The bundle twitched, and a new wave of unwashed body odor wafted into Cordwainer’s nose. “Osbert sleeps. Go away.”
Cordwainer sighed and dug into his scrip. “Osbert, I have a coin for you to buy food, if you will speak to me.”
The bundle twitched again, then twisted as Osbert sat up. His grimy, moon-shaped face was too large for his emaciated body, his bones too large for his skin. He yawned, revealing two black stumps of teeth, then blew out a long breath. Cordwainer flinched from the rotten odor, but did not back away. “Coin!” Osbert said, staring fixedly at Cordwainer’s hands.
“We need to talk first,” said Cordwainer, “about Molly.”
Osbert cringed and shrank away, closing his eyes. “Nay!” He turned and began to burrow into his rags.
Cordwainer held up a small silver coin. “Tell me about Molly, Osbert, and I will give you this.”
Twisting back, Osbert’s dark eyes opened, and his long fingers reached for the coin.
Cordwainer raised it out of his reach. “Tell me about Molly.”
Osbert hugged himself and began to rock back and forth, moaning.
“Tell me about Molly, Osbert,” repeated Cordwainer. “Please.”
“Molly died,” he whispered. “The Devil killed her.” He stopped rocking and reached again for the coin.
“Nay,” said Cordwainer. “You must tell the whole story of that night.”
“Don’t remember.”
“I think you do. Tell me, Osbert, or you will have no coin and no food.”
Osbert closed his eyes and rocked, trembling. “Stinky filthy Molly,” he whined. “Stinky splash in the street. Go down the street, sleep somewhere else. Stinky filthy.” Osbert rocked harder. A high, keening sound came from his cracked lips. “Devil, devil, devil!” he shrieked. “Devil with a whip! Hide, hide, be small, be still. Hide!”
“What did the devil look like?” asked Cordwainer.
“Black, all black. White face, white hands. Black eyes shining red! Black whip around her neck! Kick, kick! Hide, be small, be still, hide.” He began to sob.
Cordwainer let him cry for a few minutes, then reached out and laid his hand on Osbert’s shoulder. After a while the sobs subsided. Osbert looked up and sniffled, wiped his nose on his rags. “Never go back,” he said. “Never.”
Cordwainer held out the coin. Osbert snatched it and rose, pushing past Cordwainer and shuffling slowly off towards the market. Rags were tied tightly around his feet.
“Help me up, Thomas,” said Cordwainer. “We’ll get no more from him.”
Thomas pulled him to his feet. “A copper would have been enough, Master,” he said.
“Nay,” said Cordwainer. “It wouldn’t.”
They walked in silence to the river. The damp air smelled fresh to Cordwainer although he knew it wasn’t. He rubbed his hands together and puffed warm air into them. Crouching in the street with Osbert had chilled him, the wind off the river was frigid, and he was shivering under his cloak. He stamped his feet, trying to feel his toes, and clamped his teeth together to keep them from chattering. When they ventured out onto the first of the slippery quays, they quickly learned that the Sheriff’s men had been there before them. “No need to do what’s already been done,” declared Cordwainer, stumbling over the words. “If he’s gone this way, de Bury’s men will know soon enough.” He was exhausted; each step sent pain knifing up his bad leg and into his hip. Once he could have tramped through the city all day and into the night, and the cold had not bothered him. How long, he thought, before the Crown wants a younger man as Coroner? His age hung like a millstone around his neck. He would never find Molly’s killer if he could not walk the cold city streets and quays. He had not told Thomas, but his fall in the snow after talking to Tibb had frightened him badly. If he had injured himself when he fell, he might have ended like Nelly, his hair frozen to the mud. Perhaps he should resign his post, spend his days drinking in the taverns like the old man he was. He looked at Thomas. “Take me home,” he said.
3
“Thomas!” Cordwainer shouted, “It’s gone cold again!”
“Coming,” said Thomas, striding into the kitchen and over to the bucket hanging by the fire. He wrapped his hands in cloth and lifted the bucket from its hook. “Now pull your feet back or this will boil them.” He slowly poured the steaming water into the wooden tub. Cordwainer gingerly extended his feet into their former position. “That’s better,” he said.
“That’s also the last of it,” said Thomas. “I need you to get out of that tub so Agytha can cook your supper.”
“All right,” sighed Cordwainer. “Fetch me some clean clothes and help me up.”
Thomas disappeared. Cordwainer could hear him bounding up the steep stairs, then back again. He sat in the cooling water watching as Thomas took a towel from the bench and lay a shirt, a gown, and hose in its place. Holding the towel in one hand, Thomas hauled Cordwainer out of the bath with the other. “Dry yourself off and get dressed before you’re cold again,” he said. “There’s hot wine waiting for you by the fire in the front room.”
Cordwainer sighed again as he pulled his shirt over his head. The black mood that had descended on him out on the quay had dissipated, leaving him ashamed of his moment of weakness. The Lord gives, he thought, and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord. God had taken his youth, as happened to all men. But He had left Cordwainer his wits and his sharp senses, as did not always happen. He must make use of his mind to find Molly’s killer, not his failing body.
He ate in silence, barely tasting the food Thomas put in front of him. Was Brother Ambrose Osbert’s devil with white face and hands? Was Bartholomew? Tibb? He needed to find Ambrose, take the measure of the man. But where to look? If Brother Ambrose were a common criminal, Cordwainer knew where he would search for him, but he could not imagine the young novice among the thieves and cutpurses who lived in the squalid, stinking hovels along the riverbanks. To enter the novitiate at Saint Mary’s, Ambrose would have come from a good family, else he would have been admitted only as a lay brother. The monks vowed to live a life of poverty, but not in the sort of destitution that prevailed at the riverside. They did not starve. Where would a young man suffering from an excess of piety and pride go to hide? Twas winter; he would need to find shelter somewhere, and food.
Speculation and guesswork. He was stumbling in the dark. If he were to have any hope of finding the young novice, he needed to know more about him. Tomorrow was Sunday. He would attend Mass at the Abbey and speak to Abbot Simeon.
4
Sheriff Rupert de Bury paused at the trap door leading down to the dungeon cell. This was not a part of his job that he enjoyed, and he had been sickened to discover that Wulf had tortured Hywel for no reason. His assistant Colter had urged charging Wulf with assault or at the least dismissing him and banishing him from the Castle, arguing that Wulf’s soul, already in mortal danger from carrying out legal torments, could be saved only if he were removed from such temptation. He prayed he had made the right decision in refusing. God’s blood, he worried about his own soul. It was he who gave the order; Wulf did only what he was told, and he would ensure in future that Wulf did not exceed his orders. Surely, what they did was God’s work and necessary work at that. He sought only God’s truth; there was no sin in it. If Wulf took an unholy satisfaction in what he did, that was between himself and his eternal Judge.
Footsteps sounded on the stone behind him. Finally, thought de Bury. Twas not like Colter to be late. Nor, he reflected, was it like Colter to concern himself with the soul of another. He nodded a greeting as his assistant hurried to stand next to him. Colter was a large man whose balding head, long nose, and brown cloak gave him the look of an exceptionally muscular monk. Taking a torch from a sconce in the wall, Colter stepped forward and tossed the chains of the ladder down into the cell, then stopped and looked at Hywel under hooded eyes.
“Is this truly necessary, my lord?” he asked. “If I read th
e man rightly, Hywel confessed all he knew yesterday. We will find out no more today, no matter what torments we subject him to.”
God’s blood, what had gotten into the man? thought de Bury. First Wulf, now this. Aloud, he said, “Nay, you are wrong. He said nothing about the crucifix. Twas not found on the street along the procession route, so it must have been stolen. We must find out who stole it and where it is. I believe Hywel knows.”
He gestured to Colter to continue. Colter looked as though he might argue further, but desisted. Raising the torch to illuminate the rungs of the ladder, he descended into the dark, followed by de Bury. Both men stood hunched over under the low arch of the ceiling. The room stank of sweat, smoke, urine, and feces. A thin coating of ice glistened above them, although lower down the brazier had melted the ice to dripping damp. The sound of heavy breath whooshing in and out of a too-often broken nose came from the shadows. Wulf.
Owen Hywel lay under a blanket on a thin pile of straw. The remains of a half loaf of bread were scattered on the dirty stones next to him along with an empty cup. As the torch lit the room, a rat scurried from the crumbs into the shadows and Hywel groaned. He raised his left arm to shield his eyes, palm up, the fingers scabbed over. Open blisters gleamed red in the torchlight. De Bury could see that the hand had begun to fester. Hywel’s bandaged right arm lay stretched in the dirt.
Wulf’s high-pitched giggle broke the rhythm of his breathing. “Wulf,” said de Bury, not bothering to look back, “have you touched our prisoner since yesterday?”
“Nay, my lord, I have done as you commanded. He has rested well.” A heavy breath in and another giggle. “He is ready for you to question him again.”
De Bury stood over Hywel, waiting. Hywel did not move. De Bury nudged him with his foot, nudged harder, and Hywel coughed and sat up as far as the chain would allow. “Water,” he rasped.
“You will have water soon enough,” said de Bury. “When you have told me what I need to know.”
Hywel shook his head as if to clear it. “I’ve told you everything, you and your half-wit torturer over there.”
“Nay,” said de Bury. “You have not. Where is the Clementhorpe crucifix?”
“I say again, I do not know.”
“You are lying.”
“I am not.”
De Bury turned and gave a curt nod. Wulf emerged from the shadows. He was a hulking, ape-like man with long greasy hair and a nose that lay almost flat against his face. His receding chin made his mouth too small for his teeth so that his thin lips did not cover them. His pale eyes shone in the torchlight. He wrapped his hands twice over with a thick woolen cloth and lifted the small brazier from the dirt. His habitual giggle rang out again as he shuffled across the floor to Hywel.
De Bury looked at Hywel. “You will hang,” he said, “with that lie black on your soul. Now, the crucifix?”
Hywel’s voice rose to a whine despite his rasp. “I know nothing of it!”
Colter cleared his throat. “My lord,” he said tentatively, “perhaps he tells the truth.”
“He does not!” snapped the Sheriff. Damn him! What was the man thinking, to question him now? He had never shown himself squeamish before. “Proceed.”
Colter nodded and held his torch to the brazier until the coals flared. Leaving the torch in the flaming brazier, he stepped behind Hywel and twisted the man’s injured arm behind his back. Hywel grunted in pain. Colter wrapped his other arm around Hywel’s neck. “Please,” Hywel whispered.
Wulf grasped Hywel’s left hand by the wrist and smiled grotesquely. He pushed the hand relentlessly towards the flame. “Where is the crucifix?” asked de Bury.
Hywel began to scream.
Sunday, January 14, 1273
The walls of Saint Mary’s Abbey had been designed to protect the cloistered monks from the sinful world and thus had no gate opening into the city, requiring those who wished to enter the monastery grounds to do so outside the city walls. Dark clouds were gathering once again to the north on Sunday morning as Cordwainer and Thomas walked to Bootham Bar, north of the Abbey, to join a small queue waiting to pass through the city gate out of York. Cordwainer stood and caught his breath, looking at the sky. There would be snow before the day was out, or worse, it could be sleet. As it was, walking was still treacherous; ice lingered between the cobblestones of the paved streets and in the muddy ruts of unpaved lanes. He grumbled in a low voice to Thomas about having to go such a long way around on his aching hip.
“Hush, Master,” said Thomas. “Tis not good to talk so before Mass. We should think on our sins and pray for forgiveness before entering God’s house.”
Cordwainer rubbed his hip and sighed.
His mood began to lift as they passed out of the city, continuing north and west. The snow on the hillsides was as white as the day it had fallen, and the smells of the city receded behind them. He took a deep breath of the cold, fresh air. They turned to the left at Marygate and followed the path back south along the high wall to the Abbey gate, which stood open in welcome on Sunday morning although it would be closed and guarded after the public Mass and throughout the week.
Standing in the great stone church for Mass, Cordwainer’s spirits lifted further, rising with the soaring voices of the monks and the high voices of the youngest novices. The sweet perfume of incense and candlewax permeated the air. He prayed that God might forgive him his sins and give him the patience to bear his pain without complaint. He asked God to show mercy to Molly and to Nelly and to guide him to their killers. When the Mass ended, he felt his spirit refreshed, and he set out towards the Abbot’s chambers with new resolve.
Abbot Simeon’s secretary, an elderly monk with eyes crabbed into a permanent squint, frowned when Cordwainer requested permission to speak with the Abbot, but reluctantly agreed to announce their presence. Thomas and Cordwainer waited in the cramped anteroom for what seemed an inordinate amount of time before the secretary returned to announce that the Abbot would see them, and Cordwainer felt his newly-resolved patience dissolving. Perhaps I should attend Mass every day, he thought ruefully, if I expect my resolutions to endure. He followed the old monk into Simeon’s reception chamber.
Abbot Simeon sat at a large writing table covered in scattered sheets of vellum. Two sharpened goose quills lay next to a horn inkpot and writing knife by his right hand. Simeon was a slender man with a thin face and prominent cheekbones. Dark shadows lay beneath his grey eyes as if he had not slept, but his face was calm. A wax candle burned in a tall candlestick next to the Abbot’s chair and a brazier warmed the room, leaving a haze of smoke in the air. Diffuse light filtered in through waxed-parchment windows, illuminating the golden threads worked into a tapestry of the resurrection on the far wall. Simeon rose to greet them, gesturing for them to be seated, Cordwainer on a wooden chair with an embroidered cushion across from the Abbot, Thomas on a low bench by the tapestry. “Brother Sebastian,” Simeon murmured, “please bring some refreshments for our guests.”
They sat in silence until the monk returned with a tray holding a flagon and three pewter cups. Simeon gathered the vellum to one side so Sebastian could deposit the tray on the table. A second, younger monk followed with a plate of dried apples and cheese. Sebastian poured wine for the Abbot, gave a quick bob, and departed, closing the door behind him. Simeon gave an apologetic smile. “Please,” he said, “refresh yourselves.”
Thomas stepped forward to pour wine for himself and Cordwainer, taking apple slices and cheese back to his bench. Cordwainer sipped his wine and made an appreciative grimace. Benedictines, he thought, always keep a fine cellar.
“Now, Master Coroner,” said Simeon, “what do you wish to speak about? I trust there has not been a death?”
“Nay, Father. I am here assisting my lord Sheriff. I wanted to speak with you about the novice Brother Ambrose.”
Simeon arched his eyebrows at Cordwainer’s use of the name. “You are helping the Sheriff find our crucifix? Have you given up on finding
the killer of the maudlyn, then?”
Cordwainer stiffened in surprise. The Abbot, he thought, is well informed about events in the city. “I have not,” he said. “But I fear there is little more I can do at present.”
“I have already told de Bury everything I can about the loss of the crucifix,” Simeon said. He narrowed his eyes at Cordwainer. “I understand you did not find it when you searched Owen Hywel’s house.”
“We did not,” he said. “I wished to hear your account of the incident with the novice with my own ears. Tis possible that you will have remembered something you did not tell the Sheriff, and secondhand knowledge can sometimes be faulty. Sheriff de Bury did not mention to me that Brother Ambrose had fled the Abbey.”
Simeon took a sip of wine and placed his goblet on the table. “I had hoped to keep Ambrose’s flight quiet as long as possible,” he said.
“Tis difficult to keep anything quiet in York,” replied Cordwainer. “The story has already spread widely.”
“So I understand.” Simeon steepled his fingers and rested his chin against them. “What is it you wish to know?”
“Whatever you can tell me about Brother Ambrose.”
Simeon nodded. He gazed for a moment at the tapestry, gathering his thoughts. “Brother Ambrose came to us less than a year ago, at the beginning of Advent,” he began. “I could see from the first that he was troubled. He imposed heavy penances upon himself as though he were atoning for a grievous sin. All sin is grievous, of course, but I heard his confession and the sins he admitted to were minor, nothing to warrant what he was doing.”
“What was he doing?”
“He wore the hair constantly, laid against his stomach; he ate so little and kept such lengthy vigils that he fainted at prayer. When the sores on his stomach began to stink of infection, I ordered him to leave off the hair and have the Infirmarian salve the sores. He begged to be allowed to continue.” Simeon glanced at the look on Cordwainer’s face and shrugged. “It is not altogether strange for novices to be … excessive in their devotions. Generally, it wears off soon enough.”
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 12