Godfrey’s face was as hard as Marie’s. “Our Lord asks us to be charitable,” he said. “Can you not open your heart to your sister in need?”
“She will not come with us,” echoed Sir Humphrey. He stood and offered his hand to his wife, who rose to stand beside him. Sir Humphrey bowed slightly to the Archdeacon, turned and led his wife from the chamber, ignoring Cordwainer entirely. With a loud snort, Cordwainer rose as well.
“Stay, Master Coroner,” said Godfrey, waving Cordwainer back to his seat. He waited until the door was closed behind Sir Humphrey. “What think you? Is she guilty or no?”
Cordwainer shrugged. “Tis possible,” he said. “She was clearly hiding something when I asked if Sir John had assaulted her, but that could be modesty. Her open contempt for her parents surprised me. I would have expected she would feign grief for them if she were indeed their killer.”
“My thought exactly,” replied Godfrey. “Though guilty or no, I would also have expected her to have the common decency to bury them. And to turn away her own sister!” He shook his head in disbelief.
“I imagine she wishes her married life cut off as much as possible from her origins,” said Cordwainer. “Tis as if she decided to be different person once she married.”
“Yet she is as cruel as her parents, albeit differently,” said Godfrey. He gave a deep sigh. “What will you do next?”
“I would like to track down the kitchen maid Blanche,” said Cordwainer. “Tis possible she found her way to York. And I will find out if Lady Marie was truthful in saying she stayed in at night.”
“How will you find out? Will you question their hosts?”
“Nay, their hosts’ servants, your Grace,” said Cordwainer. “Servants know everything.”
Chapter 16
York, April 1273
"If I am to find out who Sir Humphrey and his wife are staying with and talk to the servants, Master, tis best I start now,” said Thomas when they reached Petergate, having taken their leave of the Archdeacon. “I will tell you what I learn when I return from Adam’s shop this evening.”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. “May God go with you.” He watched Thomas as he trotted down Stonegate, resisting the urge to follow and visit the new shop. Instead he continued walking on Petergate until Girdlergate, then turned right to pass through the Thursday Market. If Adam could not find him a proper tapestry, he would do so on his own.
The Market triangle was filled with folk buying and selling everything from needles to live chickens, pushing and shoving to get to the stalls with what they wanted. At the porch of Saint Sampson’s church a group of musicians with crumhorns, shawm, and tambour played a lively dance tune that could scarce be heard above the din of the crowd. As Cordwainer moved closer to listen, he glimpsed a boy of eight or nine sidling through the folk tapping their feet to the music. The boy slid behind a fat shopkeeper, then, so quickly Cordwainer could not be certain he’d seen it, reached out with a knife and cut the purse dangling from the belt of a merchant standing next to him. Cordwainer shouted, but his cry was lost in the wail of the crumhorn and the boy was gone, leaving a trail of curses in his wake as he shoved his way through the crowd.
Cordwainer settled his scrip more firmly on his shoulder and checked to see that its flap was secure. He pushed his way towards the center aisle of the stalls, then ducked between a vendor of hot pies and a glover’s booth to reach the larger, more elaborate stalls that bordered the square. To his left at the end of the row were the stocks, fully occupied by miscreants undergoing not only the humiliation of their public display, but also the jeers and missiles of the crowd. One had a rotting fish hung round his neck – a fishmonger caught selling fish gone bad. Another was clearly a maudlyn found soliciting outside the stews, who sat calling out to men in the crowd, naming them as her customers and screeching with laughter as they hurried shame-faced away.
Cordwainer shook his head and entered a large stall with a rack of hanging tapestries in a variety of colors and patterns. As he began to examine them, someone called his name, and he turned to see the laughing blue eyes of Emma Tosny, née Pomeroy, with an apron tied over her gown and a wax tablet and stylus clutched in her hands. Aye, she’s a beauty, he thought, though she looks tired. “God give you good day,” he said stiffly.
Her smile faltered. “Is there aught I can help you with?” she asked. Then, the smile returning, “Is Thomas with you?”
“Nay, he is not, and nay, I’m just passing the time,” said Cordwainer, dropping the fold of wool he was holding so that the entire rack swayed. He turned to leave, but she grasped his arm.
“Please give him my greetings,” she said, “and tell him I miss our conversations. I would like to see him again, if he cares to visit.”
“Aye, Mistress,” said Cordwainer, disengaging his arm. He pushed his way out of the crowded stall and onto the cobbled square. Twas one message he would not deliver, he told himself with a snort, and her a married woman. Thomas had only just begun to get over his infatuation with Emma, begun while she was Emma Pomeroy, mercer’s daughter, and he merely a manservant. She had broken the lad’s heart when she asked him to betray Cordwainer for her father’s benefit. Twould not do to open that old wound now. He would buy a tapestry from Adam, or go without.
◆◆◆
Prioress Alyse fingered the wooden cross at her breast as she sat with Brother Michael and Sister Julia in her receiving chamber. Her face betrayed none of the consternation she felt about his visit. She had no objections to the young monk questioning the nuns about the death of Lady Claire, although she had done so herself already. Rather, it was the news of Sir John’s death that had set her heart pounding in anxiety and anger. Why had the Archdeacon not told her? Surely, if a murderer had entered the gates of Clementhorpe, she had a right to know. Only three months had passed since Brother Ambrose had tried to kill her in her bed, and the nightmares that had followed the attack still came, though less frequently. Were she and her nuns in danger yet again?
Less frightening but equally frustrating was the matter of Lady Claire’s body. Was she to have it buried at Clementhorpe? And when? After the corpse had lain in the Priory chapel for several days it had begun to stink so badly she had ordered it removed to an outbuilding far from the dormitory and refectory. Lay sisters and some of the male servants were needed to keep vigil day and night to drive away the rats, and in the meantime the work they were meant to do at the Priory went undone. And what was she to do with Lily?
A rasping cough came from the nun at her side, and she roused herself from her thoughts. “Sister Julia, once you have told Brother Michael all you know, go to the infirmary and ask Sister Cecelia for some wine with honey and hyssop. Twill do your cough some good, if it cannot rid you of it entirely.”
“Aye, Reverend Mother,” said Julia. The old nun squinted at Michael. “I did not go to Matins that night,” she said, “as I had been ill and Prioress Alyse excused me from the Office. I was awake – I always wake a few minutes before the bells, tis a lifetime of habit. You will be the same, if God spares you so long.”
“And what did you see?” asked Michael.
“See? I saw nothing, for I was in my bed. I heard someone walking along the path towards the guest house; tis gravel and any movement makes a noise. I wondered if Lady Claire were going to Matins, and thought to myself she was going the wrong way if she was.”
“This was just as the sisters left for prayer?”
“Nay, twas after the prayer had begun. My eyes have dimmed, but my hearing is still good. Twas just after Et os meum annuntiabit laudem tuam.” Sister Julia held her hands before her face as she coughed again.
“And did you hear anything more?”
“Nay. As the prayer went on, I fell asleep and did not wake again till twas almost Lauds.” She bent at the waist, coughing and wheezing.
“Enough,” said Alyse. “Go to the infirmary, and when you have taken the physik, send Sister Cecelia to me.”
“Aye, Reverend Mother,” choked Julia, rising and walking stiffly to the door.
Alyse turned to Brother Michael. “Sister Cecelia is the last of the nuns, but the most important, I would think, as she prepared the headache powder for Lady Claire. I am surprised you did not question her earlier.”
Brother Michael raised his earnest face to hers. “I am trying not to jump to unwarranted conclusions,” he explained. “Were I to question those I judge most important first, I might not listen as carefully as I should to those like Sister Julia, whose testimony may prove more important. I cannot tell until I have heard all.”
Alyse nodded, not really listening. “Did Archdeacon Godfrey give you no indication as to the burial of Lady Claire’s remains?” she asked. “I am willing to have her buried at Clementhorpe, but I am hesitant if I have not received clear permission to do so, either from the Archdeacon or the Lady Claire’s family.”
“Nay, Reverend Mother,” replied Brother Michael. “He said nothing to me. I will relay your concerns as soon I may.” He scratched a note to himself on the wax tablet he held in his lap,
“Had Lady Claire any family besides the daughter Lily?”
“There is another daughter, I believe, married to Sir Humphrey Forsythe. The Archdeacon has sent for her. I would guess twill be she who will decide on the burial.”
Alyse nodded. “Please tell His Grace that the daughter must also assume custody of Lily. The girl cannot stay at Clementhorpe.”
“Aye, Reverend Mother, I will tell him.” He made another note on the tablet, then looked up as a nun entered the chamber.
“Sister Cecelia,” said Alyse. “This is Brother Michael from Saint Mary’s. As you have no doubt heard, he is investigating the death of Lady Claire for the Archdeacon. Please sit down and answer his questions as well as you can.” She settled back in her chair, praying silently that Lily’s sister would take the girl and arrange a quick burial for her mother.
Cecelia nodded and sat in the chair facing Michael, twisting her hands together. Alyse sighed softly. When would she stop blaming herself for the death? Nothing Alyse or the Priory priest said seemed to make a difference. Perhaps if this young monk with the billowing hair and oddly-shaped face could find the killer, Sister Cecelia could forgive herself. She pushed away the thought of Cordwainer, whom she was certain would have succeeded in solving the mystery by now. God had given her Brother Michael, and she must have faith in his success.
Cecelia dutifully recited the ingredients for the headache powder to Brother Michael, accompanied by the tearful refrain of “twas nothing that could harm her!” The young monk smiled encouragingly at her and replied, “Aye, Sister, tis what I would have mixed myself.”
Cecelia looked up with a hopeful smile. “You know about physik, Brother?”
“Aye, a little,” replied Michael. “And then you mixed it into her wine? Did you pour the wine yourself?”
“Nay, I asked – ”
“Nay?” exclaimed Michael and Alyse together, exchanging looks.
“Nay,” Cecelia repeated. “I asked one of the lay sisters to bring me a cup of wine. I mixed the powder into the wine and brought it to Lady Claire.”
“Which of the lay sisters?” asked Alyse.
“Twas Rose. She helps me in the infirmary when she has time,” said Cecelia. “She said she wanted to learn about herbs and healing. But Rose would never – ”
“Tis Rose who cares for Lily!” said Alyse. She turned to Brother Michael. “Have you questioned Rose?”
The monk searched his tablet. “Aye,” he said. “She said nothing of this.”
“Find Rose!” commanded Alyse. “And oh, dear God, we must find Lily!”
The two nuns rushed from the chamber, leaving Brother Michael to his tablet. He stood to follow them, but did not know where to look, so he sat again, trying to remember which of the lay sisters was Rose. Twas a lay sister who had poisoned Lady Claire, he was certain of it. He had known when he questioned the first of them, for each of the Clementhorpe lay sisters wore a grey gown covered by a long white scapular with a matching belt, a white wimple and veil. Remove the scapular and wimple, tie the veil as a headscarf, and she would look like any woman of York. No one would think to connect her with the nunnery. If the killer turned out to be Rose – he could hardly wait to tell Cordwainer.
But if twas Rose, what was he to do? Take her to the Archdeacon, but what if she refused to go? Was he to force her, lay hands on her, tie her up? Why had no one told him what to do once the killer was found?
Chapter 17
York, April 1273
Cordwainer yawned and blinked his eyes at the page he was trying to read. The book had stopped making sense, and he was fairly certain the problem was not in the scribe but in his own somewhat shaky grasp of the Latin. Twas no good, he was too tired to parse the sentences tonight. He closed his book and placed it on the chest beside him. Reading had not helped to clear his thoughts as he had hoped, and he felt he was no closer to knowing who had killed Sir John and his lady than he had been at the start. Thomas had questioned the servants of the wealthy houses by Stonegate to find that Sir Humphrey and his wife were so frightened of life in the city that they ventured out only in daylight, only on streets where the folk were wealthy, and never alone.
“Tis as if they believe we are all cutthroats and thieves,” Thomas had said, “or if not, that we take our lives in our hands whenever we go out of doors.”
“Then why are they here at all?” Cordwainer had asked in astonishment.
“Sir Humphrey’s sister is married to Guy de Vries, who has a house by Stonegate, and she just had her first child. Twould have been rude not to come.”
Cordwainer had snorted and turned to his book. The killer was neither Lady Marie nor Magda Westcote, but an anonymous woman in grey whom he had no idea how to find. Tomorrow he would visit the apothecary Holt again, perhaps he would have remembered something more.
Now someone was pounding on his door, and he prayed twas not Rolf with another death for him to attend, more because he wanted to be in bed early than from charity towards whoever may have died, and he added a brief plea for forgiveness of his selfishness. Thomas pulled the door open as Cordwainer struggled to rise from his chair, and Brother Michael rushed into the room, red-faced and breathing heavily. “I know who the killer is!” he announced. “Tis a lay sister from Clementhorpe, but she has fled. And she has taken Lily Talbot with her!”
“Sit and catch your breath,” said Cordwainer, sinking back into his chair. “Have you run all the way from the nunnery?”
“Nay,” said Michael, “from Micklegate Bar, and Bootham Bar before that. I was asking the guards if she had entered the city. When she had not been seen at the Old Baile postern, I thought to ask at the other gates.”
Thomas handed Michael a cup of ale, and he drained it in two swallows, then coughed and belched. With an apologetic grimace, he sat in the chair Thomas pulled from the table. Cordwainer waited until the monk’s breath and color had returned to normal, then said, “Start from the beginning and tell me what has happened.”
Brother Michael took a deep breath, then pulled his wax tablet from the folds of his cloak. He described his questioning of the nuns and lay sisters, his reasoning in deciding that the woman in grey must be from the nunnery, and Sister Cecelia’s revelation that it had been a lay sister who had drawn Lady Claire’s wine.
“When Prioress Alyse went to summon Rose for another questioning, she found both Rose and Lily gone. Tis certain they are no longer at Clementhorpe, for the nuns and other lay sisters searched everywhere. Nor are they at Rose’s lodgings in the city. Nor did any of the guards see them enter through the gates. They have vanished.”
Cordwainer snorted. “We would have known this days ago had the Archdeacon not set his sights on Magda Westcote and sent you back to Saint Mary’s. Tis still not certain this Rose is the killer, Brother Michael, we must not make the Archdeacon’s mistake and decide too soon, but tis cert
ain we must find her. You say she lodges in the city?”
“Aye, she shares a solar with two other lay sisters on a lane off Lounlithgate, not far from the Old Baile.” He looked at his tablet. “Petra and Florence are the others.”
“And is she from Market Weighton?”
Michael blanched. “I did not think to ask.”
“Tis no matter,” Cordwainer replied, alarmed by the young monk’s stricken face. “We will find out soon enough. Tomorrow you must go to her lodgings as early as you can and watch. Do not attempt to stop her or talk to her if she comes there, just watch, and if you need, follow her. Once you are certain she will stay where she is for a while, come find me.”
“Aye, Master Cordwainer.” Brother Michael rose and began to pace from the fireplace to the hunting tapestry and back again. “But what if she goes to the house tonight? She could slip in and out without our knowing.”
“Aye, perhaps,” replied Cordwainer. “But remember she is a woman alone after curfew with a half-wit girl in tow. If she goes to her lodgings, tis certain she will stay till morning. She could not leave the city till the gates open.”
“I suppose you are right.” Brother Michael stopped his pacing and stood by the door. “Tis almost Compline,” he said. “I must return to Saint Mary’s.” He laughed and shook his head. “Tis an exciting life you lead. Very different from the cloister.”
Thomas grinned at him. “If you still think it exciting after a day spent watching a house where nothing happens, twill be a great surprise,” he said with a quick glance at Cordwainer. “Be happy tis March and daylight, not January and freezing cold at night.”
Michael turned his wide eyes to Thomas. “You must tell me the story of that vigil someday,” he said, the now-familiar smile spreading across his face. “But though you are jesting, you are right. We must always remember to thank Our Lord for His small blessings. I will be there before Lauds tomorrow. God give you good night.”
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 17