The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1)

by Joyce Lionarons

  “By that, do you mean you have never availed yourself of her services?” asked Cordwainer.

  “Nay, I have not. Nor had I aught to do with her death, whatever the bawd may have told you.”

  “I have no more questions,” Cordwainer said. He nodded to the Sheriff, then turned to the jurors and called for a verdict.

  A contentious discussion ensued. Two of the jurors wanted Hywel arrested for the murder; both were butchers unhappy that no one looked likely to pay for the crime. This spurred Mistress Agnes to repeat her accusations against Hywel loudly, saying that if Hywel walked free now, the authorities would do nothing further to find Molly’s murderer. When Cordwainer told her that she must remain silent as she was not a juror, she stalked from the chamber with a curse. Bartholomew pointed out that, as the last person known to have seen Molly alive, Warin was the one most likely to have killed her. His argument did not find favor among the others on the jury, most of whom knew Warin and were certain of his innocence. When the vote was taken at last, a majority of the jurors were unconvinced that either Hywel or Warin was the culprit. Thus the verdict went as Cordwainer had expected from the start: murder by strangulation, committed by an unknown person. The spectators from the Shambles grumbled loudly that the streets were unsafe, making it clear they felt that neither Cordwainer nor the Sheriff was doing his job properly. When it became obvious that despite the general dissatisfaction, the proceedings had finished, jurors and spectators alike crowded toward the door.

  Cordwainer settled back in his chair to watch. Mistress Agnes returned to take Gylfa by the arm, ushering her out of the room. Tibb hurried forward to take Maeve’s arm, nodding to Bartholomew with a smirk as he passed. The butchers trailed behind them with Warin, jostling against the lay brothers from Saint Leonard’s, who, having remained outside the chamber during the proceedings, were attempting to enter. The remaining spectators followed, and Cordwainer looked to find that Hywel had somehow slipped out unnoticed. As the last of jurors left the chamber, the lay brothers lifted Molly’s body onto the woven pallet and covered it with a plain linen cloth. With a nod to Cordwainer, Stefan departed with them. In the corridor through the open doorway, he saw Bartholomew cross himself as Molly’s body was carried past.

  Thomas was helping Cordwainer with his heavy cloak when the Sheriff stepped down from the dais. De Bury stood two fingers shorter than Cordwainer, but with his broad shoulders and muscular arms, he seemed much the larger man. He had a wide brow with deep-set brown eyes, a large nose, and a neatly-trimmed short beard. His face would have been handsome, save for a puckered scar that ran from beneath his left eyebrow to the corner of his mouth. “Tis a vexation,” he said, “when you know a crime was committed but have no way to find the criminal.”

  “It is indeed, my lord,” Cordwainer replied.

  “I wonder, Matthew, if you have a moment to spare. I’ve a vexation of my own that perhaps you can help me with. Perhaps we can help each other.”

  Cordwainer squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He had been hoping that fresh air and quiet would relieve his headache, but he would have to suffer it a while longer. De Bury could not be refused. “Certainly, my lord,” he said, following the Sheriff from the chamber. They walked a short way down a stone-paved passage and into de Bury’s offices, leaving Thomas to wait on a bench outside. The pounding of the hammers diminished, and Cordwainer breathed a prayer of thanksgiving. De Bury motioned to one of his clerks, and the man jumped to his feet and hurried out as the two men proceeded into the Sheriff’s private chamber.

  “God’s bones, tis cold,” de Bury said, rubbing his hands together. He drew a knife from his belt and poked at the coals of the brazier standing by his writing table. A cloud of smoke rose to the ceiling. “I’ve heard that parts of the Ouse are frozen over, and that hasn’t happened in my lifetime.”

  Cordwainer blinked and nodded as the clerk came in, carrying a tray on which sat a small flagon and two steaming cups. The rich aroma of mulled wine filled the air. The clerk placed the tray on the table, handed one cup to the Sheriff and the other to Cordwainer, and hurried out, closing the door behind him.

  “This should take the chill off,” de Bury said, taking a deep draught.

  Cordwainer sipped his wine, wondering why de Bury had summoned him. The wine, he noted with approval, was better than was generally used for mulling and rich with spices. He drank deeper.

  “You are lucky,” de Bury remarked, “that your vexation, troubling though it may be, is unlikely to bring consequences upon your head, being but the death of a whore. Mine is quite another matter.”

  Cordwainer bristled at the words. Death, even the death of a maudlyn, was a serious affair to him, not to be brushed off lightly. “Murder,” he said, holding his temper, “is a grievous and consequential crime, the most grievous there is.”

  “I speak not of the crime itself, Matthew,” said de Bury, “but of the consequences should it remain unpunished. Indeed, if I am unable to find what I am seeking, the Abbot of Saint Mary’s has sworn I will lose my position!”

  What a shame that would be, Cordwainer thought. De Bury had been Sheriff off and on for almost as long as Cordwainer had been Coroner. The position of Sheriff tended to alternate between de Bury and Geoffrey Thorpe, a local spice merchant. Of the two, Cordwainer preferred the latter. But he said merely, “Who is it that you seek?”

  “Tis what rather than who,” de Bury answered. “The Clementhorpe crucifix. Are you familiar with it?”

  Cordwainer shook his head, keeping his face expressionless.

  “Tis a crucifix of the purest gold and exquisite workmanship. It is adorned with four precious jewels. It was a gift to the nuns of Clementhorpe from the Holy Father at the founding of the house. Years ago, the Clementhorpe Prioress and the Abbot of Saint Mary’s decided in their wisdom that it should be kept at the Abbey, where it could be locked up with Saint Mary’s treasures. The nunnery walls are neither as tall nor as strong as the Abbey’s, and it was deemed dangerous to tempt a thief to a house of women.”

  “I have heard nothing of a theft,” said Cordwainer, shifting uneasily on the cushioned chair.

  “Nay, I suppose not,” de Bury replied. “The Abbot wishes, if possible, for the crucifix to be regained quietly. Tis not known even if twas a theft or mere carelessness on the part of the Prioress. Abbot Simeon fears a scandal if it should become known the Prioress has lost the crucifix, and even more should it transpire that someone within the Abbey or the Priory is a thief. And if twas taken by someone outside the houses, he does not want it noised abroad that the Abbey’s treasures are so easily stolen.”

  “When was it seen last?” asked Cordwainer.

  “On the Feast of the Epiphany, the night of your murder. It seems the Prioress of Clementhorpe foolishly wore the cross on her rosary for the Twelfth Night procession. When all was over, the crucifix was gone.”

  “Twould seem most likely it simply slipped from the rosary during the walk,” said Cordwainer. “Twill be found when the snow melts.” He knew he should tell de Bury the truth, but was stopped by the realization that since the procession had not passed through the Shambles, the likelihood that either Molly or Molly’s killer had dropped the crucifix was high. If de Bury sought the thief while he sought the killer, the chances of finding him doubled.

  “Aye,” said de Bury, “so you might think. But I’ve had bailiffs go over every inch of the route twice. Tis not there.” He took a long swallow of wine and banged the cup to the table. “If the Prioress had left the cross in the Abbey treasury where it belonged, twould never have been lost or stolen. She was told so, in fact, though not by one who should have. Apparently, when the procession was forming, one of the Abbey brothers – a novice, mind you – remonstrated with Prioress Alyse for wearing the crucifix at all and tried to take it from her, saying it was womanly vanity rather than the love of God that prompted her to do so. God knows he was probably correct.”

  Cordwa
iner raised both eyebrows in surprise. “I did not realize the monks spoke so freely to one of her rank.”

  “Oh, he will be disciplined harshly for it, you may be sure. Our lady Prioress was livid, and the Abbot no less so.”

  “His chamber, I suppose, has been searched?”

  “The novice dormitory? Aye, both by the Abbot himself and, with Simeon’s permission, by me. The crucifix is not there either. I have had my assistant Colter inquire at the goldsmiths and jewelry makers, but no one has attempted to sell them either a crucifix or its equivalent in gold. Nor, Colter tells me, have my intelligencers in the city heard anything of the matter. Tis here that my vexation and yours come together.”

  “I don’t understand,” Cordwainer said.

  “What do you know of Owen Hywel?”

  “Only that he mistreated one of Mistress Agnes’s maudlyns and that she believes him to be Molly’s killer. I can’t remember seeing him before today. Isn’t he a merchant of some kind?”

  “Aye, Owen Hywel is a merchant and ship owner; in fact, he owns three small ships able to navigate the river and short distances at sea, and one larger sea-going vessel. We have suspected for some time that his cargo is not always what he says it is, but the customs men have been unable to find anything illegitimate as yet. We believe Hywel finds buyers abroad for items stolen in the city and surrounding areas, items like this crucifix that could be easily identified here in York, and then smuggles those items to the south where they are unknown, no doubt taking a large commission for his role in the transaction.” De Bury took a long drink of his wine. “Today, when I heard the bawd’s accusation, I hoped he would be charged with the whore’s murder, so we could confiscate his ships and his house for the Crown and put an end to his business once and for all. If as I suspect the nuns’ crucifix was indeed stolen, there is no doubt in my mind that we would find it in his belongings. In this weather, no ships are leaving York, and he will not have had time to dispose of it. Did you believe his testimony?”

  “I did for the most part, my lord. He seemed shocked at the sight of the body. I believe that all along he thought we were talking about a different maudlyn, Gylfa, whom he has badly abused.”

  “I see,” said de Bury, frowning. He raised his hand and rubbed the puckered scar. “Nevertheless, Matthew, you must help me in this.”

  I will help you, Cordwainer thought, but not before my poor maudlyn’s inconsequential death has had a chance of justice being done. De Bury’s words still rankled. We are all sinners, nobles and maudlyns alike, he reflected, but surely the poorest prostitute on earth is worth more in the sight of God than a lump of gold, however exquisite its workmanship or holy its subject. Perhaps he was wrong and Hywel was Molly’s killer, but perhaps he was not. In any case, de Bury would find no golden crucifix among Hywel’s belongings.

  Aloud, he said, “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to search Hywel’s house for the leather strap,” replied de Bury. “Tis a logical step, seeing as the bawd Agnes accused him of the murder. My bailiffs will accompany you. Perhaps they will also find the crucifix. And there are a few other items my men will be looking for.”

  Cordwainer’s heart sank. He did not want his search for Molly’s murderer to be coupled with the Sheriff’s prosecution of Hywel; he did not believe Hywel was the killer and, de Bury’s logic notwithstanding, searching the man’s house was not a step he would have taken. He had no obligation to waste his time doing the Sheriff’s work for him while a killer ran free. At the same time, he was painfully conscious of his status as a commoner in the face of de Bury’s noble family. Although in theory Coroner and Sheriff held equal power, in this, as in all things, class prevailed. He could not refuse, but neither would he change the course of his investigation to do the Sheriff’s bidding.

  “Today I will see the maudlyn buried, my lord,” he said. “We will visit Master Hywel in the morning.”

  A flash of irritation showed on de Bury’s face. “Might I remind you that we need to conclude this matter quickly?”

  “As quick as may be, my lord,” replied Cordwainer. “Murder is a serious offense.”

  De Bury frowned again, and for a moment Cordwainer feared he had gone too far. But the Sheriff turned his attention to a sheet of vellum lying on his table. “Thank you, Master Coroner,” he said, picking up a quill and dipping it in a silver inkwell. Cordwainer realized that he had been dismissed. “God give you good day, my lord,” he said. He finished his wine and left.

  Cordwainer followed Thomas across the Castle keep and over the north bridge back into the city, angry at de Bury’s demand and at himself for submitting to it. He barely noticed as Thomas guided him into the Old Boar Tavern just down from Foss Bridge and ordered hot wine. They sat on a bench near the wall and drank in silence. Cordwainer ignored the inquiring look on Thomas’s face. Finally, glancing around to be certain they would not be overheard, in a low voice he told Thomas of the possible theft and the Sheriff’s plan. He waited while Thomas considered the matter.

  “Tis only a morning’s distraction,” the young man said, “and twill put the Sheriff in your debt.” Cordwainer snorted. “If it is the Welshman,” Thomas continued, “they will find the strap and we shall know. But if tis not, I am certain we will find the true killer, aye, and prove it too.”

  Cordwainer snorted again. The lad was right, as usual. When de Bury failed to find the crucifix in his search, he would have no choice but to continue looking for the thief. Until then, he would be fixated on Hywel. Twas best to get it over with.

  “But first, Master, you must eat,” said Thomas. “You’ve had naught but bread and a bit of cheese since morning.”

  “We shall be late for the burial,” Cordwainer objected.

  “Nay, Master, we have time to eat. We shall be late only if your legs cannot carry you for hunger.”

  Cordwainer looked around him, taking real notice of his surroundings for the first time. He knew the lad was right, but his encounter with de Bury had tied his stomach into a knot. He must learn not to let the Sheriff irritate him, he reflected, watching as a serving boy rushed past them carrying tankards of ale. A fire roared and smoked in a brick fireplace. The benches and trestle tables were crowded with people eating and drinking, each table bearing a thick rush dipped in tallow and set alight, even though the waxed-parchment windows let diffuse sunlight into the room. The tavern lived up to its name, for the air was redolent of roast pig over the stench of the burning rushlights. Cordwainer didn’t think he could face a large meal and asked for a small bowl of soup. By the time the tavern boy came with their food – leek and onion soup for Cordwainer and pork with roast turnips for Thomas – his stomach had relaxed enough from the wine that he could eat.

  3

  When they reached Saint Leonard’s, Molly had already been sewn into her shroud and the two lay brothers were carrying her out of the chapel on the woven pallet, followed by one of the spital canons bearing a cross and breviary. Stefan, Warin Butcher, and Mistress Agnes walked slowly behind them, Gylfa and Maeve trailing behind. The gaudy clothing of the two maudlyns contrasted sharply with the monastic setting, and Cordwainer wondered if they owned nothing more somber to wear. He noticed that Agnes was carrying a small bundle, no doubt containing Molly’s clothes, and suppressed a snort. He and Thomas silently joined the end of the small procession. Bypassing the chapel cemetery – reserved for members of the spital’s religious houses and those patients who could afford the burial fees -- the group walked solemnly past the two dormitory buildings and proceeded down a path swept clear of snow between what in spring would be the spital’s herb garden on their left and its vegetable garden on their right. The wind had not abated, and small whirlwinds of snow formed and vanished in the fields. Cordwainer held his hood tightly around his face to protect his ears. Ahead was a small orchard consisting primarily of apple trees, their waving and bowing branches blown bare of snow. The path wound between the trees until the land opened out again
to reveal a second cemetery at the very back of the spital’s holdings. Here the canons buried those who died in the infirmary indigent and without family, and it was here that Molly would lie.

  Two laborers stood sweating despite the cold next to an open grave. At their feet lay iron shovels and the heavy axes they had used to break up the frozen ground. The group took their places around the grave and bowed their heads as the canon muttered his way quickly through the Latin of the service. The lay brothers tipped Molly’s shrouded body into the grave. Gylfa crossed herself as Agnes hurried her and Maeve away, followed more slowly by the canon and lay brothers. Stefan gave a small smile to Cordwainer and walked after them as the laborers began their work of filling the grave, the frozen clods thudding dully upon the shrouded figure.

  So quickly we become dust again, thought Cordwainer, watching the earth as it rose, spadeful by spadeful, up the sides of the pit. As Coroner, he was not legally bound to attend the funerals of those whose deaths he investigated, but he felt it was a moral duty, especially for those who died without family to remember them. Then again, he thought, in time we will all be abandoned and forgotten by the living. Certainly no one remembered those in the oldest graves here. He crossed himself and sighed.

  “She were good to me,” said Warin Butcher softly, “after my wife died of the fever. I know the jurors laughed at me for going to a maudlyn, paying a woman. But time passes, and your friends go back to their own lives. Molly were always there.”

  Cordwainer placed his hand briefly on the butcher’s shoulder. Warin’s eyes were brimming with unshed tears. He turned awkwardly away and fumbled with his stick to give the man time to compose himself. A sudden thought made him turn back.

  “Warin,” Cordwainer asked. “When you visited Molly that night, did you bring her a gift of mutton?”

  “Me? Nay. I gave her only the coppers for her fee.” Warin continued staring mournfully at Molly’s grave.

  Now that’s odd, thought Cordwainer. Someone else must have visited Molly that night, but who? He was turning to leave when a movement by the wall caught his eye. A small postern gate had been opened and a man, his back to Cordwainer, was exiting the cemetery. It was only a glimpse, but by his height and dark hair Cordwainer thought the man was Bartholomew. Or was it Tibb? He was gone too quickly to tell.