Agnes pushed past Cordwainer and scooped up the coins. She lifted a chop and smelled it, then slipped the package into her voluminous sleeve. Cordwainer snorted. “What?” the bawd said. “Good meat’s expensive and hard enough for the likes of us to come by. Not that you, Master King’s Coroner, would know aught about that.”
Cordwainer snorted again and turned back to the narrow ladder. “Go back down,” he barked at the men lined up below him. “Nothing to see up here.”
Back on the street, Cordwainer made a quick count to make certain all the men were still there. Gylfa knelt in the snow by Molly’s body, crossing herself and crying. Maeve had returned to Tibb, and they stood shivering together in the doorway, each with an arm around the other. Lights glimmered through the shutters of several windows along the narrow street as the residents of the Shambles roused themselves at the commotion, and a man’s sleepy face looked down at them from an open window. A dog barked from a nearby alley. “All right, then,” he said. “Thomas, Rolf, carry her up to her room. She can rest there for the night.”
“You’ll not be bringing that dead body in here!” Agnes exclaimed, blocking the way. “I won’t have Molly’s spirit haunting this house! Let the canons at the spitalhouse take her. She’ll have naught but a pauper’s grave anyway.”
Cordwainer gaped at her. “She’s one of yours,” he said. “God’s love, woman, won’t you care for your own?”
“She’s none of mine now,” said Agnes. She grabbed Gylfa by the arm. “Get up and go inside,” she commanded, pushing the girl before her towards the house. “Maeve, you go above stairs. Tibb – when tis light, go home and stay there. I’ll not have you driving Maeve’s custom away.” She turned back to look at Cordwainer. “Find Owen Hywel, Master King’s Coroner, and see that he’s hanged for this, so an honest whore can be safe on the streets.” The door slammed shut.
“She’s a hard one, and no mistake,” said Rolf, shaking his head. “Do you think the parish priest would come if I roused him?”
Cordwainer stared at the door, then shrugged. “I doubt it,” he said. “I doubt he counts the maudlyns as parishioners. Go tell the canons at Saint Leonard’s and ask them to send someone for the body. Thomas and I will keep vigil till they come.” He turned to the men in the street, raising his voice to be heard. “The rest of you, go home. You’ll be summoned to the inquest soon enough. Go on now, and may God go with you.”
“What about him?” asked Bartholomew, indicating Warin. “Are you going to take Agnes’s word twas that Hywel fellow? This one should be locked up in jail until we know what’s what.”
Cordwainer appraised the trembling butcher. “He’ll be a juryman just like the rest of you,” he said. “He’ll be summoned to the inquest, and twill all be sorted out there.” He glared at Warin. “You will be there, won’t you?”
Warin nodded. “Ye..yes.”
“So go home to your beds and rest while you may. The sun will be up soon.”
In a few moments, Cordwainer and Thomas stood alone in the dark street with the corpse as light snow began to fall. “Bring the lantern over here, Thomas,” Cordwainer said. “Let’s see if there’s anything they haven’t trampled.” The two men began to walk slowly around the body, the snow glittering in the light from Thomas’s lantern. As they moved farther away in a lengthening oval, Cordwainer pointed. “Tis here she emptied the pisspot,” he said. Thomas lowered the light and they searched closely around the spot. Molly’s footprints were clear, coming and going, and it looked as if someone else had shuffled past next to the house. But all the prints were overlaid by those of the men answering Rolf’s hue and cry. It was impossible to tell which, if any, were the killer’s.
They continued their search, venturing further away from the body with each circuit. Cordwainer poked his stick into a heap of snow-covered garbage and rats leapt away to hide behind a woodpile. Soon they began to make out the individual footprints of men converging onto the spot where Molly lay. Suddenly Thomas spoke up. “Now, that’s odd,” he said.
“What’s odd?”
“Here, look!” Thomas knelt in the snow and held the lantern close to the ground. “Footprints leading into this ginnel. From bare feet. It looks like whoever twas was running.”
“What? Yes, I see them. God’s blood, to be barefoot in this cold! Saints preserve the poor soul. Twas Osbert, most likely.”
“It could have been the killer,” said Thomas, “running away from the body.”
“If twas, and he was barefoot, why didn’t he take her shoes?” asked Cordwainer.
“Frightened away, I’d guess.”
“Nay,” said Cordwainer. “There was too much snow on the girl. He would have had time. Twas Osbert or some other poor vagrant. Is anyone in the ginnel? If we can find Osbert, we should speak to him, mad or no.”
Thomas advanced into the narrow passageway with his lantern. An orange cat, its fur standing on end, burst out into the snow to disappear into the shadow of a shop. Above, the second stories of the buildings on either side extended out to within an inch of each other, covering the pathway. “Nay, there’s no one here,” said Thomas. “Tis all smooth ice with only a bit of snow, so there’s no footprints either.” He looked back at Cordwainer. “This leads towards Colliergate. Should I keep on?”
“Nay, we must stay with the body. We’ll come back when tis light if we can.” He squinted up at the sky. “Most likely twill all be covered by snow.”
They retraced their steps to where the maudlyn lay. By now, Cordwainer was shivering beneath his heavy cloak, and his feet were as cold as the snow beneath them. His bad hip ached miserably as the chill seeped into his bones. The shutters above them were dark again, and the small circle of light from Thomas’s lantern served only to deepen the shadows on the dark street. He could hear cats screeching and hissing somewhere near, fighting over a rat, most likely. Nearer still someone snored. The canons were taking their sweet time, he thought irritably. He began to trace idle patterns in the snow with his stick, trying to work out how long it had been since Matins.
Finally, the rumbling sound of a creaking cart and the slow clop of a horse’s hooves striking the ice came to his ears. His stick bumped against something heavy in the snow, and he looked down to see it glinting golden in the lanternlight. “Hello, what’s this?” he said, just as Thomas called out, “Here they are now!” Thomas walked away to greet Rolf and two lay brothers of Saint Leonard’s, carrying the lantern with him. Cordwainer bent over in the sudden darkness, groping in the snow with numb fingers. His hand closed on metal. It was a cross, he realized. He ran his fingers over the surface. Nay, not a cross, a crucifix. He slipped it into his scrip as the lay brothers arrived, carrying a pallet to bear Molly away.
Sunday, January 8, 1273
1
Owen Hywel and his wife had returned from morning Mass and were sitting down to a hearty breakfast of fish pottage and watered wine when a burly, balding man in a long cloak bearing the badge of the Sheriff’s office burst into the room from the kitchen. Behind him was the cook, wringing her hands and exclaiming, “I’m sorry, Master, but I couldna’ stop him. I told him he couldn’t just come in, but he pushed past me…”
“Enough!” said Hywel. “Go back to your kitchen, Mary. Tis all right.” He glared at the burly man, who was cleaning snow off his boots. God’s blood, Philip knew better than to come to the house. They would all be in danger if he were seen here. He glared at the snow melting into the clean rushes. “Could you not have done that in the kitchen, Philip?”
“My pardon,” Philip replied. “I have news you will be interested in.”
Hywel placed his eating knife on the table, holding his temper with an effort. “And it cannot wait until after the Lord’s day?”
Philip shrugged.
Hywel turned to his wife. “Bronwyn, please see to young Master Owen.”
Hywel’s wife rose silently and crossed to the stairs. She paused at the foot and looked back, her face expressionle
ss. Then she lifted her gown above her shoes and ascended.
Philip seated himself in her place and began examining the fish pottage. Hywel watched, his irritation increasing as he wondered if the man would be so crass as to eat Bronwyn’s food. Finally, he gave an exasperated snort and shouted to the cook, “Mary! Bring our guest something to break his fast.” He stabbed viciously at a piece of fish with his knife and ate.
The men did not speak until a fresh plate of pottage and a clean cup of wine were on the table and they were alone.
“What has happened,” asked Hywel, “that you endanger yourself and me by coming here?”
Philip shrugged again. “There is no danger; I was not followed.” He lifted his wine cup and studied the engraving on its side. “Are you familiar with the Clementhorpe crucifix?” he asked.
“Tis one of the Abbey treasures. I’m told the Prioress of Clementhorpe wore it on her rosary in the procession yesterday.”
“Tis kept in the Abbey treasury, for safety’s sake,” said Philip, “but tis owned by the nuns of Clementhorpe. And aye, their Prioress wore it to the procession, but twas gone by the end of it.”
Hywel took another bite of fish to conceal his excitement. He had not seen the cross himself, but if half the stories were correct, the crucifix was worth a small fortune. He swallowed and said, “When will I have it?”
“When we find out who has it.”
Hywel placed his knife back on the table. “You are telling me that there is a thief in York able to commit such a theft, and he is not ours?”
“Perhaps,” said Philip. He took a sip of his wine. “Tis possible the cross fell from her rosary and was trampled in the mud. If so, I expect that it shall soon be found. But -- and mind I did not hear all the details -- apparently there was some sort of altercation yesterday between a novice from the Abbey and the Clementhorpe Prioress before the procession began. The Prioress was wearing the crucifix, and the novice nearly wrenched it from the rosary in his anger. Given that the novice fled the Abbey last night, twould seem possible that he found a way to relieve her of it during the procession itself.”
Hywel grimaced. “Twas clumsily done, if so,” he said. “He’ll have both the Abbot and the Sheriff on his heels.” He took a sip of wine, held it in his mouth for a moment, and swallowed. “A novice of Saint Mary’s, you say? Then I need you to send Paul Ulfsson to me as soon as you possibly can. Neither the Abbot nor the Sheriff must find the novice before we do; I will leave you to take care of that.”
Philip’s eyebrows arched. “I can take care of the Sheriff, but the Abbot is not in my power. I take it you know something of this novice?”
Hywel’s eyes turned cold. “I know nothing, Philip, about the thieves in York,” he said. “That is what I pay you for. In return for that payment, I expect you to do all that I tell you, not half of it. Do not make me do your job, do not interrupt me at my meals, do not come to do business at my house. Have I made myself clear?”
Philip lowered his eyes to the table. “Aye, you have.”
“Good. Now go out the way you came and take care you are not seen. Find Ulfsson for me – and the novice.”
When Philip was gone, Hywel leaned back against the embroidered cushion and took a long drink of the weak wine. The Clementhorpe crucifix, he mused. He could understand Philip’s excitement, but the man would still need to be taught – again – that Hywel’s house was not to be visited. But a golden crucifix … twas not often something so valuable came into his hands. Twould have to go south, far south if twere not to be recognized for what it was. Italy, perhaps. Aye, he would find a buyer in Italy.
2
He crouched as close to the glowing coals in the brazier as he could without setting his sleeve on fire. For the third time, he groped through his cloak, the sleeves, the hood, the secret pocket he had sewn into the side. As his fingers searched the wet wool, he muttered to himself in a rhythmic half-chant: “Bitch, whore, cunt! Bitch, whore….” Twas not there. God help him, twas not there. He threw the cloak to the ground in disgust.
He should have waited. He should have stowed the cross away safe before venturing near the bawd’s house. How was he to know the blue-eyed whore would walk out onto the street in the night, the demon glinting from her eyes in the rushlight, wanting to humiliate him once again? His mind tried to shy away, but the memory was etched in his soul. She’d offered herself to him on the street once. Called to him, jutting her hips out suggestively. She knew what he was, that he was forbidden to her and she to him. And may God forgive him, he had lusted for her, lusted for her like the common whore she was. Bitch, whore … succubus. He had seen the demon in those flashing blue eyes, waiting to suck out his soul, seen it just like in the eyes the other whore -- but no, he would not think of that. He had succumbed and they had rutted like two dogs… no. No. He covered his eyes, as if that would blot out the image. She had humiliated him, his father, his family name.
He thrust his hands into his dark hair, pulling until he felt it give, releasing the comforting pain. She had deserved to die. Twas her fault the cross was gone. Dear Jesus, what was he to do now?
3
Cordwainer sent Thomas out at first light to trace the barefoot man’s footprints, but the lad had returned shaking his head. If the trail had resumed past the ginnel, the tracks had been snowed over, and Osbert was nowhere to be found. There was nothing else he could do on a snowy Sunday to further his investigation. Wrapped their warmest clothing, they struggled the short way to Saint Martin’s Church to hear Mass, Cordwainer slipping on the ice that underlay the snow every few steps, Thomas working to keep him upright. The cold seeped through the leather of his boots and up into his bad hip as he stood on the hard floor of the church; kneeling was even worse. He struggled through his pain to focus on his prayers for Molly’s soul, his plea that he might be allowed to find her killer. When he got home he would spend the afternoon resting with a hot poultice plastered to his hip.
Back at the house on Saint Martin’s Lane, Cordwainer sat in his chair by the glazed front window as the poultice drew the chill from his hip, amusing himself by keeping Thomas busy running to and fro in response to his shouted commands until he became so exasperated by the young man’s patience that he resigned himself to reading. He would need to return the book to his friend Stefan soon so that Stefan could return it to Saint Mary’s. The monks did not lend books lightly, and he had kept it too long already.
After a dinner of stewed rabbit with cabbage, he sent Thomas out to let the jurors know that the inquest into Molly’s death would be held on Tuesday morning at Prime, then went back to his book. A day’s delay would give him time to have Stefan look at the body and perhaps time also to find Osbert and see if the poor soul could tell them anything of what had happened that night. He would have preferred to search for Osbert today, but knew the icy streets would defeat any effort he could make. As he struggled with the difficult Latin, he cursed the age and infirmity that kept him from being as active as he once was. Thank God for Thomas. Without him, he would have to give up his position as Coroner, for his old body could not do what he needed it to without help, not in winter at any rate. He would never have been able to walk back from the Shambles alone on Saturday night in the snow, not with his hip aching the way it was. He would have been reduced to asking Rolf to accompany him, a humiliation he hoped to avoid as long as possible. He had worried over the years about taking Thomas into the presence of death so often, but the lad had taken no harm that he could see. Now the boy was grown, and he himself had become an old man. He must stop thinking of Thomas as a boy, he reminded himself. Thomas was sixteen, old enough to marry, should he choose. He prayed it would not be soon.
4
By the time Thomas had visited all of the jurors to be summoned to the inquest, the sun had sunk behind the rooftops and the city was in shadow. He was walking down Ousegate towards the bridge on his way home when a voice shouted his name. He turned to see Cordwainer’s son Adam puffing
up behind him, sliding on the ice as he dodged around an elderly woman tottering slowly in front of him.
“Thomas! I thought that was you,” said Adam. “I knew you by your hat.”
Thomas laughed and waited for Adam to catch his breath. Cordwainer’s son had his father’s long nose and grey eyes, but his hair was still dark and his beard cut short. He lived outside the city walls just north of Bootham Bar. Although Cordwainer worried at times that a house where there was neither a wall nor a night watch might be dangerous, Adam had always maintained that it was the perfect place to live, close enough to York for safety, far enough away to provide fresh air and plenty of space for his growing family, which included his wife Mary and their two small children, Simon and Meg. Growing up in the Cordwainer household, Thomas had idolized Adam in the way of younger brothers everywhere; now that he was old enough that the eight-year gap between them no longer mattered as much, he admired Adam and valued his friendship.
“What are you doing in the city so late?” asked Thomas. “I would think you’d want to be home well before dark.” They edged to the side of the street to allow the old woman to pass them.
“Aye,” Adam replied, “but I need to have a quick word with Ralph Pomeroy before I go. We’ve agreed to partner on a shipment of silks, and the details are not yet finalized.”
Thomas gave a low whistle. “Partnering with Master Pomeroy? That’s rather a step up for you, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” said Adam with a laugh. “I suppose it is. Come walk with me, and tell me what you and my father have been doing since I saw you last.”
Thomas nodded his assent and they made their way back through the Shambles to Petergate as he told Adam about Molly’s murder. Adam shook his head. “I worry about Papa, Thomas. He’s an old man to be going out in the cold of night to a death. If I didn’t know you were there to take care of him, I would try to talk him into giving up the position of Coroner, perhaps coming to live with us.” They turned onto Stonegate and down to a pleasant lane lined with large houses built in stone or brick. “Tis just up here,” Adam said.
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 3