[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose

by Joyce Lionarons

  “My business is with Julian Cook,” he said. “I believe tis you I am looking for.”

  The eyes widened, then narrowed to suspicious slits. “Who are you?” Julian asked, letting the door swing open and eyeing first Cordwainer, then Thomas. “What do you want?”

  “I am Matthew Cordwainer, King’s Coroner of York. I am investigating the deaths of Sir John and Lady Claire. I have questions which you must answer.” He realized that the woman grasped a meat cleaver in her right hand, held down by her skirts. “Put the knife down,” he added. “Tis no need for that.”

  Julian looked down at her hand as if she had not known the cleaver was there. With an exasperated huff, she stepped back from the doors. “We’ll speak in the cookhouse,” she said, “or the pottage will burn.”

  She turned and strode into the darkness of the great hall, not looking back. Cordwainer followed at a slower pace, noting the unlit torches on the walls, the cold hearth, the musty odor of the rushes on the floor. The only light came from the open doorway, and he was thankful Thomas had not shut it behind them. Ahead was a dim passageway with a second open door at its end. Following Julian, they stepped onto a short, well-trodden path to a brick building with smoke rising from a stone chimney. When he entered, he was surprised to find a clean and airy kitchen filled with the aroma of cooking vegetables. Julian was by the fire stirring an iron pot, the cleaver lay on a scarred worktable.

  Cordwainer sat heavily on a three-legged stool by the table as a man in his early twenties came into the room with an armload of firewood. His mouth fell open at the sight of two strange men in the cookhouse, and he dropped the logs to the floor.

  “What’s got into you? Stack them logs proper,” snapped Julian, “or I’ll have your head.”

  The man stared, his eyes moving from Thomas in the doorway to Cordwainer on his stool. Julian pulled the pot from the fire and turned. “Tis the Coroner from York, Gib, and he ain’t got two heads. Now stop your staring and stack that wood.”

  Gib obeyed, dropping to one knee and gathering the scattered logs, one eye always on Cordwainer. Julian pulled two fish from a box outside the kitchen door and laid them on the worktable. Picking up the cleaver, she brought it down with a thwack, neatly slicing the heads from the fish, and shot a quick glance at Cordwainer. “You say you have questions,” she said. “Ask them.”

  He watched as she dropped the cleaver and rummaged on a shelf until she found a thin, razor-sharp knife to bone the fish. “Was there ever a serving girl here named Rose?” he asked.

  “Nay,” said Julian. “I’ve been here twenty years, and never a Rose.” One fish skeleton lay on the table by the heads. She scooped the meat from the first fish into the pot with the vegetables and reached for the second.

  “Is Sir John’s daughter Lily in the house?”

  Julian looked up sharply. “Nay, she’s in York. Gone to be a nun.”

  “Nay,” said Cordwainer. “She’s no longer at the nunnery. A lay sister calling herself Rose took her away. They’re not in York. Are you certain they are nowhere on the manor lands?”

  “Aye, I’m certain,” replied Julian. She shot a worried glance at Gib, who was sitting on the neatly stacked logs, then looked back at Cordwainer. “You don’t think this Rose might harm her, do you?” she asked. “Lily is simple, aye, and too trusting of folk.”

  “I believe,” said Cordwainer, “that Rose might be the serving girl Sir John ran off the manor several years ago, twas a pregnant girl as I heard it. And I believe that she is the killer of both Sir John and his lady.”

  “But her name weren’t Rose,” said Gib. “Twas Blanche. Blanche wouldn’t never hurt Lily. And Blanche weren’t no killer neither, or she would’ve done it here when he – ”

  “Gib! Be quiet!” Julian snapped.

  “Nay, let him speak,” said Cordwainer. He shifted on his stool to face Gib, wincing as his blisters protested. “Tell me about Blanche. What happened to her? Where did she go?”

  Gib sat red-faced, looking at Julian, who threw the second fish skeleton onto the first and pushed it and the fish heads across the worktable. “Take this out to the pigs,” she said. “I’ll tell them about Blanche.”

  Gib swept the mess into a pail, but stayed where he was. “Sir John raped her,” he said, “and beat her and got her with child. And when Lady Claire found out, she beat Blanche with a horsewhip and left her for dead.”

  “What happened to the child?”

  Julian huffed. “What do you think? It died, of course, the night of the whipping, miscarried while we were taking Blanche away. We were forbidden to go to her aid all that day, told to leave her where she lay – out in the hot sun, twas, and her parched and bleeding. Twasn’t right, whatever she’d done, and we sneaked out of the manor after dark and carried her to the village, to the healer, but she lost the babe. We never saw Blanche again. Tis likely she died at the healer’s house, she were near enough to dead when we left her. Twould have been a blessing to die, she were so torn and broken.”

  “Nay, she did not die,” said Gib. “I saw her, weeks later, at the healer’s house. She were near to well, could walk and talk.”

  Julian gaped at him. “You never said. Did you think we’d not want to know?”

  Gib flushed and picked up the pail. “You never spoke of her,” he said angrily. “I thought she were forgotten by all save me.” Pushing open the outside door, he walked away from the cookhouse, letting the door slam behind him.

  Julian picked up the iron pot and turned to hang it by the fire. In a stricken voice, she asked, “Have you any more questions, Master Coroner?”

  “Just one,” said Cordwainer. “When Blanche was whipped, was her jaw broken?”

  “Nay,” said Julian, wiping her eyes on her apron and turning to face him. “Twas earlier, when first he raped her, that he broke her jaw.”

  Cordwainer planted his stick on the floor and hoisted himself upright. “I thank you for your time,” he said, “and I apologize if my questions have caused you pain.” He nodded at Thomas and stepped towards the door leading back to the great hall. “If you hear aught of Lily, we will be at Tawyer’s tavern tonight. After that, send word to York.”

  “Master,” said Julian. “Gib is wrong. She were never forgotten by any of us. Tell her so, if you find her. And tell her I said that if she killed them, she had reason.”

  “Aye,” said Cordwainer. “I will.”

  They walked down the slope towards the village in silence. Cordwainer’s legs still ached, but the walk was loosening the stiffness and he no longer needed to keep his hand on Thomas’s shoulder. When they neared the market square, Cordwainer spoke. “We’ll have dinner, then go talk to the healer. If Rose is not there, and I doubt she is, perhaps the healer can tell us where Blanche went when she left the village. Twill give us a place to look in York.”

  “Aye,” said Thomas. They walked in silence to the door of Tawyer’s tavern. “Master,” Thomas said. “Why are folk so cruel?”

  “Tis a sinful world, Thomas,” Cordwainer replied. “Some folk are more sinful than others.”

  Tawyer bustled across the room towards them as they entered the tavern. Several tables had folk eating and drinking at them, and the conversation stopped for a moment, then resumed as Cordwainer and Thomas sat down on a bench by an open window. “Will you be eating?” asked Tawyer.

  “Aye,” said Cordwainer. Tawyer held two fingers in the air, and Mary nodded from across the room.

  “I’ll fetch your ale,” Tawyer said. When he had returned with two foaming tankards, he asked in a low voice, “Were Lily at the manor house?”

  “Nay,” said Cordwainer. “I doubt they ever came here.”

  Tawyer shook his head. “Then your journey were all for nowt,” he said.

  “Not entirely,” said Cordwainer. “I am not in York wondering if she is here.”

  “Will you be going home tomorrow, then?”

  “Aye.” He shifted in his seat with a grimace. “Is
there a healer or apothecary in town, Master Tawyer?” he asked. “Twould be good if I could get something for the saddle blisters ere we leave.”

  Tawyer burst out laughing. “I were wondering why you sat so odd,” he said. “I should have guessed it, with you not being much of a rider. Aye, there is a healer here, old Mistress Glenna. Tis a small house at the end of the last lane, down south of the village. She’s wary of strangers, is Glenna, so tell her I sent you.” He walked away, still chuckling, as Mary placed a thick trencher of fish stew on the table.

  Cordwainer poked at a piece of fish and sighed. “Tis Easter next week,” he said. “Agnes will roast lamb.”

  “Don’t think about it, Master,” said Thomas. “It makes it worse.”

  ◆◆◆

  The healer’s house was not hard to find, and she let them in readily enough once Cordwainer mentioned Tawyer’s name. It was a tiny stone cottage with a low thatched roof and two deep-set windows, their shutters open to the air. No chimney rose from the walls; rather, a thin stream of smoke escaped from a hole in the center of the roof, and Cordwainer was reminded of poor Maddy Cote’s dwelling in York. But here the thatch was in good repair, the walls recently limewashed, the shutters painted bright green. Two garden plots lay beyond, one herbs, the other vegetables. Chickens scratched and clucked around the door, and a rooster strutted across their path as they approached.

  When the healer stepped away from the door to admit them, Cordwainer stooped under the low lintel; inside, his head reached almost to the rafters. Glenna was a short, dark-skinned woman with a stocky build, wearing a bright headscarf and an undyed wool gown. Grey hair curled on her forehead, her face was deeply lined, but despite her age, her eyes were bright and her arms looked muscular and strong. Fresh rushes covered the floor around a stone hearth in the center of the room where a low fire burned, and a ladder led to a narrow loft at the back. Rafters crossed the room below the thatch, each lined with herbs hung for drying. A small alcove was built into the wall at one side, its curtain drawn back to reveal a narrow straw mattress.

  Glenna’s eyes flicked from Cordwainer to Thomas and back again. “What is it you need?” she asked.

  “I am in need of a salve for blisters and chafing, Mistress,” said Cordwainer. “Twas a long ride from York for a man not used to the saddle.”

  “Have the blisters broken?”

  “Aye.”

  “Have they festered?”

  “Nay. Twas my hope that a salve might keep them from doing so, as I must ride home to York tomorrow and they will surely worsen.”

  Glenna nodded and turned away to open a chest by the wall. “Have you owt to put it in? Twill be extra if you do not.”

  “Twill be extra then,” replied Cordwainer. He watched as she scooped a generous portion of a greenish grey salve from a jar and scraped it onto a piece of thickly-woven cloth, gathering the sides together at the top. Pulling a long piece of linen from the chest, she ripped it into strips, then rolled each strip into a cylindrical bandage, tucking the ends in neatly. “Use a good amount and bind the blisters tight so they do not rub,” she said as she worked. “Twould be better to wait till they’ve healed before riding, especially so far. If they do fester, tis not that the salve is bad.”

  “Aye, Mistress,” said Cordwainer. “But it can’t be helped.” He accepted the bundle of bandages and salve and dug into his scrip for coins. “There is another thing you can help me with, if you would. Several years ago, a young girl was brought to you badly beaten, almost dead. You healed her and sent her on her way weeks, perhaps months, later. Where did she go?”

  Glenna’s eyes had darkened as he spoke. Now they flashed red in the firelight. “Are you her father or her husband that you ask? If not, then tis no business of yours where she went when she left me, save that twas out that door, where you may follow her now.” She pointed imperiously at the open doorway.

  “Nay, Mistress Glenna, I am neither father nor husband,” replied Cordwainer. “I am King’s Coroner of York, and tis best you answer my questions. Has she been back in Market Weighton since she was healed?”

  “Nay, she has not,” said Glenna. “What business has the King’s Coroner to do with the poor lass? She isn’t dead, is she?”

  “Nay,” said Cordwainer. “She has kidnapped Sir John’s daughter Lily, and they are both missing from York. Tis also possible she is Sir John’s killer, and Lady Claire’s.”

  “If she has killed Sir John and his wife, she’s to be thanked, not blamed,” replied Glenna, folding her arms over her chest. “I’ll not have a hand in you trying to hang her for it.”

  “We do not wish to see her hanged,” said Thomas. “But we must know if Lily is safe. Please, Mistress, won’t you help us?”

  Glenna’s eyes turned inward as she considered. “Why would Blanche take Lily?” she asked. “It makes no sense. The girl would be a hindrance to her flight if she is indeed a killer.”

  “Perhaps she is not the killer after all,” said Cordwainer. “Perhaps she thinks to keep Lily safe. If tis so, she needs our help.”

  “Twas you who freed Magda, was it not?” asked Glenna. “Then perhaps you would not blame Blanche if she is guiltless.” Her dark eyes searched his face, and she nodded once to herself. “I will tell you, and may God forgive me if tis wrong. When Blanche had healed, she needed to pay my fee. Tis expensive to nurse and feed a body for so long, and folk should not expect owt for nowt. Twas no way for her to earn the coin in the village, so I sent her to my sister in York.”

  “Who is your sister, Mistress?” asked Cordwainer.

  “Her name is Caitlin. She’s a laundress in the city. She sent me Blanche’s wages till the fee was paid, twas two years ago now. Tis all I know, Master Coroner.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” said Cordwainer. “Tis a help.” He turned to leave.

  “Mind you wrap those blisters tight,” said Glenna.

  “Aye,” said Cordwainer. “I will.”

  Chapter 21

  Market Weighton, April 1273

  By dawn clouds had gathered over Market Weighton and a light drizzle was falling. Cordwainer stood in the doorway of Tawyer’s tavern squinting through the mist at the sky as Shep led their horses from the stable. Thomas came out to join him, and together they loaded their bundle of clothing and a basket of food tightly covered with waxed linen onto the black gelding. Tawyer came out to see them off. “Tis not bad now,” he said, “and tis possible you’ll outrun it, but twill be a hard rain in an hour or so. Are you certain you don’t want to stay till tomorrow?”

  “Nay, we cannot,” replied Cordwainer. “We must find Rose and Lily, and if they are not here, they are most likely still in York. But I am afraid I may need assistance in mounting, my legs are so stiff.”

  “Shep will help,” said Tawyer. “I wish you a safe journey, for tis certain to be a wet one. May God go with you.” He wiped the rain from his face, then turned and went back into the tavern.

  Cordwainer walked awkwardly out toward the grey mare standing at the mounting block. His lower body was bound tightly in the healer’s linen bandages, and they hindered his movements more than his aching hip had ever done. Beads of moisture gathered on his hood, and he prayed that Tawyer was wrong and the rain would not worsen. Shep and Thomas took their places on either side of him, and together they pushed him, cursing and snorting, up into the saddle. Thomas mounted the gelding, and they set off for York.

  The ride was miserable from beginning to end. Tawyer had not been wrong: the rain became a steady downpour within the hour, and the road was soon inches deep in mud. They plodded onward, their cloaks soaking through first, then the clothing beneath. By the time they stopped to eat, Cordwainer was wet to the skin. The waxed linen had kept the worst of the rain from the food, and they blessed Tawyer’s daughter Mary as they ate. Cordwainer refused to dismount, and this time Thomas did not argue.

  They slogged on through the rain as the hours passed in a grey blur. They met no one on the road
save a single carter whose wheels had stuck in the mud and who was sheltering under a tarp of waxed canvas till the storm ended. It was not till the sun was setting that the rain diminished and the skies began to clear. A cold wind rose from the north, and Cordwainer shivered in his wet clothing. His bandages had loosened during the ride and were chafing more than the saddle, sending needles of pain through his legs and buttocks with every step of the horse. He rode with his teeth clenched and his eyes fixed on the mare’s mane, never looking up. Had Thomas not been with him, he would have missed the turning north to Micklegate Bar.

  Bryce the gatekeeper pulled the bar from across the heavy wooden doors into the city as they approached, shaking his head in astonishment. “If tweren’t you, Master Cordwainer, I’d keep the gate barred,” he said. “What are you doing out of the city so late? Twas a death, I’ll wager.”

  Cordwainer could not reply for exhaustion and cold. His tongue felt thick and his eyes watered without ceasing. Bryce held his lantern up to look at Cordwainer’s face. “Get down from that horse, Master,” he said in alarm. “You’re white as a corpse yourself, and your lips are blue. Come into the guardhouse. I’ve a fire and hot wine.”

  Thomas dismounted and stepped forward to help Cordwainer down from the mare. “As for you, Master Thomas,” said Bryce, his eyes flashing in the light from his lantern, “you should know better than to let an old man go riding out in a rain like that. You’re meant to take care of him, not let him catch his death.”

  “Aye, I know,” said Thomas, gathering the reins to their mounts and flushing under the guard’s disapproval. “I’ll take the horses to the stable and be back for him.”

  As he trudged up Micklegate, the horses tried to push ahead, knowing their way home, and Thomas was tempted to simply drop the reins and turn back. As it was, by the time he had roused the ostler, seen the horses into the stable, and returned to the guardhouse, Cordwainer was sitting by the fire, deep into his second cup of steaming wine. His face had regained some of its color, and he eyes were brighter. Bryce poured a cup for Thomas as he entered, although his expression showed he had not yet forgiven Thomas for Cordwainer’s exhausted state.