[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose

by Joyce Lionarons

  “Wait!” Lady Claire commanded. Blanche shuffled back through the rushes to stand before her.

  “I will have neither male nor female fornicators in this house. Who was it that put you in this state? Was it Gib?”

  Blanche looked up to meet her eyes in surprise. “Nay, my lady, twas not Gib.”

  “One of the stable boys? Who?”

  She never knew where she found the courage or the foolhardiness to say what she did, but her chin went up in defiance. “Twas your husband, Sir John, who raped me in my bed,” she said, “and may he rot in Hell forevermore!”

  The slap came quick and hard, snapping her head to the side. When Blanche turned away this time, she ran as fast as she could down the passageway and out the door. She had almost reached the stables when the first of the hunting dogs dug its claws into her back and she fell heavily into the dust. Throwing both arms around her head, she lay shrieking as the dogs ravaged her back, praying only that twould soon be over whether they killed her or no. A confusion of sounds came to her ears, the snarling of the dogs, Lady Claire shouting, Marie’s high-pitched screams. She did not hear the command, but the dogs backed off and in the sudden silence Lady Claire’s voice rasped, “Turn the whore over.”

  Hands grasped her side and she was rolled onto her back with her arms clasped around her head, gasping as dirt and small stones ground into her wounds. Marie cried, “Mama, no!” as the whip came down across her breasts and rose again. The next lash curled around her swollen abdomen and she screamed. Again and again the whip fell, tearing her dress and her flesh to tatters. Her vision narrowed and she longed for the blackness to engulf her, but the bright slash of the whip tore it to shreds and consciousness remained. Finally, a voice said, “Claire, enough!” and she lay gasping in the sunlight.

  “Don’t touch me,” Claire hissed, “not ever again.”

  “Come back to the house. You’ve done enough.”

  Footsteps moved away from her, shuffling in the dirt. The coppery odor of blood mixed with the acrid scent of her urine sent a wave of nausea through her, and her stomach twisted in a spasm that became a stabbing cramp that took her breath away. When it eased, Lady Claire’s voice rang across the yard. “Back to work, all of you! Now!”

  A scramble of movement rose around her, sending clouds of dust into the air that slowly drifted down to layer her face. Silence descended, broken only by her labored breathing and the sounds of the stable boys calming the horses in the stable behind her. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the blood dried stiff on her skin and the odors no longer bothered her. Flies buzzed above her, landing and lifting themselves into the air, greedy for her blood. After a while, furtive footsteps approached, and a cup of water was held to her lips. A low whistle sounded, and the steps scrambled away.

  The day wore on as Blanche faded in and out of awareness. Twice more water was brought to her, its bearer hurrying away before she could see who it was. A cool damp cloth was laid over her face to shield it from the sun. She slept and woke to discover that the sun was setting behind the manor house. Sir John and his lady would be eating a supper cooked and served by Julian, if Lizzie was still too sick to do it. Slowly, she raised a hand to her face, gasping as pain arced up her arm to her shoulder, and she remembered that she had thrown her arms over her face to protect her eyes. She pulled the now-dry cloth away. Early stars twinkled in the sky above her, and a pale moon was rising. She knew she could not be here in the morning.

  Holding her breath against the pain, she struggled to sit and felt her wounds break open as blood trickled down her back. Too weak and dizzy to attempt to stand, she sat staring at the manor house where she had lived and worked since she was old enough to stand on a stool and help Julian with the washing up. She no longer remembered her parents’ home except in brief flashes of her mother’s careworn face, her father’s rough, calloused hands. Her eyes swept the scene in front of her. She had no idea in which direction her parents’ house lay or if they would take her in if she could find it.

  Shadows moved by the manor house, and she flinched in fear. Three dark figures moved silently across the dusty ground, one holding a shuttered lantern. A hissing whisper came to her ears. “She’s sitting up, she’s alive.”

  When they approached, she recognized Julian with the lantern, Gib and Lizzie behind her carrying a makeshift pallet. Lizzie was crying softly and Gib looked grim. All wore dark clothing and sweated in heavy hooded cloaks. Julian knelt next to her and whispered, “Can you walk?” Blanche shook her head dumbly and Julian sighed. “Help us as much as you can,” she said.

  Their hands were gentle, but the pain was so great that she could not suppress a small cry as they lifted her onto the pallet. The dark night swirled around her eyes, and her head lolled back onto her shoulders, then snapped up as her abdomen contracted sharply. “Hurry!” hissed Julian, and the pallet jounced and swayed as she whimpered and cried and finally howled as the pains cut through her and with a sudden burst blood came rushing hot between her legs.

  Julian crossed herself beside the moving pallet as they hurried through the gates and onto the road. “She’s lost the babe,” she said. “We must get her to the healer as quick as we can.”

  Days and then weeks passed in a half-remembered blur of pain and slow recovery. Neither Julian nor Lizzie came to see her, but to Blanche’s surprise Gib arrived one Sunday afternoon with a fistful of daisies for her curtained alcove at the side of the healer’s one-room hut.

  “Tis the same as it ever were,” he said in response to her questions, “save Lady Claire brung in an old woman to do your work and won’t speak to Sir John. Watches him like a hawk. And Lily cries for you day and night. Lizzie’s half out of her head from it.” When she thanked him for the flowers, he blushed furiously, mumbled something, and ran from the house.

  Summer was passing into fall by the time the healer, a dark-skinned woman with firm hands and kind eyes, pronounced her well enough to leave.

  “Where can I go?” asked Blanche.

  “You need to pay for my services,” said the healer with a wry chuckle, and Blanche’s eyes widened in panic. But the healer continued, “I shall send you to my sister Caitlin in York. She is a laundress and you will work for her. Your wages, save food and bed, will be paid to me until my fee is met.”

  “York?” said Blanche. “Tis, tis so far away!” She did not want to voice her true fear, that the city would be full of men, men who might wish to do to her what Sir John had done. Sheltered with the healer, she had not so much as seen a man save Gib since the beating. Her heart hammered as panic rose in her throat.

  “Aye, tis a fair bit. Tis better so, if you want to avoid Lady Claire. Ned Tawyer is taking a load of stone up York way on Friday, and you may ride in his wagon.”

  Blanche flinched at the thought. The healer studied her with keen black eyes. “You must learn to live in the world again,” she said, “and the world has men living in it. Ned’s a good sort, he’ll give you no trouble. Caitlin will teach you the ways of the city. You must go.”

  Blanche nodded, swallowing hard. At least she would not be expected to walk the long miles to the city, and she would work with women once there. Men did not do washing, at least not in Market Weighton. Lady Claire had sent the laundry from the manor to the village, but if she didn’t know how twas done now, she would soon learn. Twould be a new life, and twas a long way from Sir John. Any life was better than the one she had lived.

  Chapter 15

  York, April 1273

  The winds died down during the night and the morning dawned clear, though colder than Cordwainer would have liked. He broke his fast with Thomas at the oak table, then settled in his chair. Thomas placed a curiously marked candle in a holder on the table. “Tis an hour candle,” he explained in response to Cordwainer’s look. “Twill tell us when we must leave for Saint Peter’s.”

  Cordwainer snorted. He knew what it was – tavern keepers used them to keep track of time till curfew, and he had h
eard that the sexton at Saint Mary’s relied on them to regulate the ringing of the canonical hours – but he had never purchased one, relying instead on glimpses of the sun through his window or between the jettied roofs of buildings and his innate sense of time between the ringing of the hours. What was wrong with looking at the sky to tell the time?

  He picked up the book he had borrowed from Stefan the week before and found his place, intending to read until it neared Terce. Thomas went above stairs to straighten Cordwainer’s chamber, and he could hear the lad’s footsteps tromping back and forth over his head. But as the minutes went by, he found himself glancing up repeatedly to check how far the candle had burned, unable to concentrate on the difficult Latin. His irritation grew, and he let the book fall to the floor while he watched the flame. “God’s bones!” he shouted, lifting his stick to throw it at the table.

  Agytha came running into the room. “What is it, Master? Are you all right?”

  He pointed at the candle. “Tis a cursed invention,” he said. “I can’t stop watching it!”

  “I’ll take it away,” she said with a puzzled look, picking the candle up and carrying it toward the kitchen. “Shall I tell you when tis burned down?”

  “Aye,” he said, feeling defeated. He bent to retrieve the book, but let it lie where it was. Twas no use. He would simply have to wait.

  By the time Agytha had come in to tell Cordwainer the candle indicated that Terce was near, he had already taken his cloak and scrip from their peg and was standing ready by the door. When Thomas joined him wearing his green cloak and shapeless hat, he glared at him silently and stalked out onto Saint Martin’s Lane. Thomas followed. The foul mood lasted until they had crossed Ouse Bridge and were almost to Petergate. The day had warmed and high white clouds scudded across a clear blue sky. The streets were deeply rutted, but the winds had dried the puddles and his feet were dry and warm in his boots. He looked for the burned beggar, but she was gone; an old man wound about with rags and tatters sat in her place, his blind eyes clouded white.

  As they approached Saint Peter’s, a street urchin leapt up and turned cartwheels down the road toward them as folk scattered out of his way. He landed with a somersault at Cordwainer’s feet, one hand held high for payment. Cordwainer laughed aloud as he dug in his scrip for a coin. The urchin grinned and cartwheeled away.

  At the gatehouse Alf stood watching them, shaking his head in amusement. As they neared the gate, he hailed them. “Master Cordwainer, the Archdeacon awaits you.” They hurried up the now-familiar path and were admitted into Godfrey’s light-filled reception chamber.

  The Archdeacon sat on his embroidered cushions, his hands on the carved armrests of his chair. A man and woman sat in front of him next to an empty chair. Cordwainer walked forward while Thomas sat on a bench by the doors. Godfrey motioned for him to sit. “Sir Humphrey, Lady Marie, this is Master Cordwainer, King’s Coroner. I have invited him today so that he may tell you what progress has been made in finding the murderer of my lady’s parents.”

  Cordwainer studied the pair as he ordered his thoughts. Sir Humphrey was a large, florid-looking man with a red face and bushy golden hair going to grey. His pockmarked nose looked to have been broken sometime in the past, and his green eyes protruded slightly over deep pouches. He wore a gown of brown silk belted under a considerable paunch. Lady Marie was slender, in a deep grey gown with a silver chain slung low on her hips. Her veil was gossamer-thin, revealing dark brown hair braided and curled around her head. Cordwainer could see Sir John in her fleshy lips and small, close-set eyes. Those eyes held no trace of tears, and he wondered if she mourned the loss of her parents at all.

  “What have you discovered, Master Cordwainer?” asked Sir Humphrey.

  Cordwainer cleared his throat. “Tis certain, my lord, that the killer is from Market Weighton, not York, although she may now live in York or spend time visiting here. Certainly, she knows her way around the city and has some skill in, or at least knowledge of, poisonous herbs. Tis also certain that she bore a grievous grudge against both Sir John and Lady Claire.”

  “That could be said of many in Market Weighton,” said Marie. “Are you certain the killer is a woman?”

  “Twould have been difficult for a man to enter Clementhorpe nunnery,” replied Cordwainer, “and twas a woman in a grey dress who followed Sir John above stairs in the tavern the night he was poisoned.” He looked pointedly at Marie’s gown. Godfrey gave Cordwainer a warning glance, but the lady did not appear to notice. Rather, she nodded.

  “As for a grudge,” she said, “twould be hard to find a soul in Market Weighton who did not hate my parents. They were hateful people.”

  Cordwainer raised his eyebrows at her candor. “I understand there was a problem with your dowry,” he said.

  “Aye, but tis not what I was referring to,” said Marie with a dismissive gesture. “My father was a violent, lecherous man who treated his serfs abominably, and my mother was no better. I saw her beat a pregnant kitchen girl almost to her death with a horsewhip. Her crime was revealing that my father had raped her – something all in the manor knew for he made no secret of it, but my mother denied.”

  “Tis why the marriage settlement was not drawn up as, ah, clearly as it might have been,” added Humphrey. “I wanted Marie safely away from that manor and rushed the negotiations.” His faced turned a deeper red. “I did not entirely trust Sir John to restrain himself even in the case of his daughter.”

  Archdeacon Godfrey stirred uneasily in his chair. “Surely the sin of simple fornication does not imply the more serious sin of incest, Sir Humphrey. The girl must have consented, else pregnancy would not result.”

  “I had my reasons, your Grace,” insisted Humphrey. Marie’s face reddened, and she looked down at her lap, twisting the end of the silver chain.

  Cordwainer hesitated. He knew the university physicians said rape could not result in pregnancy, but he also knew of cases when it had. Twas not the time to argue with Godfrey, but he wondered what had become of the kitchen girl. Rape, or incest for that matter, could be motive for murder. “Was there an assault on my lady?” he asked.

  “Nay,” replied Marie, “It was…nay, there was not.” The chain twisted tight around her fingers, and Humphrey glowered.

  Cordwainer nodded, certain she was either lying or shading the truth in some way, but uncertain whether to press her. He could come back to it if necessary. “And the matter of the dowry was a result of the settlement being unclearly written?” he asked. “I understand Sir John refused to pay.”

  Marie’s fingers relaxed, but she continued to stare down into her lap. “Twas land, not coin, Master Cordwainer,” said Humphrey, “but aye. Not that it matters now that Sir John is dead.”

  “It may matter a great deal,” said Cordwainer, “if twas why Sir John died.”

  Marie’s head snapped up. “Are you suggesting I am the woman you are looking for? Nonsense. I thought my parents despicable, but I did not wish them dead – merely far away from me. The matter of the dowry would have been settled by the court.”

  “Yet you were in York on the nights your parents died, my lady,” replied Cordwainer. “May I ask where you were on the nights in question?”

  Sir Humphrey looked close to apoplexy, his face swollen and purple. “Nay, Master Cordwainer, you may not! Tis an outrage for my wife to be questioned by a common Coroner! Your Grace, you must put a stop to this!”

  Archdeacon Godfrey drew himself up in his chair. “Sir Humphrey, calm yourself. The easiest way to put a stop Master Cordwainer’s questions is to answer them so that he may continue his investigation with his mind at rest.”

  Humphrey sputtered and fumed as Cordwainer looked at Godfrey, surprised the Archdeacon had taken his side. He turned his gaze back to Marie, “My lady?” he asked.

  “We are staying with friends near Stonegate,” she answered, her voice level. “We have not ventured out after dark for fear of cutpurses and thieves.”

&nbs
p; “Have you visited Clementhorpe nunnery during your stay?”

  “Nay, I have not. Had I known my mother was there, I would have been even more careful to stay away.”

  “And have you had need of an apothecary while here?”

  “Nay, I am quite well, as is my husband.”

  Cordwainer was not so certain of that; Sir Humphrey looked in dire need of leeches to purge him of his excess blood, and he would not have been surprised to see the knight collapse in his chair. He sat back, satisfied with his questioning, then looked up again. “I have one last question. The pregnant kitchen girl. What was her name? And what happened to her afterwards?”

  Marie furrowed her brows and drew back her head in surprise. “Her name was Blanche. As to what happened to her, I have no idea. She was left by the stables. In the morning she was gone. It is possible she died.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Cordwainer. He looked at Godfrey and nodded slightly.

  “There remains the matter of the burials,” said the Archdeacon, looking relieved to be on familiar ground. “Will you be taking the bodies with you to Knaresborough, or would you prefer the requiem be held here?”

  “You may throw them in the Ouse for all I care,” said Marie. “They will not return with us.”

  “But surely – ,” Godfrey began, his shock evident on his face.

  “Nay.”

  “Very well. I shall arrange something…fitting,” said Godfrey, flustered by her blunt response. He took a deep breath and continued. “There is also the matter of your sister. She is currently in the care of the nuns at Clementhorpe, but that cannot continue. What do you propose to do with her?”

  For a moment, Marie wavered, her gaze turned inward. Sir Humphrey’s eyes bulged yet further as he contemplated the prospect of bringing a half-witted girl into his household. Then Marie’s face hardened and her small eyes met Godfrey’s. “That is for you to decide. She will not come with us.”