“Aye, past time for us,” said Cordwainer. “Riding is hungry work.” His stomach rumbled, and he wondered what Thomas had put in the bundle. He was ravenous.
But when they had reached the stream and the horses bent their heads to drink, the ostler’s parting words came back to him, and he realized that he was afraid to dismount for fear he could never mount again. The mare took a few steps into the water, and he sat disconsolately in the middle of the stream looking about. Thomas was spreading bread, butter, and dried fish on the cloth it had been bundled in, along with a flagon and two cups. “Master?” he called. “Do you need help?”
Cordwainer twisted in his saddle to avoid disturbing the drinking horse. “I can get down,” he said. “But how will I ever get up again?”
Thomas turned red, his lips pressed into a straight line as he struggled not to laugh. Cordwainer glared at him, then, as the absurdity of his situation struck him, a chortle rose up in his throat, then a full-fledged guffaw. Thomas burst out laughing. They laughed until tears streamed down their cheeks. “I promise, Master,” said Thomas, wiping his eyes on the hem of his tunic. “I will get you back on the horse somehow.”
Cordwainer turned the mare back to the stream bank. With a loud groan, he slid from the horse and staggered towards the food Thomas had laid out. “The trick is not to rest so long we stiffen up,” he said, stretching his legs out on the ground and grimacing. He reached for the flagon and poured himself a cup of ale.
“How long is too long?” asked Thomas.
Cordwainer shrugged. “I am stiff already,” he said. “But I am old. When you start to stiffen, we should go.”
“Then we should be going now,” said Thomas. “But I am eating first, stiff or no.”
For a while the only sounds were those of chewing as the men ate and the horses cropped the grassy streambank. The stream burbled beside them and a breeze ruffled the leaves overhead. Once they heard a cart rumble past on the road, then all was quiet again. Cordwainer stretched out on the ground and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the remains of the food had been cleared away and Thomas was tying the bundle back on his saddle. The grey mare was not in sight. “Tis time, Master,” Thomas said. “I’ve found a tree root you can stand on to mount your horse; tis taller than the mounting block at the stable.”
Cordwainer gasped with pain as he sat up. Every muscle in his body hurt, and he doubted he could climb onto the tree root, much less the horse. “Where’s my stick?” he asked.
“Tis on the ground next to you,” said Thomas. “Are you all right?”
“Aye.” Cordwainer grasped the stick and tried to stand. “Help me up,” he said. Thomas pulled him to his feet. Together they limped to a stand of oak trees by the streambank, where the mare stood with her reins looped around a branch. An ancient root rose above the ground beside her, and Cordwainer groaned. Thomas helped him up onto the root, then climbed to stand beside him. “Just hold on to the saddle and do your best,” said Thomas. “I’ll push you the rest of the way.”
Cordwainer grunted. After three tries, he was back in his saddle, his leg muscles protesting, his bad hip on fire. Thomas handed him the reins and ran stiffly back to the gelding, swinging himself up with somewhat less grace than in the morning. They walked the horses to the road, then set off at a trot. The day had grown hotter while they had rested under the trees, and Cordwainer’s wool shirt was soon soaked in sweat. He could feel blisters growing on his thighs and buttocks and shuddered to think what they would be like by the time they reached Market Weighton. When Thomas urged the gelding into a canter, he groaned but followed suit. The sooner they could be there, the sooner he could get off this blasted horse.
Chapter 19
Market Weighton, April 1273
They rode steadily through the afternoon, slowing where the road seemed more than usually pitted with potholes and ruts, speeding up where they could. The sun was low in the west by the time they spotted the first of the houses they thought might belong to Market Weighton, and by the time they found the tavern on the market square, it was nearly dark. Thomas dropped from his saddle with a grunt and went inside while Cordwainer sat where he was, too tired and stiff to dismount. The village was small, no more than a cluster of houses and shops around the square, with a street or two leading to a second row of buildings to the north and south. On market days twould be crowded, with folk coming from throughout the countryside to buy and sell. Today, Cordwainer could not see that there could be more than fifty souls in residence.
When Thomas returned, he was followed by the tavern master with a lantern. Dark eyes glittered in the light beneath bushy eyebrows and a wrinkled brow. “Aye, Master,” said Thomas. “There is a room we can have for two nights and stabling for the horses. Do you need my help dismounting?”
A muffled grunt came from the tavern master, who held the lantern higher to look at Cordwainer. “Nay, I can manage,” he replied, turning in the saddle and sliding to the ground. He staggered against the mare. “Where is my stick?”
“Tis here,” said Thomas. “You can lean on me if you need.”
“He ain’t ill, is he?” asked the tavern master in alarm. “You’ll not have the room if he’s ill. Tisn’t a spitalhouse here.”
Cordwainer gaped at him. “Nay, I am not ill. I am old and unused to riding. A hot meal and rest is all I need. A bath, if tis possible.”
“A bath,” echoed the tavern master. “This ain’t York or Hull, Master. My lass won’t be lugging hot water above stairs to your room. If you be wanting a bath, you can wait till the food is done and use the kitchen. Your son here can see to the water.”
“That will be fine, Master – ?” said Thomas.
“Tawyer, Ham Tawyer.” He held the lantern closer to Cordwainer and examined his face. “Aye,” he grunted at last. “My lad will see to your horses.” Turning in place, he walked back to the tavern door, shouting for the tavern boy.
Cordwainer and Thomas waited until a youngster who introduced himself as Shep came to take the horses before Thomas shouldered their bag of clothing and they limped stiffly into the tavern. The familiar odors of wood smoke, ale, and burning tallow enveloped them as they entered. A group of men sat on upturned barrels around a trestle table in the center of the room, tankards of ale in front of them, and on a bench by the fire were three women, middle-aged farmwives by the look of them, talking among themselves and bantering with the men. All eyes turned as they entered the room, the locals openly inspecting the strangers. When the conversations resumed, Thomas led Cordwainer to a scarred table by a bench in the back and he sat with a stifled groan.
“I’ll put our things above stairs while you rest,” said Thomas. “See if you can find out what they might have for supper.”
Cordwainer watched as Thomas walked to a ladder at the front and climbed stiffly up. An aproned girl in her early teens approached with two tankards of ale, setting them on the table and disappearing without a word. Cordwainer took a sip and grunted in appreciation. Twas good ale, he would give Tawyer that, even if he must climb a ladder to get to his rest. He saw the taverner staring at him from across the room and raised his tankard in appreciation. Tawyer nodded and turned away. By the time Thomas returned, a large trencher full of fish and vegetables had been dropped on the table by the shy tavern girl and Cordwainer was well into his half of the food.
“Tis not so bad,” said Thomas, sitting and taking his eating knife from its sheath. “There is only one bed with a straw mattress, but tis big enough to share – the taverner said he puts three or even four in that bed on market days. I didn’t see any fleas, but I stuffed it with yarrow and rosemary to be certain. Twill drive them out before we sleep.”
“You thought to bring Agytha’s flea mixture?” asked Cordwainer in amazement. “I never would have thought of such a thing.”
“You have never been a manservant, Master,” said Thomas. He glanced around the rush-lit tavern. “Now that we are here, what do you propose we do?�
��
“We find out if Rose or Lily Talbot has been seen in the village,” replied Cordwainer. “Failing that, we find out which of Sir John’s serving girls have fled to York, and where they went when they got there. If I can convince Master Tawyer I’m not ill, I’m certain he can tell us something.”
Thomas laughed. “If you are to do that, Master, you will need the bath and a night’s rest. Twas a long ride.”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. “You didn’t think to bring Agytha’s salve, did you? That blasted saddle gave me blisters.”
“Tis above stairs,” replied Thomas. “Twill wait till after your bath.”
◆◆◆
In the morning Cordwainer was stiffer than the night before despite the steaming bath Thomas had prepared for him, and he crawled from the bed moaning. Thomas was not in the room, so he pulled himself upright with one hand on his stick and the other on the wooden casement of a small window. The bag of clothing lay open on a bench. God bless the lad, Cordwainer thought as he rummaged through it, pulling out hose, a linen shirt, and a grey woolen gown. His hand brushed leather, and he found a pair of soft shoes at the bottom of the bag. He checked himself for flea bites and found only four. Not bad for a tavern bed – twas the rosemary and yarrow to thank for that.
Dressing as quickly as his aching muscles would allow, he crept down the ladder and made his way to a table in the deserted room. A fire burned in the hearth and the shutters were open, letting in the cool morning air and the aroma of baking bread from somewhere in the village. A chorus of birds sang nearby, wrens, a chaffinch, dunnocks, and others he could not identify. No abbey or priory lay near the village, and twas strange not to hear the sound of the bells tolling the canonical hours or the noise of the city streets. Had he not been so tired the night before, he would never have slept for the silence.
“You’re up early for a sick man,” said Tawyer, placing a cup of weak ale in front of him.
Cordwainer looked up in irritation, but the taverner was smiling. “You can’t blame a man for being cautious,” he said. “Not when tis strangers coming in the night and it not market day.”
Cordwainer grunted and gestured to the ale. “Pour yourself one and join me,” he said. When Tawyer returned with a cup and flagon and had pulled one of the upturned barrels over to sit on, Cordwainer asked, “Have you seen my man Thomas this morning?”
“Aye, he come staggering down an hour or more ago, said he wanted to stretch his legs. I thought he were your son last night, but now I see you both in daylight, he looks nowt a hair like you.”
Cordwainer shrugged. “He is and isn’t,” he replied. “When his father died a soldier twelve years back, I took him in. He’s my adopted son and heir.”
Tawyer nodded and swallowed his ale. His lined face drew together in a shrewd grimace as his eyes narrowed under the bushy brows. “What brings two city men to Market Weighton?” he asked. “Tis nowt here but farms and the manor.”
Cordwainer studied the taverner and decided on the truth. “I am Matthew Cordwainer,” he said, “King’s Coroner in York. I am investigating the deaths of Sir John and Lady Claire.”
“I thought twere summat like that,” said Tawyer. He narrowed his eyes further, his eyebrows touching in the middle. “Tis nary a soul what mourns those two in the village, nay, nor on the manor neither. But if you’re who I think, you’ll find many to thank you for helping Edgar Westcote and his Magda.”
Cordwainer nodded. “Edgar helped me as well,” he said. “Magda was wrongly imprisoned, and twas my duty to free her. But what I need to know, Master Tawyer, is if Lily Talbot, the daughter, has been seen in Market Weighton the past day or so. She’d be with a woman from the village named Rose.”
Tawyer looked puzzled. “Nay,” he said. “Lily, that’s the simple girl, t’other is married away north. But there’s not a Rose in the village, nor has been in all my years, nay, nor at the manor neither.”
“You are certain?”
“Aye, I’ve lived here all my life. There’s never been a Rose. Tis a pretty name. I’d remember.”
“Who is living at the manor now, with the lord and lady dead?”
“Nowt but the servants, I’ll wager, and not all of them,” replied Tawyer. “Twill be Julian Cook and her man Gib, Pru the old serving woman and Lizzie the younger one, Aiden the ostler and his grooms at the stable, Sam the dog boy, aye. Do you mean to include the serfs in the fields?”
“Nay,” said Cordwainer. “I was curious about Jarrold, Sir John’s steward.”
“Aye, now, he’s one what run off, he is,” said Tawyer. “He went with Sir John to York to fetch the lady’s body, then come back without it, packed up what he owned and left without a word, two, three days ago twas.”
Cordwainer snorted. “When I return I will tell the Archdeacon. Someone must bury the bodies, and Lady Marie has refused.”
“Tis said that Marie will return to the manor now, and folk hope she’ll put things to rights,” said Tawyer. “Do you think she will?”
“Nay, she will not return. She will find a new steward to manage it – to collect the rents, to live in the manor house and keep it from crumbling. But she will not live here again.”
Tawyer nodded. “Tis as I expected, but folk will hope.” Both men looked up as Thomas entered the tavern, his cloak and boots wet from the morning mist. Tawyer rose and picked up his ale cup. “You will be wanting to break your fast,” he said. “I’ll wager my Mary is back with your bread, so twon’t be long.” With a nod to Thomas, Tawyer left the room through a door in the back.
Thomas sat on the barrel and ran his fingers through his damp hair. “Tis a beautiful day,” he said. “I walked the stiffness out of my legs, mostly. Did you learn anything from the tavern master?”
“Aye, a bit,” said Cordwainer. “I learned there has never been a woman named Rose in Market Weighton, not in living memory, nor has Lily been seen in the village, Rose or no.”
“Then have we come for nothing?” asked Thomas. He lowered his voice. “Or could Tawyer be lying?”
“Nay, he’s not lying,” Cordwainer replied. “Nor do I think tis all for naught. We know more than we did before. And they may be at the manor house, may have found a way there without passing through the village. Tis where we will go today. Pray tis close enough to walk.”
Thomas laughed. “Aye, we can walk,” he said. “Tis easy to see if you go out of doors. The farmland stretches for miles around it, but the manor house is close.”
The shy serving girl that Tawyer had named Mary placed a tray on the table containing a cup of ale for Thomas, a loaf of warm, freshly-baked bread, butter, and a pot of honey. She filled Cordwainer’s cup from the flagon on the table and had turned to leave when Cordwainer said, “Mistress, will you stay a bit? I have some questions.”
Mary continued toward the back of the tavern without answering or pausing for a moment. Cordwainer and Thomas exchanged startled glances. “Perhaps she’s deaf,” Thomas said, tearing off some bread and dripping honey on it.
“Aye,” Cordwainer replied. “Or doesn’t much like strangers.” As he helped himself to the bread, he watched as Mary pulled a broom from a corner and began sweeping the dirty rushes towards the door. After a while Tawyer emerged from the back and walked in front of her, putting a hand on the broom. He made an odd motion with his other hand, and she nodded. As Tawyer walked toward them, Mary replaced the broom and disappeared through the doorway.
“Is there owt else you’ll be wanting?” asked Tawyer.
“Nay,” said Cordwainer. “Your daughter is deaf?”
“Aye, deaf and dumb since she were born, poor lass,” Tawyer replied. “What, you asked her summat and got nowt back? Shout for me if you need owt, for she’ll not answer.”
“Thank you, we will,” said Thomas. When the taverner was gone, he looked at Cordwainer. “How can she manage, I wonder? I’ve never been in a tavern where folk weren’t shouting their orders and e
xpecting service right quick if not sooner.”
“The local folk know her and make allowances, I expect,” replied Cordwainer, “as would anyone who’s been coming to market here for long. And I would think he finds extra help during market days.”
“Twould never happen in the city,” said Thomas.
“Nay, it could not,” Cordwainer said. “Too many strangers, too many folk not wanting to make allowances for someone they don’t know.”
Thomas toyed with a crust of bread, looking pensive. “Perhaps Maddy would have survived in the countryside,” he said.
Cordwainer snorted. “Perhaps,” he said, “if she had a father like Tawyer. But then she would have survived in York as well.”
Chapter 20
Market Weighton, April 1273
Thomas was right about the manor house. When they left the tavern Cordwainer could see it perched on a hilltop no more than two miles away. The sun had burned away the morning mist, the cool air was fresh and scented with wildflowers, and if his legs had not ached with every step Cordwainer would have enjoyed the walk. As it was he fretted and grumbled, leaning on his stick and grasping Thomas’s shoulder as they made their way slowly up the rutted road.
At the iron-studded doors of the manor Cordwainer turned to gaze out over the village below and the fields that surrounded both manor and town on every side, dotted here and there by thatched houses, byres, and barns. A low hedge marked a ragged, broken circle that he guessed was the border of Sir John’s land. He turned back to the door and banged with his stick. After waiting a few minutes, he banged again, and one of the double doors opened a crack. A middle-aged woman in an apron and headscarf peered out at him through shrewd, hostile brown eyes.
“Be off with you,” she said. “You’ve no business here, whoever you are. Be off, I say!” She stepped back to push the door closed, but not before Cordwainer had poked his stick into the narrow crack.
[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose Page 19