[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose

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[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 18

by Joyce Lionarons


  When the monk had gone, Cordwainer made his way up the staircase to his bed chamber. If the lay sister Rose had indeed poisoned Lady Claire, he did not think she would return to Clementhorpe or her lodgings. Twas far too late simply to deny it all now that she had fled the nunnery. If she were innocent and had left Clementhorpe for a blameless reason, twould be made clear tomorrow. Whatever the case, twas becoming obvious what he must do next.

  Blanche

  York, August 1271

  She pulled the heavy linen from the tub of steaming water and squeezed the excess out with red, calloused hands that cracked and bled in the dry summer wind. Muscles snaked down her arms, as chapped and raw as her hands save for the network of scars that formed jagged white patterns in the red. Today she would walk out of Caitlin’s laundry a free woman, her debt to the healer paid after three years of backbreaking, relentless labor. Yet she harbored no bitterness or resentment from these years. Hard labor was her lot in life; it had always been so. Caitlin was harsh-tongued but fair in her actions, had never beaten her or forced her to do work she did not do herself. If the healer’s fee had been high, twas worth it to work without hands grasping and groping her, to sleep every night in Caitlin’s tiny alcove without fear.

  Nay, not without fear. She doubted she could ever rest without fear again, not while there were men like Sir John in the world, and she suspected that all men were like Sir John. Yet if she could not avoid men altogether, she could minimize the contact she must have with them to passing in the street. She had sought out the female shopkeepers of the city, bought all she needed from them, walked the city with her head down and her eyes on her feet, hating that she had been reduced to such a pitiful creature.

  Sometimes when she glanced up, she saw Sir John among the passersby and flinched, even though the rational part of her mind knew twas not him. Part of her knew too that she did not have to live this way, that her fear and hatred bordered on madness. But she could not change, and she had learned to hide her fears from the other washerwomen and from the Benedictine lay sisters she had met and befriended.

  Tomorrow morning, she would move her meager belongings into the solar with the two lay sisters from Clementhorpe, and then she would go to the Priory to take the vows that would allow her to wear the grey and white habit. Although she would not live in the nunnery itself as she would have liked, her life would continue to be spent among women. No doubt the nuns were not saints, twould be some who were proud and demanding, others petty and mean. But if they beat her, twould not be with a horsewhip, she was certain. And none would ever do what Sir John had done to her.

  Chapter 18

  York, April 1273

  The morning brought high clouds and a fair breeze from the west. Brother Michael will have a pleasant day for his watching, thought Cordwainer as he peeked out through the crack in the shutter. He pulled the shutters open and shivered; twas not warm enough for an open window, but it might be by Terce or so. The bells rang Prime and he reflected that the monk had been watching for more than three hours already. If he had not come or sent word once Cordwainer had broken his fast, he would leave Thomas to wait here and visit Master Holt. There was nothing else he could do until they knew whether or not Rose was in York.

  The day wore on. Cordwainer’s walk to Davygate produced nothing new from the apothecary, who still could not remember where he had seen the woman in grey. An hour before Terce, Thomas left with a bundle containing bread, cheese, and ale, returning to say that he had found Brother Michael in a ginnel off Lounlithgate and had watched the house while the monk ate and took a short walk to stretch his legs. Michael had told him that the lay sisters Petra and Florence had left the house shortly after Lauds, walking in the direction of Clementhorpe. At Prime a fat woman wearing a brown dress and carrying a basket had gone out and walked in the opposite direction, returning an hour or so later with her groceries in the basket, then left again. Michael believed she was the owner of the house. There had been neither light nor movement since.

  Cordwainer and Thomas ate their dinner in silence. When the last of the fish stew was gone and Cordwainer had finished grumbling about Lent, Thomas rose to take his cloak and hat from their peg. “Would it be possible for you to stop by Saint Peter’s on your way to Adam’s?” asked Cordwainer. “Someone should let the Archdeacon know what is happening.”

  “Aye,” said Thomas. “Need I speak to the Archdeacon himself, or will it be enough to tell Brother Alcuin?”

  “Brother Alcuin is fine,” replied Cordwainer, “probably better. I am going to Clementhorpe. Tis possible the nuns found the lay sister at the nunnery after Brother Michael left. Tis no sense his keeping watch if she’s been found.”

  They left the house together and headed in opposite directions. The weather had indeed turned warm, and Cordwainer found himself wishing he had left his cloak at home. He walked slowly down Lounlithgate peering between the buildings. Brother Michael was sitting on an upturned barrel in a tiny passageway halfway down the street. He could not be seen from the house he was watching, but the ginnel was filled with a stiflingly foul odor of feces and rotting flesh as if something, perhaps an animal, had died in it. He could not imagine a worse place to spend a warm spring day.

  “Master Cordwainer!” said Michael. “I didn’t expect you to come. Nothing has happened since Thomas was here.”

  “Nay, I doubted it had,” said Cordwainer. He explained his errand to the monk and asked if he could leave his cloak until he returned. “Tis hot walking in the sun,” he said, “though twould be pleasant here if not for the smell.”

  “Aye,” said Michael. “Tis not so bad if you breathe through your mouth. I had to move two dead rats into the alley across the street.”

  Cordwainer laughed. “Are you certain you found all of them? It smells as if you missed one or two.”

  “Aye, maybe. I didn’t want to venture in too far. Twas a live one ran back when I came.” He glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing moving in the shadows. “And I understand now what Thomas meant last night. The day seems longer than a month!”

  Cordwainer laughed again, but he too looked past the monk into the ginnel. “Perhaps I shall return with good news and you may return to your cloister. Twill be more exciting than this!”

  Michael flushed. “Tis probably sinful for me to wish for excitement – tis not why one becomes a monk, after all.”

  “Nay, nor to find killers,” said Cordwainer. “Will you be happy in your cloister once all is over?”

  “Aye, I think so,” replied Michael. “I was happy before, and I shall have had my adventure.” His wide smile returned. “I shall never have to sit in a ginnel with rats again, and the smell of the dead ones.”

  “Just take care my cloak does not smell of rats when I return,” said Cordwainer, backing hastily out of the passage. “If tis too long, twill mean I’ve found her.”

  He hurried up the street and made his way to the postern gate, the stink of the ginnel still in his nose. The guard greeted him with a smile. “Tis another fine day, Master Cordwainer! Spring is here!” Cordwainer raised his stick without stopping. As he walked outside the city to Bishopsgate, he breathed deeply in the fresh air and thanked God twas not he sitting in the ginnel. Twas a job for a young man.

  The normally quiet street was filled with people enjoying the day, most heading away from the houses farther into the countryside and many carrying baskets – empty for those planning on picking wild berries, full for those who simply wanted a picnic in the fine weather. Three boys kicked an inflated pig’s bladder up and down the street, running and laughing. Cordwainer paused to watch at the Clementhorpe gate, envying their careless youth, then banged his stick on the heavy wooden door and inquired of the brown-eyed nun if Rose had been found. She shook her head silently and closed the gate.

  As he walked back to retrieve his cloak from Brother Michael, Cordwainer decided to end the watch on the lay sister’s lodgings and send the monk back to the Abbey. If
Rose had not returned by now, she would not. He would have to discover where she had gone if he were to find her.

  ◆◆◆

  The next day dawned cold, but promised to be even warmer than the day before. Cordwainer rose with the sun and rummaged through his chest by the light of a candle set by his bed. He pulled out his old leather riding breeches and held them in front of him. Aye, they would fit. More rummaging produced a thick but wrinkled knee-length tunic, a woolen shirt, and a rusted pair of spurs. Twould have to do. He dressed and snuffed out the candle, then made his way down the steep staircase in the dim light from the cracks in the shutters. “Thomas!” he shouted. “Will you sleep all day? Tis time!”

  Thomas stumbled from his tiny chamber by the kitchen. “What is it?” he asked. “Is it a death?” He gaped at Cordwainer’s strange attire. “Master?”

  “We are going to Market Weighton,” said Cordwainer. “You must wear clothes you can ride in, and we must eat before we go. Hurry! We have no time to waste.”

  “Master,” said Thomas, rubbing his eyes. “When was the last time you were on a horse? You will not be able to walk come evening.”

  “Tis no matter; we must go. We know our killer is from Market Weighton. I am certain tis where Rose will take Lily Talbot – where else could she go? If we are to find her, we must go where she is.”

  Thomas looked unconvinced, but he dressed hurriedly and disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned with their morning ale, he said, “Agytha is not yet here. Do you want the day-old bread, or shall I make porridge?”

  “There is no time for porridge, Thomas. The bread will do. You need not toast it. Plain bread and cheese, tis what I want.”

  As they broke their fast, Thomas said, “Perhaps we can hire a cart or wagon to take us. Twould be easier, as we are neither of us used to riding.”

  “Twould take twice as long,” replied Cordwainer. “A carter moves at a walk, else whatever he’s carrying would be jounced from the back. I want to get there today.”

  “Aye, Master,” said Thomas, his expression one of resigned patience. “If you are certain tis what we must do. But you must give me some time to prepare.” He picked up the plates and left the room.

  Cordwainer stood and opened the chest by his chair. It had been used as a table for so long that the lid had stuck down and the hinges creaked as he pulled at it. When the lid gave way at last, he surveyed the contents. Aye, he had remembered right. He lifted a pair of heavy boots from the chest and let the lid fall shut. The leather had cracked in places, but the boots were made for riding and would be better than the soft shoes he was wearing. Grunting and cursing, he pulled the stiff boots onto his feet and affixed the spurs. He looked up in surprise as the door to the back garden banged shut. Thomas came in carrying a large bundle.

  “I’ve let Cate next door know where we’re going so Agytha will not worry,” he said, “and I’ve packed food and drink for the road. Wherever did you find those boots?”

  “They’ve been in my chest all this time,” said Cordwainer. “Can you ride in what you’re wearing?”

  Thomas looked down at his woolen leggings and tunic. “I will have to, Master,” he said. “Tis all I have.”

  “We shall remedy that we come home,” said Cordwainer. “Twill do for now, but you will need better riding clothes when you go with Adam for the clip.”

  “Clothing!” exclaimed Thomas. “We will need extra if we are to stay the night.” He sprinted up the stairs as Cordwainer waited, impatiently tapping his stick on the floor.

  They walked to Micklegate Bar, Thomas with a sack containing their spare clothing on his back and his bundle of food in his hand, Cordwainer walking awkwardly in his riding boots and carrying his scrip over his shoulder. At the stable by the Bar, the ostler greeted them. “God give you good day, Master Coroner. Is it a death you’re going to?” He was a tall man with a black beard and large, heavily calloused hands. His eyes glinted with humor as he took in Cordwainer’s ancient breeches and cracked boots.

  “Nay, we are riding to Market Weighton and need horses,” replied Cordwainer.

  “You have a fine day for it,” said the ostler. “Visiting friends then, is it?” He waited for a reply. When Cordwainer was not forthcoming, his smile faded. With a grunt, he said, “Market Weighton, tis a fair way. You’ll be spending the night?”

  “Aye, one night, perhaps two.”

  The ostler looked him up and down, then cast a long glance at Thomas. “Wait here,” he said, and disappeared into the stable. Cordwainer stood tapping the end of his stick in irritation. “He is choosing our horses for us,” he told Thomas. “He should take us back and let us choose our own.”

  Thomas shrugged. “Perhaps he knows his horses better than we do, Master. I am happy to let him choose.”

  When the ostler returned he was indeed leading two saddled horses, a placid-looking grey mare and a black gelding with a blaze of white on its nose. He handed the mare’s reins to Cordwainer, who stepped back and examined the horse.

  “Is she fast?” he asked.

  “She can gallop if need be,” replied the ostler with a look of surprise, “but if you plan to ride hard, twould be best to choose another mount.” He squinted into the sun, pursing his lips so that his beard stuck out stiffly in front of him. “I could let you have Patrocles,” he said. “He’s a devil to handle, though, and bites if you give him half a chance.”

  “We’ll not be riding hard,” Thomas broke in. “These will do fine.” He patted the gelding’s neck and let the horse nuzzle his hand.

  “Nell here,” said the ostler, indicating the grey, “she’s sure and steady, won’t kick or try to toss you off. You couldn’t find a more reliable horse.”

  Cordwainer snorted. He considered demanding to be let into the stables to see the horses for himself, but twould take time and he wanted to be in Market Weighton before dark. “Sure and steady,” he said with a sigh. “Aye, that’s what I want.”

  “Who’s this one?” asked Thomas. “I mean, what’s his name?”

  “That’s Lightning,” said the ostler, laughing as Thomas blanched. “Tis for the mark on his nose, not his personality. You’ll be fine on him, lad.”

  Cordwainer snorted again at the ostler’s patronizing tone. Twas obvious they were not used to riding, and he supposed he should be grateful they had been given horses suited to their skill. It grated, nonetheless, for he had once been able to handle any mount, aye, even those of Patrocles’ temper. Twas thirty years ago now, though.

  He watched the ostler help Thomas tie his bundles to the saddle and show him how to check and tighten the girth. Twould be good for the lad to get some riding in before going north with Adam next month, and twould be good to be back on a horse himself. He was rarely called to investigate a death far enough from the city to have to ride, but it did happen, and he was sorely out of practice. He could not remember the last time he had ridden.

  The ostler led the grey to the mounting block and stood holding the reins. Cordwainer handed his stick to Thomas. Taking a firm grip, he began to mount the horse. But when he tried to swing his leg across the saddle, his muscles did not obey. Try as he might, he could not lift his leg high enough. Red-faced and cursing, he tried again. In the end it took both the ostler and Thomas to push him into the saddle as the mare turned her head around to watch.

  The ostler handed him the reins, his mouth twitching under his beard. “Have a safe journey, Master Coroner,” he said. “I shall expect you two days from now.” He broke into a smile. “Just don’t dismount until you get there.” He turned away and hurried into the stable, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

  Cordwainer cursed and watched as Thomas mounted the black gelding with ease. Clicking his tongue to the mare, he walked his horse from the ostler’s yard, hoping no one he knew had witnessed his humiliation. Thomas followed.

  When they had cleared the Bar and entered Ploughmansgate outside the wall, he had meant to spur the horse to a
trot, but the road was clogged with other riders, folk walking, carts and wagons pulled by mules and horses, and men dragging heavy barrows through the ruts. They edged their mounts into the flow of traffic and proceeded at a walk.

  Muttering and cursing beneath his breath, Cordwainer nursed his injured pride. Behind him he heard Thomas strike up a conversation with a farmer from Hull and prayed they would not have his company all the way to Market Weighton. The farmer was complaining loudly of the poor prices he had gotten for his early vegetables in York, and Cordwainer glanced back to see that he was driving a mule-drawn cart. They would leave him behind when the road cleared.

  For a time the road showed no sign of clearing, but as they moved farther south of the city folk turned off into lanes or allowed the faster horses to pass by and Cordwainer no longer felt hemmed in on every side. When they reached the great east-west road and turned toward the sun, most of the traffic continued south or went west. Cordwainer touched a spur to the mare’s flank, and she broke into a trot, then a canter. Thomas came up beside him and they rode side by side, the wind whistling past and blowing Cordwainer’s grey hair into a second mane behind him. Walkers moved to the side to let them pass, and their mounts easily jumped the ditches to pass the slow-moving carts. The hillsides were in bloom and wildflowers grew along the roadside, the trees having been cut back by law to discourage thieves. Cordwainer pushed his thoughts of the ostler and his stable aside, caught up in his enjoyment of the ride.

  As the sun approached its zenith, they slowed and let their horses breathe. Thomas spied a narrow stream a few hundred yards from the road and pointed to it. “We need to let the horses drink, Master, and tis time for us to eat as well.”

 

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