s this about that nice young woman being held for murder?” Bess asked, leaning forward on her stick and poking her head on its thin neck out like a bird. “These young folks talk so fast and mumble, I can’t make head nor tail of what they say.”
“Tis true,” said Cordwainer, speaking louder than was his wont. “But she cannot have done the killing if she were in your tavern. We need to you to tell the Archdeacon that she was there.”
“Archdeacon, you say? But I thought you were Coroner, twas what one of these young men said.” She twisted her head to look as Thomas placed a chair behind her and helped her sit. She perched on the edge, her feet barely touching the floor.
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. “But the killing was in the Church’s liberty. Tis the Archdeacon who has jailed her.”
Bess glared at him and rapped her stick twice on the floor. “I cannot walk to the Minster, Master Cordwainer, tis too far. I’ve not crossed Ouse Bridge in twenty, maybe thirty years. The Archdeacon must come to me.”
“You shall have a cart to ride in, Mistress,” said Thomas. “Edgar has gone to hire one for you.”
Bess twisted around again, both hands clutching tight to her stick. “A cart? I’m not paying for it!”
“Nay, Mistress,” said Thomas as someone knocked at the door. He opened it to admit Edgar. “Tis paid for and tis here, now.”
Bess twisted the other way to look at Edgar, then slipped from the chair to stand impatiently. “If I must go, tis best to hurry,” she said. “I’ve my tavern to see to.” She raised a hand to tuck her hair into her scarf, then tried to smooth her gown, her knobbed hand plucking at the wrinkles.
Cordwainer rose from his chair as Thomas helped her to the door. By the time he had wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and picked up his scrip and stick, Bess was perched on a small cart, her head hunched nearly to her knees, looking around as if she had never seen the city before. “Come ride with me, Master Cordwainer,” she said. “You can show me what is new.”
Cordwainer snorted. “Naught has changed in York, Mistress Gammer, nor will, I don’t think.” Still, he allowed Thomas to help him into the cart beside her. They sat with their legs dangling over the edge of the open back, holding tight to the sides, as Thomas walked beside them and Edgar joined the driver in front. Bess seemed as excited as a child on a holiday excursion to the countryside. Twas no wonder, thought Cordwainer, if she’s not so much as been over the bridge for so long. He wondered if she ever left the tavern other than to visit the shops within a block away. The world closes in on the old, locking them in wherever they may be until death takes them. Twas another reason not to leave the city. He could not bear being locked in the country.
Bess kept up a running commentary on the buildings they passed, recalling shops that had once been but were no more, asking if folk long passed away still owned those she remembered. She twisted and turned on her seat, trying to see everything, and Cordwainer was glad that Thomas was beside them, ready to catch her if she fell. When they passed the Guildhouse, she exclaimed aloud over the new extension, and Cordwainer remembered with a pang of guilt that he had meant to visit old Edgar Colverhaus, who was now housed there in the Mercer’s Guild’s charity lodgings. As they neared Saint Peter’s, she clapped her ancient hands in delight. “So much more has been done,” she said. “I wish I could live to see it finished.”
At the gatehouse Bess slid from the cart without help and turned on Alf. “Take me to the Archdeacon!” she demanded, stabbing her stick between the cobblestones.
Alf looked at Cordwainer, whom Thomas had just helped from the cart. “Aye,” said Cordwainer, “tis the Archdeacon she needs to see, and tis important that she does so. Is Bert here to send?”
At his name, Alf’s son poked his head out from the gatehouse and bobbed it in Cordwainer’s direction. “Fetch Brother Alcuin,” said Alf, and the boy ran up the path as Bess asked, “Who’s he fetching? I don’t need a monk. I need the Archdeacon!”
Alf looked down at her. “Tis the Archdeacon’s secretary, Mistress. He will lead you to the Archdeacon, if his Grace will see you.” Bess huffed in irritation as Alf motioned the carter to go through the gate out of the traffic, directing him to a space just within the wall. Edgar climbed down and joined Bess. “What are we waiting for?” he asked.
Alf drew himself up and scowled at Cordwainer, then turned his frown on Edgar. “The Archdeacon is an important man. You cannot simply walk in on him.”
“The Archdeacon is holding my wife prisoner without cause,” Edgar retorted. “I will see him whether you will or no.”
“Hear, hear!” crowed Bess, raising her stick. She walked past the gatehouse and began to make her slow way up the path Bert had taken. Cordwainer stepped forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “We will wait here until Brother Alcuin comes,” he said. “I am certain he will bring you to Archdeacon Godfrey.”
“Shall
I fetch Mistress Gammer back?” asked Thomas.
“Nay,” said Cordwainer. “She won’t get far. Look, tis Brother Alcuin coming to meet her already.”
They watched the tall monk striding down the path stop in front of the old woman and speak to her, although they could not hear his voice. Bess’s cackling laugh came back to them. Alcuin strode toward them with a smile, leaving Bess standing on the path. “Come along,” he said. “I will see if his Grace can see you now.” He glanced at Cordwainer. “Mistress Gammer is just as I remembered her.”
“I’ll wait here,” Cordwainer said. “His Grace is none too pleased with me.” He motioned for Edgar and Thomas to follow the monk. “Find out, if you can, what has become of Brother Michael. I’d thought to hear from him by now.”
“Brother Michael is at Saint Mary’s,” said Alcuin. “His Grace sent him to Simeon after Mistress Westcote was found.”
Cordwainer snorted. “I’d thought as much,” he said. “Do you know if he ever questioned the nuns?”
“Nay. I believe the Archdeacon’s messenger found him on his way to the nunnery.”
“Then he shall have to be sent back,” said Cordwainer. “We need him if we are to find the killer.”
“I will see what I can do,” said Alcuin. He turned to retrace his steps up the path, followed by Thomas and Edgar. Cordwainer watched them go, then looked at Alf. “Now,” he said, “about that bishop.”
◆◆◆
Edgar’s heart was pounding as he followed the tall monk up the path. He wished Master Cordwainer were with them. Thomas was a good lad, but he was only a lad, and Bess an old woman. Twould be up to him if Magda were to be released, and he but a farmer. He would be happier if he had his neighbors, aye, and the ostler too, with him to convince the Archdeacon that Magda could have killed no one. And if it had to be done, he wished twere done quickly, and he chafed at the slow pace Bess’s age and infirmity imposed on them. She and Alcuin were chatting amiably as they walked, something about the monk’s father. He wanted to pick the old woman up and carry her.
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 14