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

by Joyce Lionarons

  5

  Cordwainer stopped short and abruptly reversed his direction, colliding with a grocer hurrying to clear his wares from the counter folded down into the street for display. Turnips bounced and scattered, but Cordwainer did not notice the grocer cursing at him. He made his way quickly through the darkening streets to the Shambles and pounded on Agnes’s door with his stick. Laughter rang out behind him. He turned to see Gylfa arm in arm with two middle-aged men. The one on her left, his mouth wide with laughter, was missing most of his teeth. The man on the right was trying to pour the last of a tankard between his thick, fleshy lips. The trio swayed, then caught their collective balance in a second gale of laughter as the tankard poured its contents onto the street. All three reeked of ale and sweat. He turned his back on them and found himself face to face with Tibb, standing in the open door. His tangled hair was greasier than before and the scowl on his thin face gave him a menacing appearance.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Tibb. His eyes moved from Cordwainer to Gylfa, then farther down the street. “If you’ve come for a girl, you’re too late.” He stepped back to allow the drunken trio to pass within. “Gylfa is busy, and Maeve is out finding custom on the streets. You will have to try somewhere else.” He was swinging the door shut when Cordwainer put out his stick to stop it.

  “Nay, Master Tibb,” he said. “Tis you I’ve come to speak with.” Twas a lie, he had wanted Agnes, but Tibb would do. He needed to talk to him about Nelly. “You know, or have seen, the men who come here and those who go to Grope Lane. Your opinion of who the killer might be would be valuable.”

  Tibb’s eyes shifted from Cordwainer down the street and back again. “Aye,” he said. “I know things, I do.”

  “Twould be worth your while to talk to me,” said Cordwainer, wondering how much coin was in his scrip and if he would learn anything by spending it.

  Tibb stood silent for a moment, as if deciding what Cordwainer’s words might mean. His eyes went back to the street, but he nodded. “Not here,” he said. “Go to Godwyn’s tavern, there,” he pointed with his chin, “and I’ll join you.” He kicked Cordwainer’s stick from the door and shut it.

  Cordwainer turned. The tavern was easily recognizable, with its stave jutting over the street and a flag bearing a red cauldron hanging down. A lantern burned on a hook outside the door although the skies were not yet fully dark. He walked the few paces and pulled the door open. The room inside was dim, lit only by a few rushlights and a fire burning low in the hearth. It reeked of burning tallow, unwashed bodies, and bitter ale. Most of the space was occupied by benches set along long, narrow trestle tables with just enough room to set a cup on, but there were a few short tables pushed into shadowy corners. Some of the men drinking on the benches looked up as Cordwainer passed them to claim a table in the back corner, but went back to their ale without a word. He sat and propped his stick in the corner, wedging it with his chair so it could not fall, then placed his scrip on his lap. He had no desire to grope in the filthy rushes on the floor to find either his stick or his scrip when he left. A boy in a stained apron set a cup of ale in front of him unasked, holding out his hand for payment. Cordwainer snorted and dropped a coin into the outstretched hand. When the boy left, he placed a few more coins on the scarred tabletop, more than enough to pay for Tibb’s ale.

  He lifted the cup to his lips and tasted the brew. Twas bitter, as he had expected, but not as bad as he had feared. Tibb appeared in the doorway, his eyes moving across the room searching for Cordwainer. A man sitting at the benches called his name and scooted down to make room, but Tibb ignored him as he shuffled to the corner. He turned his chair so that he was sitting sideways to Cordwainer, his back against the wall. When the boy appeared with a second cup of ale, Cordwainer realized the coins on the table were gone. He snorted and dug in his scrip for more, wondering where to begin. “Tell me about Molly,” he said.

  Tibb’s eyes swiveled to meet his. “She were a whore,” he replied.

  “Aye,” said Cordwainer. “But what else?”

  “She were a whore what thought she were better’n a whore.”

  Cordwainer sipped his ale and waited.

  Tibb scraped his chair through the rushes to face him. “Molly were a whore what thought she could say no to custom.” He shook his head and scowled at Cordwainer’s impassive expression. “Tis the whole point of a whore,” he said, as if explaining his words to a dull pupil. “They can’t say no.”

  “Who did she say no to?”

  “Who don’t matter. Tis the … the principle of the thing.”

  Cordwainer snorted. “Who twas matters if that someone is the one who killed her,” he said.

  Tibb pushed his chair back against the wall. “Twasn’t the one what killed her,” he said.

  Cordwainer sighed. “Who did kill her, then? Do you know?”

  “Nay. But tweren’t the man I spoke of.” Tibbs drained his ale and looked for the boy, lifting his cup and waving it. Cordwainer pulled more coins from his scrip. When the ale had been served, he tried again. “Who is this man? I need to speak with him.”

  Tibb shifted uneasily in his chair. When Cordwainer placed yet more coins on the table, Tibb arched his back as if in agony as he eyed the silver, and Cordwainer thought for a moment he had won. But Tibb collapsed against the wall, shaking his head. “Nay,” he said. “I’ve said what I come to say.”

  Cordwainer sighed. He would get nothing more from Tibb on that subject. Twas time to change tack. “You were in Grope Lane this morning when Nelly was found. Do you live on the Lane?”

  Tibb glanced around the tavern and lowered his voice. “Tis like this,” he said. “A man needs a bed and a woman provides him with one, aye, and warms it, too. But not every night, see, if she’s a woman what works for her coin. So a man needs more than one woman if he’s to sleep warm each night. A night or two on Grope Lane and Maeve wants me back at the Shambles. A night or two there, and tis back to the Lane.” He winked at Cordwainer, then shifted his eyes to the door. “Tis important to keep it quiet from the women, though, if you take my meaning.”

  “Aye,” said Cordwainer. He pushed a coin across the table. “What can you tell me about Nelly?”

  Tibb reached for the silver. “Nelly were an old whore without a bed,” he said. “Edyth let her stay in the kitchen on account of they knew each other – whored together when they were young, them and Agnes. Twas said the coin she carried in that pouch of hers were meant to buy a bawdy house of her own. If you ask me, tis a wonder she weren’t robbed afore this.”

  “Who knew about the pouch?”

  “All on Grope Lane. Twere wagers whether twas gold or silver in it, aye, and how much. Some say twas a fortune, others say twas just coppers.”

  Cordwainer considered this. Twas possible Nelly’s death was but a robbery after all, he thought, and nothing to do with Molly. “Is it the same men who visit the house in the Shambles and the ones on Grope Lane? Would you notice if twere someone new?”

  “Nay,” Tibb replied. “Mistress Agnes’s house is men from the neighborhood mostly, like old Warin. She don’t hire folk to play music, nor provide the ale. Course, she couldn’t or the bailiffs would force her to move to the stews. She runs her house quiet-like. There ain’t been no one new for a while. Grope Lane is men from all over the city and past the walls, come for the drink and the dancing, not just the whores. New’uns all the time.”

  The tavern boy filled their cups and reached for the coins. Cordwainer pushed his hand away, picked up a single coin and gave it to him. His scrip was almost empty and he had learned little, if anything, new. Yet there was still the question he had intended to ask Agnes. Perhaps Tibb would answer that. He leaned forward. “Tibb, the night Molly was killed, someone gave her a gift of mutton chops. I thought twas Warin Butcher, but I was wrong. Did someone else visit Molly that night after Warin had gone?”

  Tibb straightened and his eyes shifted back to the coins. “Aye,” he said, “cour
se he did. But tweren’t her killer and tweren’t custom.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Twas her brother. He come to pay off some of her debt, as he’s used to do, and went up to her room for a bit.”

  “Her brother?” Cordwainer felt his face redden with anger. “Why did you stay silent? You heard us say that Warin was the last to see her, both then and at the inquest.”

  Tibb shrugged. “Twas his place to speak, not mine. I’ll not go telling tales if a man wants to keep mum.”

  Cordwainer took a deep breath to calm himself. He tried to keep his voice level. “Who is her brother?”

  “Bartholomew Weaver,” Tibb said. “Him what was with you that night.”

  Cordwainer sat dumbfounded, remembering the looks and nods that had passed between Tibb and Bartholomew both on the night of the murder and at the inquest. Never assume, he told himself. He had assumed that Warin, being a butcher, had given Molly the mutton chops. He had assumed that Warin was the last to see her alive and that if he were not, someone would tell him so. And more importantly, he had assumed that a young maudlyn would be without respectable family in the city. He remembered his glimpse of the dark figure he had thought to be Bartholomew at the paupers’ cemetery. Why had Bartholomew kept their relationship a secret?

  Twas his place to speak indeed, thought Cordwainer. He’ll speak now, by God’s blood. He stood, putting his scrip on his shoulder and grasping his stick. With a nod to Tibb, he pushed his way past the table and walked to the door. As he stepped into the street, cold pellets stung his face and he realized that it was snowing again, not flakes but tiny bits of ice. He pulled up his hood and wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself. It was full dark, and a cold wind blew from the north. He would have to find Bartholomew in the morning, if only he could manage to get himself home.

  He shuffled slowly out of the light of the tavern lantern and stopped. He could scarce see a hand’s breadth in front of him. Perhaps the night watch would come with a lantern or someone would stop in a cart. He listened but could hear nothing but the wind. The street was empty. There was no help for it, he must go on. Hunching his shoulders against the wind, he continued down the street, praying to every saint he knew that he would neither fall and break a bone nor be set upon by thieves. Ice formed beneath his nose, and his right hand went numb around his stick. His feet ached from the cold.

  After a while he felt rather than saw the street widen around him and he knew he had reached the Pavement where the Thursday Market was held. Holding one hand in front of him, he stumbled forward on numb feet and slid. With a gasp he fell to his side onto his bad hip, his hands sliding on the icy cobbles. He dropped his head and lay panting, then pushed himself to his knees. His stick lay several feet away, just visible against the white of the snow, and he crawled painfully until his stiff fingers could grasp it. Wedging the stick firmly between two cobblestones, he pulled himself upright and tried his weight, first on one foot, then the other. Nothing broken, though his back ached where it hadn’t before, and his hip felt as if knives were stuck deep in the bone. He took a deep breath of the frigid air and shuffled slowly forward. After what seemed an hour or more, he saw a light glimmering ahead. Tis the guardhouse at Ouse Bridge, he thought. He stopped to rub his hip and sighed. He would warm himself by the bridge guard’s brazier before going over the bridge and home.

  A second light moved toward him, a dark figure with a lantern. He took a few hobbling steps, grateful to see another soul in the sleeping city. Twas the night watch, no one else would be out in this storm. He moved a pace or two farther, and a voice called out to him. “Master Cordwainer, is that you?”

  “Thomas!” he shouted. “What are you doing out in this weather?”

  “Looking for you,” Thomas replied, bringing the light up to look at him. “You are half-frozen and your beard is full of ice. Where have you been? Supper was hours ago.”

  “Working on my investigation. I was just going home.” He hoped Thomas did not hear the trembling in his voice. “Walk with me, and I’ll tell you what I learned.” He reached out to take Thomas’s arm, saying a prayer of thanks under his breath. They walked slowly toward Ouse Bridge. “Tomorrow morning, we must find Bartholomew Weaver.”

  “Aye, Master,” said Thomas.

  Friday, January 12, 1273

  1

  By morning, however, a thick coating of ice lay on the streets, making them nearly impassable for the able-bodied. For a sixty-two year old man who walked with a stick, they were impossible. Even Agytha had not arrived bringing fresh bread from the baker, as was her custom. Cordwainer fretted and fumed, his mood made worse by the pains in his back and hip and his exhaustion from the night before. When Thomas toasted day-old bread and set it out on the table with a slab of cheese and a smaller square of butter, he stabbed at the cheese as if it were a monster to be slain. The young man paid no attention and went calmly about his tasks. Having broken his fast, Cordwainer stumped restlessly from room to room, grunting with every step and muttering as he poked at the fire, picked up his book and set it down again, and threw the front door open every few minutes to look at the ice.

  “Master,” Thomas said finally, “where does Bartholomew Weaver live?”

  “I don’t know,” Cordwainer grumbled. “Near Fossgate, I suppose. Tis the clothmakers’ district. I should have known he’d no business near the Shambles that night.”

  “Why don’t I go to inquire? Twill save time and steps for you later.”

  Cordwainer glared at him. “You’ll fall and break your neck on the ice.”

  “Nay, I’ll be careful. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “What are you standing here for, then?” Cordwainer bellowed. “Go now, or twill be judgment day before you get back!”

  Thomas did not return until the sun had passed its zenith behind a thick layer of clouds. Cordwainer had settled himself by the glazed window at the front of the house with a goblet of wine and, wrapped heavily in his cloak despite the fire, was attempting to read his book. His mind kept returning to his conversation with Tibb and the question of who Molly had refused to bed. But was it a question he truly needed to answer? A thief had killed Nelly, most likely fully aware of the rumors that she carried a fortune in her pouch. Why could not the same thief have killed Molly, perhaps after seeing her take the crucifix at the procession? Why could not that thief be Tibb himself? Perhaps Molly had carried the cross down the ladder and out of the house because she was afraid to leave it unwatched in her room. But nay, if she’d dropped it when she was killed, surely the killer would have taken it. There had been time.

  At last he heard footsteps by the door and fumbled for his stick, letting the book slide to the floor. The door opened and to Cordwainer’s astonishment, Bartholomew Weaver stepped into the room wearing a thick cloak of russet wool, followed closely by Thomas. The weaver’s eyes were downcast and there was no sneer on his face. He seemed younger and much more vulnerable than he had at the inquest.

  “God give you good day, Master Weaver,” Cordwainer said, with a sharp glance at Thomas. “Has my man told you why I wanted to see you?”

  Bartholomew swallowed. “Aye, Master Coroner, he has.”

  “Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it?” Cordwainer said, settling back into his chair. He motioned to Thomas to bring Bartholomew some wine. Thomas pulled a chair from the table and set it to face Cordwainer’s, then took Bartholomew’s cloak, hung it on a peg, and disappeared into the kitchen.

  The weak light from the windows illuminated Bartholomew’s face. His eyes were puffy and rimmed with red, and his chin showed dark stubble. He accepted a goblet from Thomas, but did not drink. His eyes remained on the floor.

  Cordwainer sipped his wine and waited, studying the young man. It was the dark hair, he decided, and those heavy eyebrows that give him his sinister look. If his eyes weren’t so red, he could almost be handsome. After a while he said gently, “Molly was your sister.”

  “Aye,
that she were,” Bartholomew said glumly. “She were the oldest of us, out Layerthorpe way, and mothered us all after our ma’ died. My da’ had it fixed with Master Aelfric, he that owns the biggest farm by Layerthorpe, that she would wed with him. But Molly said no. She didn’t want to be shackled to an old man, she said, no matter how much land or money he had.”

  He stared down into his wine. Then he took a large gulp and spoke again. “Our da’ beat her with a strap, though he’d never so much as given her the back of his hand afore that. The next day she were gone. That were more’n two years ago. We all thought she’d come home. Where was a young girl to go, all alone? But time passed and she stayed away.

  “I come to York to look for her, got taken on as journeyman to a weaver, seeing as how I’d apprenticed back in the village. I asked folk about her, but none would say they knew her, and some gave me odd looks with the denial. Master Ludgate -- he’s the Master Weaver who took me on -- told me to stop asking, that I should let it be and get on with my work. I knew summat was wrong – I feared she were dead and no one wanted to tell me. Then one day I saw her out on the street offering herself to the men that passed by. She -- ” He stopped and shook his head sharply, as if to clear his thoughts. “I understood then that they all knew, but none wanted to be the one that told me. I felt like they were all laughing behind my back. I went back to Master Ludgate and tried to do as he said, to let Molly go. She were nowt but shame to me now.

  “But I just couldn’t let it be, so I went back. At first, she wouldna’ speak to me, but finally she told me what had happened. Seems that bawd Agnes took her in, fed her and bought her a fine dress and shoes and all, and Molly too simple to realize what were happening. Agnes said now Molly owed her for the clothes and the room and food and such, and would have to work off the debt – and you know how Molly were to do it. But the debt gets bigger, not smaller, though I pay what I can out of my wage and Molly has – had – far worse than Master Aelfric to contend with.”