The Pardoner's Crime

by Keith Moray

  ‘Why have you assaulted us like this, fellow?’ Richard demanded. ‘And why have your comrades not revealed themselves?’

  ‘I ask the questions,’ returned the other. ‘There is no need for my men to show their faces. And, in case you had not noticed,’ he said with an amused smile, ‘I am the one with a bow and an arrow trained at your chest. So my first question to you is a simple request for your names. My second is to know your purpose for travelling through our woods.’

  ‘I am Sir Richard Lee, Sergeant-at-Law and Circuit Judge of the King’s Northern Realm. This is my man, Hubert of Loxley.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘And what mean you by saying this is your wood? All woods in England belong to the King.’

  ‘He may think they belong to him, but we say they do no longer. Any man passing through here must pay a toll. This wood now belongs to the brothers of the Greenwood.’

  ‘A fine name for thieves and robbers!’ growled Hubert.

  The bow was instantly turned on Hubert, the stance and steadiness of the holder leaving them in no doubt but that if he wished, the bowman could dispatch instant death.

  ‘I am a patient man,’ said the archer calmly, ‘but that much cannot be said for my comrades. Do not risk your life more than you are already doing.’

  ‘You are not a King’s man, I take it?’ Richard asked.

  The other sneered. ‘King’s man, earl’s man, what do these matters mean to slaves, serfs, villains and even freemen like myself? Ordinary people are told to follow armies, they cannot choose.’

  ‘You are outside the law, then? I take it you fought at Boroughbridge. On the side of the Earl of Lancaster? Which mayhap makes you a contrariant?’

  Again, the bowman laughed. ‘Aye. Being on the losing side puts one outside the law. And contrariant makes you both outlaw and traitor!’ Very deliberately, he turned his head sideways and spat. ‘Whatever property or things that one might call one’s own are confiscated and you are declared outlaw, common wolfshead that may be killed by any that choose to do so. Just another piece of sport for the rich and powerful.’ He flicked his wrists, pointing the arrow to the nearby shrubbery where the carcass of a doe deer lay with a grey-goose feathered arrow still protruding from its heart. ‘Just like that.’

  Richard’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘That is a hanging offence, to kill the King’s deer.’

  The archer shrugged. ‘We are outside the King’s law, but we must still eat. The deer belong to the wood and we claim the woods, so it is ours, not the King’s.’ His mouth curled into a smile. ‘Although if he should care to pardon us, we would let him sup with us and feast on our good fresh venison.’

  Richard was perspiring still and his calf throbbed. He ran a hand across his brow, striving to seem as casual as he could lest the outlaw perceived him to be afraid rather than in pain. In truth, he had little fear of death, or even very much of a taste for life since his Eleanor had died in childbirth. When his son died a day later, he had for a time even hoped for death. That was why he had been perhaps less careful than he needed be at the battle of Boroughbridge.

  ‘You have a wound, Sir Richard,’ the archer said. ‘I can tell the signs. It may be festering. You may sit down on that tree bough.’

  Richard did as he was bidden. ‘I thank you — whatever your name is.’

  ‘My comrades call me Hood. I am Robert Hood of Wakefield.’ Once again he gave a wan laugh. ‘Or rather I was of Wakefield.’

  Richard nodded comprehendingly. ‘And I imagine you have guessed that we were also at Boroughbridge, but with the King’s forces under Sir Andrew Harclay.’

  The Hood nodded without betraying any emotion. ‘Mayhap you had more choice than we did.’

  Richard put a hand on Hubert’s wrist as he sensed an outburst from his man. ‘And what would you have of us, Robert Hood?’

  ‘A toll for using the Outwood. A mark for each man and his horse. And you will also tell us where you are going.’

  Richard opened the pouch that hung from his belt and drew out money, which he lay on the bough beside him. ‘There is your toll, Master Hood. As for where we go, know you that we are on the King’s business and are going first to Wakefield then to Sandal Castle. It is my mission from the King to sit at the Manor Court and administer the law.’

  The Hood tossed his head back and laughed disparagingly. ‘Why, there is no law in Wakefield — and then again, too much! Yet it amounts to the same thing. There is no justice and little humanity.’ His eyes suddenly became serious. ‘Yet, I and my men may soon see that it is otherwise.’

  ‘It is not for those outside the law to take the law into their own hands,’ returned Richard. ‘What riles you that you rant so?’

  ‘Apart from the merry state that you find us in,’ said the Hood, relaxing the tension on his bowstring and bringing it down so that it pointed harmlessly at the ground, ‘since Earl Thomas of Lancaster was murdered, Wakefield has fallen into greedy hands. The bailiff is a lackey, the constables are a bunch of dullards and drunks and the new steward is a buffoon. There have been two hangings, a spate of floggings and too many people put in the public stocks for the merest of trifles. My woman’s kinswoman was raped, and they have charged no one with the crime.’

  Richard nodded his head in concern. ‘At difficult times order is often lost. Brutality and ignorance often make easy bedfellows. I will change this.’

  ‘I hope so, Sir Richard,’ replied the bowman. ‘Or I and my men will wreak a savage revenge if the man who took away Lillian’s maidenhood is found and goes unpunished.’

  ‘I am a Sergeant-at-Law, Master Hood, but you should understand that I will dispense the law, with no help from anyone outside it.’ Richard rubbed his calf. ‘May we go now?’

  The Hood stared suspiciously at him for a moment. ‘Do not think that you can send anyone after us. We come and go in the woodland and forest as we please. Barnsdale Forest stretches all the way to Sherwood and an army could get lost in there. Yet I shall be keeping watch on what happens in Wakefield. And there had better be justice for my Matilda’s Lillian. As for you, Sir Richard, I advise you to seek out Wilfred Oldthorpe the apothecary. He has a shop on the Westgate. He has snakestones and the like and is skilled in treating wounds that fester.’

  Richard inclined his head in thanks. ‘And so tell me where I can question this kinswoman of your lady. I am mindful of showing even those outside the law that the law of the land works. I will do what I can.’

  ‘Ask at the Bucket Inn near Jacob’s Well. The mistress there will tell you all.’ And stepping backwards, Robert Hood disappeared into the greenery.

  Five minutes later, as Richard and Hubert made their way onwards, Richard was puzzled to see Hubert grinning to himself. ‘I did not think that you were amused by our little adventure, Hubert.’

  ‘Oh that! Pah, we could have dealt with the fellow and his rabble if needs be, yet I could see that you planned to talk to the fellow and that you had the matter well in hand without me, my lord. No, I was just pleased to have given you proof.’

  ‘Proof of what?’

  ‘Why, of the power of my talisman! It deflected all three of those arrows they fired at us.’

  The road from the Outwood that led towards Wakefield was gated but unmanned. It led first across heathland with the Pinder-fields to the left, the undulating pastures where the township kept their cattle. Beyond that, it broadened out into the wild heathery land of the Old Park which contained the East Moor, the Park Hills and the Wind Hill, upon which could be seen one of the several windmills that served the locality. To their right they passed cultivated lands, divided up into ridges and furrows, upon which several handfuls of smock-clad peasants could be seen working. And beyond that could be seen the half-wooded Great Park, which was famously well stocked with deer, partridges and boar.

  Hubert had been ruminating in silence until they were well clear of the wood and the habitations of Wakefield came into view. ‘So tell me, my lord, what do we know of this tow
n of Wakefield?’

  Richard wiped his brow again. ‘I was well briefed before we began our journey and read up about it last night. It is an ancient town that the Saxons built on an eminence that slopes down to the River Calder, although they say that some of the townships around it were actually Viking settlements.’ He pointed along the length of the rough track they were making their way down. ‘There are four main roads, each with a toll-gate which closes at the eight bell curfew. This is the Northgate, the others being Kirkgate, Westgate and Warrengate. The main three roads meet at the marketplace, which is called Birch Hill. It is said to be of a goodly size, with a pond, a market cross and a great circular area that they call the Bull Ring, for obvious reasons. The prison is also there, as is a church and the Moot Hall, where I shall preside over the Manor Court.’

  Some distance further they passed a wayside chantry chapel, bearing the markings of St John the Baptist. Its door was closed, but beside it was a carved trough full of water, presumably blessed, and an offertory box in which some wag had left the body of a drowned rat.

  Hubert snorted. ‘It looks as if there are some irreverent dogs around this town, my lord.’ He made the sign of the cross as they passed. ‘And what of Sandal Castle? Will the new steward accommodate us?’

  ‘He has been ordered by the King’s messenger to receive us. Sir Thomas Deyville is thought to be an able enough fellow, but he has no knowledge of law and there is concern that he may have been over-zealous in settling in. His Majesty wanted a firm hand, yet he knows that he must not make enemies of his own people. That is why I have been given this roving commission, to introduce fair law into the Manor of Wakefield.’

  ‘And this Sandal, is it far from Wakefield?’

  ‘A couple of miles on the other side of the river.’

  They had reached the gate of the Northgate road, on either side of which were a couple of humble dwellings. The gate itself was a stout timber on great hinges that barred their way. A middle-aged woman with a closed eye appeared from one of the hovels, wiping her hands on a dirty apron.

  ‘Good day, masters. I am Alice-at-the-Bar and I and my son are charged with letting in those as wants to come and keeping those in that mustn’t stray.’ She immediately burst into a cackle that sent a shiver through Richard’s spine. ‘It is a toll to enter, unless you tickle my fancy.’

  Richard eyed Alice-at-the-Bar dispassionately. ‘Know you that I am Sir Richard Lee, the Circuit Judge of the King’s Northern Realm and by his warrant I and my man must enter Wakefield immediately. I shall be presiding over the court,’ he said meaningfully. ‘I would treat any news that the town gatekeepers were taking bribes, or worse, with appropriate severity!’

  Alice-at-the-Bar’s one good eye shot wide open in fear. ‘I meant nothing, sir. I jest a lot, but I mean nothing.’ And with a manly whistle she called her son, a spindly youth, and together they raised the bar and let the two riders through.

  ‘Where can I find first the Bucket Inn near the Jacob’s Well and then Wilfred Oldthorpe the apothecary?’ Richard asked, tossing a farthing, which was caught nimbly and thankfully by Alice-at-the-Bar, despite her one eye.

  ‘That would be easy, sir. Like as not at this time of the day Master Wilfred Oldthorpe will be drinking ale at the inn. You won’t get a finer brew in the whole of Yorkshire than at Mistress Quigley’s Bucket Inn.’

  And after she had given Richard directions she winked at Hubert, who winced and unconsciously touched the arrow-head beneath his surcoat.

  Wakefield was a straggling town of gabled wooden houses, most of which had undercrofts on the ground floor for keeping animals or storing supplies, and which were roofed with either thatch or reeds. The main streets were wide and well rutted by oxcarts and packhorses, with side streets and narrow alleys leading off them. Dung heaps, puddles and refuse of various sorts made walking in a straight line difficult, the result being that the streets were full of animals and folk going about their business in an erratic, almost zig-zag manner.

  As Richard and Hubert rode down the Northgate, they passed open doors from whence emanated the odours of wood smoke, baking bread and cooking. All this mingled with the smell from a nearby tannery and of ground corn from the two watermills and a great windmill visible on the Westgate.

  They found their way to the lane on which the Jacob’s Well was sited. This provided fresh water to the east end of the town and, as it happened, to the brewhouse of the Bucket Inn. The inn itself was the most conspicuous and impressive building on the lane. It was a two storeyed affair, with a thatched roof, two outhouses and a large brewhouse. On either side of the door were two half-barrels containing mulberry bushes, while from a joist above the low doorway hung a bucket from which trailing roses seemed to cascade out.

  The smell of beer, cooking meat and onions made Hubert’s stomach gurgle. ‘A comely place, this Bucket Inn looks,’ he said to Richard. And then hopefully, ‘Would we have time for a mug of ale and a bite, my lord? It would mayhap help to wash away the taste of that rogue who robbed us in the Outwood.’

  Richard smiled as he dismounted and handed the reins of his mount to an ostler who suddenly appeared from behind the brewhouse. ‘We were not robbed, Hubert. We merely chose to pay his toll.’

  Hubert frowned. ‘But it was illegal, my lord. Surely you —’

  But Richard had stopped listening. He pushed open the door of the inn, bent his head under the lintel and entered the smoky interior.

  It was a large noisy room — one end was taken up with barrels from which a couple of maids were pouring mugs of ale, while two more girls and a surly looking potman were dispensing them and platters of steaming food among the various heavy wooden trestle tables. A roaring fire, despite the heat of the day, kept a large iron pot above the flames steaming away, filling the inn with a pleasing aroma. This was enhanced by the smell of beef and roast chicken coming out of the open door of a kitchen.

  ‘A popular place, right enough,’ Richard said over his shoulder to Hubert, as the latter closed the door behind them. ‘I think refreshment would be a good idea before we begin work.’

  The potman passed them and grunted at an empty table by the fire. They sat and removed their gauntlets. Richard was looking round the inn at the assorted clientele when a pleasant female voice demanded his attention.

  ‘Good day, gentlemen, welcome to my inn. And what can I get you today?’

  Richard had barely looked at a woman since his Eleanor had died, but this woman immediately struck his attention. She was a large-breasted woman of about twenty-five with a narrow waist, hazel-eyed with wisps of brunette hair escaping from her simple cap. Her skin was too tanned for a lady, yet it suited her pretty and healthy looking face. Her smile revealed strong white teeth with a slight gap between her two front ones.

  He noted that although she talked directly to him, her glance had bypassed him and fallen upon Hubert, whom she graced with a smile that lit up her face. Richard smiled inwardly, for he had long been aware of Hubert’s attraction for women.

  ‘You are, I take it, Mistress Quigley, the owner of this inn?’

  ‘That is me, Beatrice Quigley. You have heard of my inn, sir?’

  ‘The old woman, Alice-at-the-Bar, told us when we came through the Northgate. She said that you would be able to point out a local apothecary by the name of Oldthorpe.’

  Beatrice smiled and pointed to a far corner where a portly, middle-aged man wearing a battered liripipe hat was staring into a large pot of beer. Before him were the remains of a meal. ‘Master Wilfred enjoys a hearty lunch,’ she replied. ‘But if you need his medical skills I would suggest waiting a couple of hours, until he gets over his — refreshments!’

  Both Hubert and Richard smiled. ‘I may do that,’ said Richard. ‘But I would also like you to tell me where I might talk with a girl called Lillian.’

  ‘Who told you that I would know that, my lord?’

  ‘I heard of it from a man who called himself the Hood.’

&n
bsp; He watched and saw the slight widening of her eyes, as if in alarm. Then her face registered suspicion. ‘And why should you want to talk to this girl Lillian, my lord?’

  ‘I am Sir Richard Lee and I —’

  A scream suddenly rang out from somewhere upstairs, and a moment later a handsome, bare-headed blonde woman appeared at the top of a flight of stairs. She looked shocked, her head turning right and left as if searching for someone. Then her gaze fell upon the mistress of the inn. ‘Beatrice!’ she cried. ‘Come up. You are needed.’ She held up her hands, which were covered with blood. ‘And bring that apothecary!’

  The inn customers mostly fell silent at this entry, but no-one seemed particularly interested. Or rather, no one seemed eager to get involved when blood was apparent.

  Richard and Hubert watched Beatrice hitch up her dress and rush through the crowded inn to grab the sleeve of Wilfred Oldthorpe the apothecary and half drag him towards the stairs.

  ‘Come, Hubert!’ Richard said, as they disappeared upstairs. ‘I am always nervous when I meet someone for the first time with blood on their hands.’

  Hubert followed his master with alacrity. He was not so much aware of the blood, as the fact that the women of Wakefield seemed uncommonly attractive.

  2

  Albin of Rouncivale was feeling pleased with himself. Things had been going well for him ever since his venture in Pontefract, following the execution of the Earl of Lancaster. He had spent a highly profitable week in the town and only left when the local priest had actually offered him physical violence for poaching on his territory. The fat, useless fool! He had no idea of how to feed off the wages of sin, unlike himself. He guessed that he had seen and counselled more of the Pontefract folk than ever ventured into his church in a month of Sundays. And at that he had laughed, for he called every day a sinday, and Sunday just an extra big day to harvest the crop of sinners, perverts and those who were contemplating sinning.

  From there he had meandered around the hamlets and villages of the Honour of Pontefract, setting up a temporary pulpit in each and then retiring to the local inn or hostelry where he was usually able to obtain a back room or an outhouse to receive the sinful. And he grinned at just how many of them there were. Enough to make him a rich man some day, he hoped.