[Matthew Cordwainer 03] - The White Rose

by Joyce Lionarons

  “Don’t be so hard on the lad,” said Cordwainer, his words slurred. “Twas my idea to ride home today. Thomas was just doing what I told him.”

  Bryce grunted. “You may sit as long as you wish to get warm, Master Cordwainer. Rolf’s on night watch, if you want me to look for him to get you home.”

  “Nay,” said Cordwainer. “Thomas and I will be fine. Thank you for the wine and the fire. I would not have been able to walk home without it.” He stood with a wince and nodded to Thomas, who drained his wine and shouldered the sodden bundle of clothing. They walked out under the starlight and trudged their way home

  ◆◆◆

  By morning Cordwainer was feverish and could not stop sneezing. Agytha hovered in his bedchamber with syrups and simples until he threatened to banish her from the house, at which point she retreated to the kitchen muttering under her breath. Glenna’s salve sat on the bench outside the bed curtains, and he was applying it to his blisters when Thomas came in and sat on the bench. “Do you need help with that?” he asked.

  “Nay,” replied Cordwainer, wiping his fingers on the bed linen and sneezing. “I heard a knock at the door. Who was it?”

  “Twas Brother Michael. He is sitting below stairs,” Thomas replied. “Shall I send him up?”

  “Has he anything new to tell us?”

  “Nay. He wants to know what he should do next.”

  Cordwainer snorted, then sneezed again. “Tell him he should go with you to find the laundress Caitlin. You might as well take the laundry when you go, everything we took to Market Weighton smells like horse. It might make her more willing to speak with you.”

  “Aye, Master. Shall I also send Stefan to you?”

  Cordwainer shook his head. “Nay, tis but a chill. I’ll be better tomorrow. Stefan is worse than Agytha when I don’t feel well, keeps lecturing me on what I should and shouldn’t do at my age.”

  Thomas laughed. “And you never listen to him. Aye, I’ll take Brother Michael with me to speak to the laundress. But only if you promise to stay in your bed and do whatever Agytha tells you. You must be well if we are to find Rose and Lily.”

  “Aye,” said Cordwainer, waving him from the room. “I will.”

  ◆◆◆

  Mistress Caitlin was not difficult to find, as Thomas found out when he thought to ask Agytha. After a debate over whether twas better to bring their laundry to her as a gesture of good faith or wait to give it to Agytha’s usual laundress, whom Agytha swore would do a better job, Thomas proposed a compromise: they would take a single bag of Agytha’s choosing to Caitlin, while anything heavily stained or delicate would remain. He and Brother Michael set out down Skeldergate under grey skies that threatened yet more rain by evening. Michael was eager to hear everything about the trip to Market Weighton, and Thomas had just finished the story when they rounded a corner to see billows of steam rising from behind a small wattle-and-daub house.

  “This must be it,” said Thomas. They carried their sacks around the house into a garden area where a steaming cauldron full of soapy water stood over a coal fire, with a second cauldron steaming behind it. A red-faced woman with thin, pale hair stirred the first cauldron with an iron paddle, lifting heaps of cloth from the water and damping them back down again. Another pulled a long gown from the second cauldron, squeezing it over the steaming water to drip before spreading it onto a wide bench to dry. The two men stood watching until the second woman wiped her hands and arms on her apron and walked over to them.

  She took the sack and hefted it, gauging its weight. Her arms were scarred from years of working in the steam, and the muscles stood out like ropes. She was younger than her sister Glenna, her hair streaked with grey but still black for the most part. Her dark skin was shiny with healed-over burns, and her eyes held the same watchful wariness. “Tis not much,” she said. “When do you need it?” She gave a curious look at Michael. “Tis not for the monastery, is it?”

  “Nay,” said Thomas. “Tis mine. I can come back on Monday, Mistress…Caitlin, is it not?”

  “Aye,” she said. She studied his face. “Do I know you?”

  “Nay,” Thomas replied. “I am Thomas Morlond, and this is Brother Michael from Saint Mary’s Abbey. We are looking for a woman named Blanche, or perhaps Rose, who once worked for you. Have you seen her recently, in the past day or so?”

  Caitlin nodded, looking displeased at the thought. “Aye, I’ve seen her. She left me to become a lay sister at Clementhorpe two years ago, with nary a word since till two days ago. She showed up here with a half-wit girl wanting a place to stay and her position back. I kept them for the night as twas late and they’d no place to go, but sent I them off yestermorn.” Seeing the disappointment in Thomas’s face, she added defensively, “I’ve no need of a second helper, and I’ll not be responsible for some half-wit scalding herself in the washwater.”

  “Did she say where she was going?” asked Thomas.

  “Nay. I don’t believe she knew where, and she were angry with me for it. I could not keep them here, Master, tis God’s truth.”

  “I understand, Mistress,” said Thomas. “Thank you for your help. I’m certain we’ll find them. I’ll come for the clothes on Monday.” He turned to leave, then looked back. “Do you know why she changed her name to Rose?”

  “Not why exactly, but I know when,” said Caitlin. “When she were first here, I said that Blanche were a good name for a laundress as it means ‘white,’ being how the customers want their clothes. Twas a jest, though not a good one, and it upset her. She said only lilies were white, and she must have a new name if white were what hers meant, for there were nothing white about her any more. She chose Rose.”

  They walked around the house to the street. “Is there nothing else we can do?” asked Brother Michael. “Nowhere else we can look?”

  Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know where to start. We could ask at her old lodgings, I suppose. Or we could see if Master Holt has seen anything of her. At least we know for certain she’s in the city – or was yesterday.”

  Michael brightened. “I’ll run down to her lodgings,” he said. “You go to Master Holt. Twill be something to do. I’ll meet you back at Master Cordwainer’s house.”

  “Aye,” said Thomas. He watched the monk dart down a lane, his fine hair frizzed and curling in the damp, then turned back towards Ouse Bridge. Perhaps the apothecary would have something to help Cordwainer get over his sneezing and the cough that was certain to follow. Twould be no harm in asking.

  ◆◆◆

  Prioress Alyse stood with her nuns at the edge of the apple orchard at Clementhorpe, watching as the two bodies slid into their wet graves beneath a dripping tree, one in a wooden coffin, the other wrapped only in a shroud. The priest pronounced the final blessing, and she crossed herself and turned to walk back to the stone chapel. The bells for Terce were ringing, and she gave thanks that one of her burdens had been lifted. Lady Claire’s body no longer lay in the outbuilding, and the lay sisters and servants could return to their normal duties.

  Yet this sudden burial was disturbing. Why had there been no mourners? Why had no one provided even an inexpensive coffin for the Lady, as if she were the wife of a pauper rather than one of the wealthiest landowners in York? Burial at Clementhorpe for the laity usually came with a large donation to the Priory, something she had been willing to forgo if it meant getting Lady Claire into the ground. But she had not been prepared for the sudden arrival of Sir John’s body, accompanied by a written directive from the Archdeacon to bury both as soon as possible, with only the Priory priest as celebrant at the requiem.

  Her second burden seemed all the heavier for the first being gone. What had happened to Lily and Rose? Had Rose truly killed Lady Claire, and if so, how had she harbored a killer in the guise of a lay sister at Clementhorpe for so long? As she walked into the choir to take her place on the wooden bench, she bowed her head and prayed that Lily would be found unharmed, wondering if her own hard-heartedness ha
d put the girl in peril. If she had found a place for Lily in the nunnery, would all have been different? But nay, Lady Claire would still have spent the night in the guesthouse, would still have been poisoned. The choir filled with the nuns, six on one side, five on the other. Alyse let her worries go in the beauty of the service, trusting in God that all would be well.

  ◆◆◆

  Marcus Holt nodded curtly to Thomas as he entered the apothecary’s shop, his sharp face drawn tight in a frown. “What do you need?” he asked. “I’m about to close for my dinner.”

  “Physik for sneezing and coughs,” replied Thomas. “Tis for Master Cordwainer, the King’s Coroner.”

  “Wait right here,” said Holt, glancing toward the stair to the solar. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And say not another word!”

  Thomas stood puzzled, but said nothing. He watched Holt step into a room in the back, then return with a small cloth pouch. “Is there fever?” he asked.

  “Nay, the fever is gone,” Thomas replied.

  “Then twill cure itself in time,” said Holt. “This will ease the coughing. Mix it with wine and honey.” He leaned forward over the counter. “Tell your Master,” he whispered, “that the one he seeks is here and desperate to leave the city unseen. I fear she may no longer be in her right mind. Sir John’s daughter is with her.” Again he looked at the staircase, as if he feared to see Rose standing there.

  Thomas’s eyes widened, and he too glanced back over his shoulder towards the stairs. His mind whirled with questions, but he said only, “Shall I come back if he worsens?”

  “Aye,” Holt replied. “Twould be best to come tonight or well before Prime in the morning, for I must be gone from the city tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” said Thomas. “I’ll remember.” He nodded at Holt and left the shop. He walked down Davygate until he was certain he could be seen from none of Holt’s windows. Then he broke into a run.

  Blanche

  York, April 1273

  She sat on a low bench in the solar of Marcus Holt’s apothecary testing the blade of the knife she had taken from Caitlin’s kitchen against her thumb. Aye, twas sharp enough to do damage should it become necessary, should Holt come too close to her or the girl. Lily crouched in the rushes at her feet, playing with her wooden doll, crooning a wordless lullaby. Blanche had recognized Holt at once when she bought the wolfsbane, known he was the old steward Eric’s brother. She had been tempted to tell him what she planned to do with the poison, that she would avenge his brother once and for all, but could not bring herself to trust him that far. He had not recognized her, not until she’d come to him yesterday, hoping that the bond of Sir John’s cruelty would make him want to help her.

  But Blanche was not comfortable staying in Holt’s house; she was never comfortable with any man. Twas necessary because Caitlin had put her and Lily out onto the streets. Perhaps she should have punished Caitlin then and there, shoved her head into the cauldron and let her drown in the boiling lye and water. But nay, Caitlin had been fair to her all those months when she was new to the city; if she was unfair now, Blanche could forgive her.

  Lily had stopped her crooning and was reaching for the rushlight. Blanche rose to take it from her, hoping the girl would not howl. But Lily began playing in the floor rushes, making incomprehensible patterns on the wooden planks, and Blanche thanked God she was so tractable. Holt was pounding on something below stairs, the noise rhythmic and somehow soothing.

  They need only stay till the morning. She would not sleep, but would keep watch with the knife until dawn. Holt had promised that tomorrow he would take her and Lily from the city, hidden in the cart he used to bring herbs back from the gardeners in the countryside. He was loath to do it, had agreed only when she threatened to slit Lily’s throat with her knife if he did not. She fingered the knife as she stared thoughtfully at Lily. Lily must die, of course, twas the only way to keep her safe. She thought of Lily’s soul rising joyfully to Heaven and smiled. If only she could do it now, but nay, Holt would not help her then.

  Someone had come into the shop below stairs; she could hear footsteps and voices. A chill went through her as she imagined Holt telling the person to run for the bailiffs, and she edged closer to the staircase to listen. “Is there fever?” she heard Holt ask. Twas just a man buying physik, nothing to worry about. She listened idly to the conversation, heard Holt declare he would leave the city tomorrow. He would leave them outside Micklegate Bar and they would walk the long miles to Market Weighton, where she was certain Julian would take them in, hide them if necessary, until folk no longer cared to look for her. Perhaps she could force Holt to drive them at least part of the way to the village. She picked up the knife again, tested it against her thumb. Aye, he would do it, he’d have to.

  Chapter 22

  York, April 1273

  Cordwainer dressed as quickly as he could and climbed down the steps. Thomas and Brother Michael had burst into his bedchamber with their news a few minutes earlier, and he had shouted at them to get out and let him rise. He could hear them below, talking excitedly. He paused on the staircase to sneeze and wipe his nose, stuffing the square of linen into his sleeve. When he had shuffled to his chair by the window and was sitting with his foot on the footstool, he snuffled loudly and said, “Tell me from the beginning.”

  When Thomas had recounted everything he could remember of his visit to Holt’s shop, they began to debate the best way to proceed. Brother Michael wanted to go to the apothecary immediately with a bailiff and if possible Sheriff de Bury himself. “We know exactly where she is now. Tis possible she’ll leave if we wait,” he argued.

  “Nay, she won’t leave, not if Holt has said he will take her tomorrow,” said Cordwainer. He sneezed and wiped his nose, thinking about what to do. “De Bury will not come if we have no proof, and we need no bailiffs. She’s but a woman, unarmed most likely. Her weapon was poison. Twill be better to go in the morning. There will be fewer folk about, and twill be easier to chase her if she runs.”

  “What should we do when we catch her?” asked Thomas. “Bring her here?”

  “Nay, why would we do that?” asked Cordwainer. “We will take her to the Archdeacon. She will confess soon enough.”

  “But I thought you would want to speak to her,” Thomas said. “Surely you do not plan on coming with us. We will need to go quietly. You will sneeze and give us away.”

  “Of course, I’m coming!” said Cordwainer. “The sneezing will be gone by tomorrow morning. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

  Thomas looked at Michael and rolled his eyes. “Aye, Master,” he said.

  ◆◆◆

  In the morning, Cordwainer’s sneezing had indeed ceased, to be replaced by a hacking cough. He sat at the table below stairs before dawn with an aromatic strip of linen around his throat, mixing Holt’s powder into a large cup of wine and honey as Thomas and Agytha looked on.

  “You must not go out into the morning mist, Master,” said Agytha. “Twill be your death.”

  “Nay, twill not,” said Cordwainer, sipping at the mixture. “Stop fussing! Once the physik starts working, I’ll be fine.”

  “Thomas, tell him he cannot go out. Promise me you will leave him behind.”

  Thomas shrugged. “You know twill do no good. He will follow us on his own.” He rose from his chair as a light tap came on the door. “There is Brother Michael now.”

  Michael entered the room, greeting them with his wide grin. Cordwainer coughed, again and again until he was gasping for breath. He took a long drink of the wine. “God give you good day, Brother,” he said. “The sun is rising. Tis time to go.” He rose and finished the last of the wine.

  Michael looked to Thomas, who shrugged again. Agytha turned and walked to the kitchen, muttering dire prophesies under her breath. Thomas took Cordwainer’s cloak from its peg and draped it around his Master’s shoulders, then wrapped himself in his own cloak and donned his hat. Cordwainer walked out the door into Saint Martin�
�s Lane and stood coughing as he waited.

  “Are you certain he should go with us?” asked Michael in a whisper. “That cough will worsen in the river damp.”

  “There is nothing I can do,” said Thomas, “save tie him to his bed.”

  They walked down the lane towards Micklegate in heavy mist, mud squelching under their boots. The fishmongers setting out the dawn’s catch on Ouse Bridge looked at them curiously, surprised to see folk out so early. They stopped whenever Cordwainer was overcome by coughing fits. Brother Michael fidgeted as they waited, but Thomas merely stood, moving on without a word when the coughing stopped.

  As they approached Davygate, Michael spoke up. “I’ll run on ahead and go around to the back. If she tries to run that way, I’ll catch her.”

  “Aye,” said Cordwainer. “We will go in the front – or Thomas will. If she’s below stairs, Thomas will block her from going up. If not, he will come back out until Holt can get her to come down. Tis best she suspects nothing till she is trapped in the shop.”

  “Perhaps a bailiff would have been a good idea after all,” said Thomas, watching the monk stride down Davygate, then turn off into a ginnel between the buildings.

  “Tis too late now,” replied Cordwainer. He waited a few paces from Holt’s shop as Thomas approached the door. In a moment Thomas was out again. “She’s above stairs,” he whispered, coming up to Cordwainer. “Holt will open the door when she’s down.”

  They waited. Cordwainer held his breath, trying not to cough. By the time the door opened, he was red-faced and choking. They rushed to the door and into the shop, Thomas stepping to block the stairs. Holt stood by the door, while Rose stood by the counter holding Lily by the hand. For a moment, she looked puzzled, then she gasped and lifted the side of the counter, pulling Lily behind it and letting it drop as barrier between herself and the men. Grasping Lily around the waist in front of her, she drew a long knife from her sleeve and held it against the girl’s throat.