“Did it wear off Brother Ambrose?” asked Cordwainer.
“No,” answered Simeon. “And when he removed his robe for the Infirmarian, he had the marks of frequent flagellation on his back as well. But what troubled me most was his pride. He was proud of the damage he did to his body, proud to endure the pain. He saw his suffering as making him more devout than his brothers and he was contemptuous of what he saw as their lesser piety. I needed to correct that pride. I set him to work with the lay brothers, chopping firewood, doing laundry, clearing the pits beneath the privies.”
Cordwainer’s lips twitched and he snorted. “I take it the lad is from good family?”
“Yes,” said Simeon. The hint of a smile played around his mouth. “Doing servants’ work was not what he expected from his vocation, I suspect. But doing it failed to inspire humility. Eventually, he rebelled against the work. He defied me, made wild accusations against me and the brothers. He said he was being punished for his piety. That was on the Feast of the Epiphany, just before we left for the procession. I ordered him to stay in the Abbey, to spend his time in prayer and contemplation. It was not until he confronted Prioress Alyse that I realized he had disobeyed.”
“What did you do?”
“I’m afraid I lost my temper. I ordered him to be whipped, may God forgive me, and was late to the procession to see it done. Once the procession had ended, I spent the night in prayer and sought Ambrose out the next day. When I could not find him, I questioned the other novices. I discovered he had not been in his bed that night. The novices believed him to have spent the night in the chapel, but I knew that to be false for I had done so myself. I have since learned that he has been absent from his bed several times when he was not keeping vigil, but where he went or what he did, I do not know.” Simeon bowed his head. “I fear the loss of the crucifix is my penance for having failed him.”
Cordwainer sat, digesting the Abbot’s words. He would have lost his temper with the novice long before. Simeon seemed lost in contemplation. Cordwainer cleared his throat. “Do you believe Brother Ambrose stole the crucifix?”
Simeon looked up, meeting his eyes. “I do not know. In my anger at his leaving the Abbey, I felt it was certain, but now….” He shook his head. “I do not know.”
“There are few in the city who share your doubt,” said Cordwainer.
“It is why I wished the story to be remain hidden,” said Simeon. “I wanted to be certain before he could be condemned by the townsfolk.”
Cordwainer nodded, thinking of Tibb and Bartholomew. Either one might have pulled the crucifix from the Prioress’s rosary during the crowded procession, especially as it was most likely loose after the novice’s earlier attempt. Brother Ambrose might have nothing to do with his investigation after all. “Have you contacted Brother Ambrose’s family? Perhaps the lad has gone home.”
“I doubt he would return to his family. I had the sense there was bad blood between them when he first arrived. Nonetheless, I have sent a messenger. I have heard nothing as yet.”
“Father,” Cordwainer said, “Who is his family?”
“His sire is Sir William Plankett,” said Simeon. “His manor is but a day’s ride from here.” At Cordwainer’s frown, he added, “I did not send the messenger until yesterday.”
“You need not explain,” said Cordwainer, shaking his head. “Tis just that I’ve heard that name recently.” He stood up. “I believe I’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you for seeing us.”
Simeon rose and sketched the sign of the cross in the air. “I hope I have helped. May God go with you and aid you in your search.”
“And with you, Father. Thank you for speaking to us.”
Once in the Abbey courtyard, Cordwainer turned to Thomas. “It seems that stolen goods follow in Brother Ambrose’s wake,” he said, “and twould also seem that de Bury does not know the novice is Sir William’s son.”
“But, Master, it makes no sense,” said Thomas. “Why would a man vow himself to poverty only to turn thief? Especially if he were well-off to begin with?”
“Those are good questions,” said Cordwainer. “And perhaps we will find the answers to them. But first, I would like to hear what our Prioress remembers of the incident.”
They left the Abbey, retracing their steps back into the city. Fewer people crowded the streets on Sunday afternoons, and it was not long before they left the city for a second time through the postern gate by the Old Baile and stood in front of Clementhorpe nunnery on Bishopsgate. A heavy oak door was set into the convent wall, and Thomas knocked. Within moments, they heard a bar slide back. The door opened two fingers’ width to reveal a dark brown eye below a white wimple.
“God give you good day, Sister,” said Cordwainer. “I am Matthew Cordwainer, King’s Coroner of York. I wish to speak with Prioress Alyse.”
The eye widened, and the door shut. Cordwainer waited, impatiently tapping his stick with his fingers. Minutes passed. He had begun to think they had been forgotten when the door finally opened a second time. The nun silently gestured for them to enter, then closed and barred the door behind them. She immediately set off at a brisk walk towards what looked to Cordwainer like the dormitory, not looking back to see if they were behind her. Cordwainer and Thomas followed more slowly, careful of the rutted and icy mud of the path. The grounds were smaller than Saint Mary’s but still spacious, having room for a chapel and chapter house, a guesthouse, a dormitory and refectory with its kitchen behind it, and what Cordwainer assumed were garden plots beside the kitchen. An orchard blocked the river from sight, but he knew the grounds extended to its banks. A graveyard against the wall had expanded to fill every available inch of space between the buildings. He had heard that burial within the walls of the nunnery was considered to bestow special grace upon the departed souls and that the wealthier of York’s residents vied for the honor. He wondered briefly where they could possibly put any more, reflecting that room would have to made, as the burials must be a major source of income for the nunnery. Chilled by the presence of so many dead, he crossed himself and turned his eyes to the two stone steps set in front of the dormitory. The door stood open with the nun waiting, her eyes on the tiled floor just inside. He climbed the steps, wincing as his bad hip protested, and the nun shut the door behind them. Still silent, she led them down a short corridor to a second door. Holding one hand up as indication that they should wait, she knocked and, not pausing for an answer, went in. Cordwainer could hear low voices.
The door opened and the nun waited for them to enter, then disappeared down the hallway, leaving the door ajar. A slender woman in a spotless habit and veil stood to greet them behind a small writing desk. The casement window behind her was shuttered; several small candles illuminated the room but did nothing to dispel the cold. A tapestry depicting the Annunciation covered the wall to her right; to her left low shelves held three leather-bound books. Two uncushioned chairs with low backs faced her. “God give you good day,” she said. “I am Prioress Alyse. How may I help you?”
The Prioress was younger than Cordwainer had expected, having barely reached middle age, if at all. She had pale, unblemished skin with high arched eyebrows, intelligent blue eyes, and a rosebud mouth. In youth she would have been a beauty. He found himself wondering why her parents had chosen to give such a daughter to the Church – surely, they would have had no trouble finding a noble match for her. And if she had chosen her vocation herself, they were kind parents indeed to have allowed it. He tried to push such thoughts aside, knowing that his curiosity was in this case sinful; the nun’s past was not his business.
“God give you good day, Reverend Mother,” he said formally. “I am assisting my lord Sheriff in investigating the loss of the crucifix belonging to Clementhorpe. If it would not distress you too much, I would like you to tell me about the incident involving the novice, Brother Ambrose.”
Alyse winced. “You are inquiring into my deepest shame,” she said with a wry smile. “Tis my fau
lt the cross is missing, as I’m sure both the Sheriff and Abbot Simeon have told you.” She gazed down at the table, then looked up and met Cordwainer’s eyes. “Please, be seated and I will tell you what I can.”
They sat, trying to make themselves comfortable on the hard wood, as another nun arrived carrying a tray with cups of ale and three small cakes. She gave a cup to each of the men and set the third with the tray on the Prioress’s writing table, then stepped back into the shadows behind Cordwainer and Thomas.
“Thank you, Sister Cecilia,” said Alyse, sinking into her chair. She gestured to the cakes and said, “Please.” When both Thomas and Cordwainer had taken one, she continued. “Now, Master … Cordwainer? Did Sister Ann hear your name correctly? What would you like to know?”
“Please tell me what Brother Ambrose said to you.” Cordwainer took a sip of ale.
She lowered her eyes to her hands, clasped together on the table. “He approached me as we were gathering for the procession,” she said in an even voice. “My nuns were forming their lines when the novice pushed himself in front of me. He snatched up my rosary and held the crucifix before my eyes. He said I had no right to wear it, that I was a sinful woman trying to beautify myself with Our Lord’s suffering. I pulled myself away from him, but he held on to the crucifix. By that time Abbot Simeon had reached us, and he wrested the crucifix from Brother Ambrose’s hand.” She looked up at Cordwainer. “I was so flustered by the incident that I forgot to check to see if the cross was loose on the rosary. It was my negligence that caused the crucifix to be lost. I have sent to the Archbishop to say I am willing to step down as Prioress.”
Cordwainer’s features drew together in a sympathetic grimace. The pain and shame in the blue eyes were raw, and it hurt him to look at her. “Surely twill not come to that,” he said. “Did the novice say anything else?”
Two spots of red appeared on the Prioress’s cheeks. “He said – he accused me and my nuns of committing sinful acts of a lascivious nature. His language was … colorful.” She raised her head to meet Cordwainer’s eyes. “I am a virgin, but I know what those words mean.”
“Forgive me,” said Cordwainer. “I hadn’t realized how ugly the encounter was.”
The Prioress gave a faint shrug. “There is nothing to forgive. It is what men say when they are angry with women. One learns to deal with such things. Still, I was grateful that the Abbot arrived so quickly. I left the novice for the Abbot to handle and continued in the procession with my nuns. It not until all was over and I went to give the crucifix to the Abbot that I realized it was gone.”
Cordwainer had no doubts that she could have handled Brother Ambrose on her own if she had needed to. He had been terrified of confronting a woman hysterical over the loss of the crucifix and the role she might have played in it. Prioress Alyse had accepted more of the blame than he thought necessary, but remained calm and rational. “One more thing, if I may,” he said. “I forgot to ask Abbot Simeon. I need to find the novice. What does Brother Ambrose look like?”
Alyse laughed, her somber face suddenly alive with merriment. “Yes, you would need to know that to find him, wouldn’t you?” she said. “He is very tall, thin, almost emaciated. His hair is dark, with a novice’s tonsure, of course. He has black eyes with heavy lids and dark, threatening eyebrows – although the eyebrows may be just my imagination. I admit he frightened me. And he is very young -- his face is pocked with the sort of marks one gets in adolescence.”
“He is clean-shaven?” asked Cordwainer.
“Yes.” The Prioress thought for a moment. “I can remember nothing else. I will pray that you find him quickly. Do you believe he took the crucifix during the procession? Tis odd I would not have felt it, but the streets were so crowded that we brushed against the watchers as we walked. I suppose anyone could have grabbed it. The novice was right – it was folly to wear it.”
“I don’t know if the novice took it,” replied Cordwainer. “Abbot Simeon has doubts and there is no proof. We will not know until we find him.” He thanked her for her time and for the ale and stood. “Please, Reverend Mother, do not blame yourself. Twas either accident or theft, and you are not at fault for either.”
Alyse smiled ruefully and nodded. “Thank you for your kind words, Master Cordwainer. Sister Cecilia will see you out. May God go with you.”
“And with you, Reverend Mother.” As he followed the nun down the corridor, Cordwainer sighed. Prioress Alyse was unlikely to stop blaming herself anytime soon, if ever, and twould be a heavy burden to carry. He thanked God for his grace in providing such a woman to shepherd His nuns and prayed the Archbishop would not choose a replacement.
Once they were standing on Bishopsgate and the gate had been closed, Thomas spoke, “Tis a shame for such a pretty woman to be locked in a cloister.”
“You would have all our Lord’s brides be ugly?” teased Cordwainer.
“Well, no, but…” Thomas ducked his head in embarrassment. Cordwainer laughed. Aye, the Prioress was still a beautiful woman. She reminded him of someone, someone he had seen recently, with the same blue eyes and arched brows, the same rosebud mouth. He blinked. Twas Molly, aye, and Nelly too. Not the dead Molly with dull eyes and protruding tongue, but the living maudlyn he had seen on the streets of York before her death. Had Molly lived and prospered, she would have looked much like Prioress Alyse in middle age, if the hard life she had chosen to live did not change her into Nelly. He wondered if he were simply imagining the resemblances, if his constant pondering on the killings had made him see similarities that weren’t there. The thought was unsettling.
“Thomas,” he said as they walked back to Saint Martin’s Lane. “We must focus on the task at hand. We now know of something of the man we seek. He is overly pious, proud, and easily angered by women. Where would such a man go to hide in the city?”
“I don’t know,” said Thomas. “By the river, maybe?”
Cordwainer shrugged. “Perhaps.”
Monday, January 15, 1273
1
Cordwainer lay awake much of the night thinking. While his conversations with Abbot Simeon and Prioress Alyse had told him more than he had known before about Brother Ambrose, he still wanted to speak to the novice himself. He was certain Ambrose would not be hiding by the river. The son of a wealthy family would have no idea how to survive in such a place. But where would he go? Where could shelter and warmth be found for one without friends or family in the city, one whom both the Sheriff and the Abbot were actively seeking? Finally, he thought he knew. He turned over under his blankets and fell fast asleep.
Thomas and Cordwainer left the house at first light, before most of the residents of Saint Martin’s Lane were awake. As he had expected, new snow had fallen overnight, and several inches overlay the frozen ground, making walking treacherous once again. They hurried up Micklegate as best they could in the early morning silence, hearing only the crunch of their boots on the ice beneath the snow and the tentative peeping of a solitary bird. The guard at Ouse Bridge gave them a curious look, but with the day brightening around them and Cordwainer being a familiar face, did not challenge them. The early fishing boats had docked by the bridge, and fishermen and fishmongers were haggling over the day’s prices. At Petergate Cordwainer turned to the left. The aroma of baking bread filled the air, and serving girls and cooks wrapped in heavy cloaks queued at the bakeries to buy bread straight from the ovens. He could hear the rhythmic thumping of a loom as a weaver started his day. A heavy cart laden with firewood trundled towards them, followed by another carrying a load of stone. Thomas and Cordwainer pressed themselves against a shopfront to allow the carts to go by and continued walking.
“Where are we going?” asked Thomas. “To the Minster?”
“The Minster indeed,” said Cordwainer, stopping to catch his breath. “Or perhaps behind it. If we are lucky, we will find the novice before we need go to the Castle for the inquest.” He looked up at the square towers that would form the corners
of the completed building, trying to imagine what the cathedral would look like when it was finished, sometime long after his own death. “Come along, now,” he urged. “Let us see if I am right.”
They reached the Minster gate, where a bored guard wearing the Archbishop’s livery tried to keep warm by keeping his head well down in his hood and his hands tucked tightly into his sleeves next to a smoking brazier. He looked asleep on his feet. “God give you good day,” said Cordwainer loudly.
The guard started and stared at him. “You can’t go in yet, Master” he said. “If you be visiting folk who live in the liberty, go down Lop Lane and in through the gate there.” He gestured to show the way.
“Kings Coroner,” said Cordwainer. “I have reason to believe a fugitive has taken refuge in the Minster site. I’d like to take a look.”
“There’s no one allowed on the site while the masons are working,” said the guard, rubbing his eyes. “Not since a block of marble fell and killed an apprentice. Tis too dangerous, the Archdeacon says. I will open the gate when tis time for Mass, and not before. Besides, tis the Archbishop’s liberty, as you well know, Master Coroner. If aught is amiss, tis the Archbishop’s prerogative to deal with it, not the King’s or King’s servants. You may not go in without His Grace’s permission.”
“But someone has gone in who should not have,” Cordwainer replied. “I’d wager the Archbishop will be none too pleased when he finds out.”
The guard looked uneasy, his gaze shifting from Cordwainer to Thomas and back again.
“I’d also wager,” Cordwainer continued, “that the Archdeacon would be pleased if one of his guards caught the intruder before the matter need come to the Archbishop’s attention.”
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 13