The guard nodded warily. He peered closely at Cordwainer, then gave a sudden grin. “I don’t guess you remember me, Master Cordwainer,” he said. “I’m Alf Hobb. Twas you that proved my mother’s death was accident, not self-murder, five years ago, may she rest in peace.”
Cordwainer said a silent prayer of thanks. He stared at the guard’s wide-set eyes and bristly cheeks. His gaze caught on a deep cleft in the man’s chin, bisected by a scar almost hidden in the stubble, and he remembered. “May God have mercy on her,” he said, crossing himself. “And your sister Maddie, I hope she is well?”
Alf smiled broadly. “Oh, aye, very well,” he said. “She were married in the fall, and her first child is on the way.” His face darkened again. “Is it a killer you’re looking for, Master Cordwainer?”
“I’m not certain,” Cordwainer said honestly. “But I need to talk to him.”
“Best to be safe, then,” Alf said. He reached into the guardsman’s lodge next to him, quickly tying a short sword to his belt and picking up a stout wooden club. “Where shall we look first?”
“I believe,” said Cordwainer, “that he may have taken shelter within the Minster itself or perhaps in one of the masons’ huts. Am I right that no one is living in them for the winter?”
“Aye,” said Alf. “Tis but local masons till the weather warms, and they working inside where a bit of warmth can be had. But the huts are all locked up tight.”
“How often do you patrol back there?” asked Thomas. “Could someone break a lock and you not notice?”
Alf bristled. “I’ll not tell you how to do your job if you’ll not tell me mine,” he growled. “I’ve told the Archdeacon we need another man. I can’t see everywhere at once.”
“Let us go and look,” said Cordwainer. “Quietly, so as not to warn anyone who might be there.”
They walked stealthily through the great pointed arch that would contain the Minster doors. The interior of the nave had been temporarily roofed over so the building could remain in use, but the vaulting had only just begun to be put into place, and the inner walls were bare. Ahead, Cordwainer could see that the great transepts had been finished, although he puzzled over the difference in the height of their walls. A large stone tower with a wooden spire marked the crossing. Today the area was still cold and silent, empty but for several large blocks of stone and a pile of what looked like boards covered with a piece of heavy canvas, all pushed to the wall at the side. Thomas walked over and lifted the canvas; he shook his head. The Minster building might make a temporary hiding place, but no one could shelter there for long.
“Is it possible he could be in one of the corner towers?” whispered Cordwainer.
“Nay, of that I’m certain,” Alf replied in a low voice.
“Then let us go around.”
They retraced their steps through the arch just as a group of stonemasons arrived at the Minster gate and Alf hurried to admit them. Cordwainer stepped forward to ask if any had seen someone who did not belong in the Minster while they worked. “Nay,” said an older man with scarred hands and a wrinkled, weathered face who seemed to be the Master. “Though we are not always alone here. The Archbishop’s canons come and go, and the Archdeacon’s staff. Tis unlikely we would notice a stranger unless he interrupted our work.”
Cordwainer thanked him and they made their way to the outer wall of the cathedral nave, startling a small grey cat, who streaked across their path and vanished silently into the shadow of a pile of uncut stone. Would we could move as quietly as that cat, thought Cordwainer. Brother Ambrose, if he were there at all, was sure to hear the ice cracking and creaking beneath their footsteps. He raised a hand to halt the others as they rounded the south transept and peered cautiously around the building. Seeing no one, they cut diagonally across to the wall of the cathedral apse and halted again. A row of six wattle and daub huts had been built between the apse and the high surrounding wall of the liberty. In the spring, masons and carpenters drawn from throughout the north would take up residence, living there while they labored at their great work. Cordwainer studied each hut in turn. A dark smudge hovered over the smoke hole in the roof of the farthest hut.
“Someone’s there, in the last hut,” he whispered. “Go quietly, and remember,” he looked pointedly at Alf’s sword and club, “I want to talk to him.”
They crept down the path in front of the huts. But as Cordwainer had feared, their footsteps betrayed them. The door of the last hut burst open. A tall figure emerged and ran to the wall, his brown cloak flapping in the air behind him. Cordwainer caught a quick glimpse of a monk’s tonsure amid the dark hair, a sunlit reflection on pale skin. Alf and Thomas sprinted after him, but the man swarmed up and over the wall in seconds. Alf cursed loudly as he dropped his club and, climbing slowly and carefully, reached the top of the wall. “He’s gone,” he said, “I was too slow.” He made his way down cautiously to within a few feet of the ground and dropped. “Look here,” he said to Thomas, pointing. “And here. He’s chipped the mortar out, made himself nice little footholds, and he knew where each one was without looking. This ought to have been too smooth to climb. I’ll wager tis the same on t’other side, if he were coming and going.”
Cordwainer came up behind them. “Our bird has flown, has he?” he said. “Let’s have a look at the nest.”
He entered the hut, leaving the door open for light. An old and dented tin basin served as a makeshift brazier on the hard-packed ground, next to a heap of straw covered with a discarded mason’s apron for bedding. Cordwainer crouched and scraped up a handful of dirt that was spattered with dark drops, examining it closely and smelling it. A bundle of twigs lashed together lay by the straw mattress, and he looked at the blood-darkened ends. Brother Ambrose’s self-mortification at the Abbey had not been merely show, he thought, wondering if a person could be both a thief and a flagellant. A quarter loaf of bread and half of a meat pie sat on a rag next to a wooden cup. Cordwainer picked up the cup, sniffed it, then used its contents to douse the few coals in the basin.
“Was that your man?” asked Alf, poking his head in through the door.
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. He straightened and turned to the guard. “You should let the Archdeacon know what you’ve discovered. Perhaps you’ll get your extra man.”
Alf grinned. “I’ll do that, Master Cordwainer. And I’ll get that wall fixed today. No one will be climbing it again, not on my watch.”
Cordwainer thanked him, and the three men trudged back to the guard’s lodge. Alf opened the Minster gate, and a few pious souls entered for Mass. The streets were crowded as Cordwainer and Thomas bade Alf farewell and turned down Petergate. The new-fallen snow had turned dirty brown and was melting to slush under their footsteps. Cordwainer squinted at the sun. They would need to hurry to arrive at the Castle on time for Nelly’s inquest.
Together they jostled and slid their way through the now-crowded city streets to cross the Castle Bridge at the north entrance, Cordwainer grumbling about the poor repair of the bridge when he stubbed his toe on a broken stone hidden by the snow. Bells rang Prime as they entered the inquest chamber. Nelly’s body lay in a cheap wooden coffin on the trestle table, and the assembled jurors looked restless. Mistress Edyth and Lizbeth stood by one of the braziers, with Rolf slouched against the wall by the door. The dais was empty, Sheriff de Bury not deeming it worth his while to attend. Cordwainer walked to the coffin and slipped the tiny cloth pouch into it next to Nelly.
The testimony went as Cordwainer expected, and the jurors announced the expected verdict within moments. Cordwainer watched as the lay brothers lifted the coffin to carry it away to Saint Leonard’s, then stepped forward to speak to Edyth and Lizbeth. “I see you found the donations for a coffin,” he said. “Twas a generous thing to do.”
“Twas less than she deserved,” said Edyth. “May God have mercy on her.”
“You spoke to all who live on the Lane?”
“Aye,” she said. “Twas not a so
ul what heard or saw owt.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Cordwainer.
“Twas just a robbery, wasn’t it, Master? Folk are saying that after Molly and Nelly, it must be a man killing maudlyns for sport. Is that what you believe?”
“Nay, not for sport,” replied Cordwainer. “There is a reason they were killed. But tell your maudlyns to be careful till we find him. Tis not good to be on the street alone.”
“Will you find him?”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. “I will find him. I promise you.”
Edyth reached out and squeezed his hand, tears in her eyes. She turned to take Lizbeth by the arm, and the two walked toward the door. As they left, Thomas brought Cordwainer’s cloak to him. “What do we do now?” he asked.
“I need to speak to the Sheriff and tell him what we’ve found,” said Cordwainer. “You go on home, there’s plenty of work to be done.”
“Will you be all right by yourself?” asked Thomas. “There’s still ice in the shadows of houses where the sun never reaches.”
Cordwainer snorted. “God’s bones, I’m not that old! My hip aches, that’s all. If I watch where I step, I’ll be fine. Don’t fuss over me! Go home and God go with you.” He saw the hurt look on the lad’s face. “There will be no more excitement today,” he said in a softer tone. “You need not waste your day kicking your heels outside de Bury’s chamber.”
Thomas nodded. “Maybe the Sheriff will have news for you as well,” he said hopefully as they left the inquest chamber. Together they walked outside and Cordwainer watched the boy’s green hat bobbing as Thomas trotted past the guardhouse and onto the Castle bridge, dodging pedestrians and nimbly avoiding the broken stone. He prayed Thomas would have the sense to go home and not go sighing after Emma Pomeroy again. Perhaps he should have had the lad accompany him after all. Nay, twas Thomas’s business what he did. He turned to see the Sheriff striding across the Castle keep, a furred cloak wrapped around his shoulders. He raised his stick to get de Bury’s attention and waited.
“Matthew,” the Sheriff said as he approached, looking pleased. “I was just going to the Old Boar for dinner. Will you join me?”
Cordwainer accepted gladly, wondering what had put the Sheriff in such good spirits. He did not have long to wait once they had found seats in the tavern on a bench near the fire and had settled in with tankards of ale. De Bury took a long drink and set his tankard on the table. “Owen Hywel has been talking,” he said, wiping his mouth on a square of linen pulled from his sleeve. “Apparently the Welshman is not comfortable in my jail and thinks to escape hanging by naming his confederates.”
Cordwainer did not want to think about what the Sheriff’s jail was like or what had persuaded Hywel to give up such information. “Has he indeed?” he asked.
“Aye, he has. God help us, the man had agents in every part of Yorkshire, buying stolen goods and transporting them here to be sold or shipped on. My men are seeking them out now, all that he’s named. We’ve found one already, name of Paul Ulfsson.”
“Has he said aught of Molly? Or the crucifix?”
“I didn’t ask about the maudlyn,” de Bury said impatiently. “That’s your affair. He admits to having heard about the loss of the crucifix, but denies any further knowledge.”
“Do you believe him?”
A boy approached the table with a steaming trencher loaded with roast pork, turnips, and leeks. He set it between the two men and turned to go. “Bring us more ale, there’s a good lad,” de Bury said. He waited until the boy had gone, then spoke.
“Aye, Matthew, I do. But he has also said that he took care to know nothing of thefts before they occurred, that his men planned and carried them out on their own. He merely bought the goods and sold them again, mostly in the south. You know as well as I that a man will confess to almost anything when the fear of fire is on him, and he has confessed to so much, there would be no need to hold back if he had already purchased the crucifix. But I have not yet told you all.”
Two tankards of ale landed on the table and the boy was gone again.
“I said that we have caught one of Hywel’s men. Ulfsson has confessed to charges of robbery and receiving stolen goods. In particular, he has admitted to purchasing the ring and necklace we found in Hywel’s house and selling them again to Hywel. You will not believe who sold them to him.”
“Who?” asked Cordwainer.
“John Plankett, the only son of Sir William’s house. Better known as Brother Ambrose.”
Cordwainer choked on his ale and coughed. “The novice stole from his own family? His own mother? And then went off to become a monk, leaving his inheritance behind?”
De Bury laughed at Cordwainer’s discomfiture. “Aye, twould seem hardly to be credited, but again, I believe Ulfsson tells the truth. There is a good story behind all this, I’d wager! We shall hear it when Sir William arrives to claim his treasure. Perhaps young Plankett became a monk at Saint Mary’s to get into their treasury,” he said. He chuckled again and speared a piece of pork with his knife. “No wonder Abbott Simeon wanted to keep it quiet. Do you know, he didn’t even tell me that Plankett had run away? As if I wouldn’t discover it myself.”
The two men ate in silence while Cordwainer pondered the Sheriff’s words. How, why would the only son of a wealthy house become a monk? And if Brother Ambrose, or John Plankett, was a mere thief, why impose such harsh penances on himself, even in hiding? Why call attention to himself by confronting the Prioress in such a public and vulgar manner? And even more confusing, if he knew Hywel’s man in the city, why did he not seek refuge with him? Perhaps, if had indeed stolen the crucifix, he was afraid to admit he had lost it. But that would mean Ambrose was Molly’s killer and had dropped the cross as he strangled her. Cordwainer was not at all certain that was the case. Why would a novice monk, thief or not, strangle a maudlyn?
He finished his meal and took a long swallow of ale, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “I too have news to report,” he said. “I believe I know where Brother Ambrose has been hiding.” He went on to describe the events of that morning.
De Bury grunted in satisfaction. “So you have flushed him out of Saint Peter’s liberty, have you? Good. I won’t have to go begging His Grace the Archdeacon for permission to enter the Minster grounds. If John Plankett is in the city, I will find him.” Cordwainer knew that the Sheriff’s lack of jurisdiction in areas owned by the Church had long rankled. He watched as de Bury drained the last of his ale, then carefully cleaned his knife on his square of linen and tucked it into the small scabbard on his belt. The linen disappeared into his sleeve.
“Tis possible Brother Ambrose was not the thief,” said Cordwainer. “Abbot Simeon says he has doubts, and Prioress Alyse told me twas so crowded she brushed against the watchers as she passed them. Anyone in the city might have taken it.”
“Nay,” said de Bury. “Tis nonsense. Why go looking for someone who might have taken it when we have a known thief who has fled? Simeon is having second thoughts about Plankett for fear of scandal about the Abbey, tis all.” Abruptly, the Sheriff rose. “I must let my men know what you have told me about Plankett and send them out to search again. God give you good day, Matthew.”
Cordwainer watched de Bury’s departure, wondering what had caused the Sheriff to leave so suddenly. Then he laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the tavern master approaching to be paid.
2
As he trudged slowly toward Ousegate trying to make sense of what de Bury had told him, Cordwainer saw Gylfa leaning against a shopfront in an orange dress, half-heartedly soliciting the men passing by. He stopped and watched as two boys wearing the ragged clothing of street urchins began taunting her, their dirt-streaked faces twisted in malicious merriment. She stood away from the shop to curse at them, and their shouts grew louder, the taunts more vulgar. When one picked up a chunk of icy mud to throw, Cordwainer stepped forward, “Nay, none of that,” he said, brandishing his stick. “Away with you
now, go on!” The boys retreated down the street, laughing and talking loudly about old men and young meat. Gylfa turned to look at Cordwainer. “Thank you, Master Coroner, but I can take care of myself,” she said.
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. “But I wished to speak with you.”
She shrugged. “Tis three coppers for my fee, whatever we do.”
He dug in his scrip and placed the coins in her hand. A woman passing by with a child strapped to her back scowled at him and he glared back. He drew Gylfa down the street to the mouth of a narrow alleyway. “I want you to tell me about Tibb,” he said.
She shrugged again. “Tis nowt to tell. Tibb is Maeve’s leman. Mistress don’t like him, she says a whore can’t have a leman and he ruins her custom. But Maeve and Tibb do as they like, whatever Mistress says.”
“What about Molly? Did she have a leman?”
“Nay.” She chewed on the side of her thumbnail and spat. “Maeve and Tibb both hated Molly, Maeve because Molly were prettier and got the best custom.”
“Why did Tibb hate her?”
“Because Molly wouldn’t bed him, coin or no. He hit her like he hits Maeve, but Molly just laughed at him and shoved him away. He would torment her any way he could find, after that.”
Cordwainer nodded, remembering Bartholomew’s account. “Gylfa, do you think Tibb might have killed Molly?”
She chewed at her thumb again, then wiped it on her dress when it bled. “Nay. Tibb is a coward. Tis why he hits Maeve so much, it makes him feel brave. But he fears Mistress and he feared Molly.”
“What about you? Does he hit you?”
“Aye, when Mistress can’t see. Tis no matter. I can take care of myself.”
Cordwainer nodded, though he doubted that she could care for herself so young. “Did you know Nelly over on Grope Lane?”
“Aye,” replied Gylfa. “Nelly were a crazy old whore and stupid too. Twas stupid to carry her coin around her neck. And tis stupid to stay a whore when you’re old.”
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 14