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

by Joyce Lionarons

  Mac had come close to killing Philip Colter when the bailiffs threw him in here earlier today. Of course, it hadn’t been just Mac; almost all the prisoners knew Colter as the Sheriff’s man, aye, and held a grudge. Philip had held his own, though, with those great arms of his, at least for a while. Potter had simply sat with his ale and laughed, egging the men on. Ulfsson glanced over at the far wall, where Colter lay unconscious, a puddle of blood and drool by his face. The lads were taking wagers as to how long he’d last before he either died or the guards took him out of the common cell. He himself had stayed out of the fight, lest Colter think he might fight for him based on their old association with Hywel. There was always a good reason to stay out of a fight.

  He wondered, though, what had happened to Hywel. Colter might know. He stood cautiously and edged over to where Colter lay snorting in the dirt. He nudged him with his foot. When Colter didn’t move, he got a dipper of water from the barrel in the corner and poured it slowly over his face. Two of the men laughed as Colter sat up spluttering. Mac grumbled something unintelligible, and Ulfsson froze. He waited until Mac had settled back on his bench, his eyes closed. Then he crouched by Colter, grinning. “I never thought to see you here, Philip,” he said amiably. “Is our old friend Owen here too?”

  Colter opened one swollen eye and glared at him. His mouth worked, and Ulfsson waited patiently for him to speak. Colter grimaced and spat a mouthful of blood and saliva into his face. A tooth bounced from Ulfsson’s cheek and fell to the floor as the cell erupted in hoots of laughter. Ulfsson stood and spat on the ground. He swaggered to the water barrel and poured a dipper of water over his own head, washing the filth away, then turned to face the laughing prisoners. “I give him two days,” he said, grinning. “Put me in for a shilling.”

  3

  The day wore on as Cordwainer dozed in his chair, Isolde curled in a tiny ball on his lap. He woke when Thomas called him for supper, ate what was put in front of him, and returned to his chair. When Thomas woke him a second time, he roused himself and snorted. “What do you want?” he said irritably. “I was sleeping.”

  “You would sleep more comfortably in your bed, Master,” said Thomas. “Let me help you up the stairs. I must meet Rolf and Alf soon.”

  “I don’t want to go to bed,” replied Cordwainer, conscious of the petulant tone in his voice. “I’ve slept half the day and will wake half the night. I will sit and read until you return.”

  “That will not be until morning,” said Thomas, “and you will want to be in bed long before then.”

  “Then I will put myself there. Don’t fuss over me, Thomas.”

  “You know you must not try to climb the stairs alone until your wound has healed,” said Thomas. “Come with me now, and I promise to wake you when all is over.”

  Cordwainer flushed with anger. He would not be treated as a child by his own manservant. “I said I would stay here!” he snapped. Isolde leapt from his lap and streaked from the room. He pointed at the door. “Go! Do not keep them waiting.”

  Thomas backed away, his hands up. “Aye, aye,” he said. “But if you decide to put yourself to bed, be careful on the stairs. I do not wish to have to summon Stefan to patch you up again.”

  “I am always careful on the stairs, Thomas,” said Cordwainer. “I am old, but I am not a fool.”

  “Aye, Master.”

  When Thomas had put on his hat and cloak and closed the door behind him, Cordwainer rose and paced restlessly around the room, leaning heavily on his stick. His head ached miserably. He cursed his age and his infirmity, cursed Stefan for forbidding him to leave the house, cursed Thomas for treating him as a child. He opened the door and stared out into the night. Aye, twas dark and cold, he thought. His head hurt, as did his hip. What of it? There was moonlight and he had his cloak and stick. He would walk to Bishopsgate, taking care not to be seen. He would wait and watch in the shadows. If Brother Ambrose came, when Brother Ambrose came, he would let Rolf and Alf take care of things. But he would not sit at home like a toothless infant and wait for his – his! -- investigation to conclude.

  He sat and pulled his boots on, gathered his cloak and scrip. He thought for a moment, then walked to the back of the house where he found a lantern with a sliding shutter. He lit the lantern, opened the shutter to let a thin beam of light escape, marched back to the front of the house, opened the door, and slipped into the night.

  4

  Prioress Alyse stood silently at the end of the long dormitory corridor, listening to the chapel bells ring Matins as she waited for the last of her nuns to step from their cells. Sister Julia coughed, a long wheezing rasp. Dear Mother Mary, she prayed, let Julia last through the winter. She had excused the old nun from the night offices, but Julia insisted on waking. She knows that God will call her soon, Alyse reflected, and she is preparing herself. I shall miss her. As the last of the nuns stepped into the corridor and took their places in the double line, Alyse nodded and turned to lead the ten women out of the building and down the cloistered walk to the chapel. They entered the choir and her heart leapt as their clear voices rose in prayer. The night offices, she thought, were the most beautiful, with only God to hear them.

  As she led the nuns back to the dormitory after the office, Alyse squinted into the darkness, trying to see the rotted portion of the wall through the trees in the orchard. It would be fixed tomorrow and then she could stop jumping at shadows. The Coroner had promised to speak to the Sheriff to ask for men to watch the walls. She wondered if they were still watching. Perhaps, if the wall were not finished tomorrow, she would send a lay sister to find out. It would be some comfort to know. The nuns paced slowly up the dormitory stairs, and Alyse stood watching they returned to their cells. She yawned, covering her mouth with her hand, and turned to enter her bedchamber. Three hours sleep, then Lauds.

  She placed her candle on the chest by her bed. As she leaned forward to extinguish it, a hand clapped over her mouth. “Demon whore!” hissed in her ear. “Prepare to leave this fleshly host. I will destroy you.”

  5

  The night guard at the Old Baile gate raised his lantern to peer at him. “Master Cordwainer!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing out so late? Is there a death?”

  “Nay, I’m looking for my man Thomas,” replied Cordwainer, shading his eyes against the lantern light. “He came through earlier, I believe.”

  “Aye, he did, with Rolf and the Archbishop’s man Alf.” The guard chuckled and lowered the lantern. His face creased into a hundred wrinkles when he laughed, and his grizzled beard bounced on his neck. “So you’re joining the nun-watch, are you?” he said. “I’d have thought you’d leave that to the younger men.”

  Cordwainer glowered at him. “I have sharp eyes in my head yet,” he said. “As I hope you do. Who else has come through this evening?”

  The guard opened the gate. “Nowt but folk who live along Bishopsgate,” he said. “I didn’t mean no offense, Master Cordwainer. You’re no older than I am. Tis just that you have the choice to remain in your bed these cold nights. I hope you find your man.”

  “Aye,” said Cordwainer, “we will.”

  He picked his way along Bishopsgate, watching his footing in the sliver of light he allowed to shine from the lantern. In daylight it was a pleasant street, lined with trees and large stone houses owned by wealthy folk who wanted the conveniences of the city without the noise and stink. There was room here, too, for large gardens behind the houses, large enough to keep a cow or a pig and grow food for a family. But the road could be dangerous after dark and there was no night watch outside the city walls. He doubted many folk left their homes after nightfall. He glanced nervously behind him, then turned his eyes forward again. The moonlight reflecting from the snow revealed his path; there was little need for the lantern and he shuttered it without extinguishing the light. As he neared the nunnery, he could hear the bells of Clementhorpe ringing Matins. Rolf was standing by the gate ahead stamping his feet in the cold. Cor
dwainer spotted an ancient oak tree with gnarled roots that snaked high above the earth. He stepped into its shadow, brushed the snow from the highest root, and sat down with his dark lantern beside him to watch and wait.

  6

  Thomas crouched on his haunches in the shadows, watching Rolf at the nunnery gate and Alf at the crumbling wall in turn. Twould be another cold night, colder than the last two now that the skies had cleared. The excitement he had felt the first night, going out on his own without his Master to catch a killer, had long since faded. He was thankful that his life had not put him on the dark streets of York every night, as it had Rolf with the night watch and Alf at the Minster gatehouse. He could stand the cold if he had to, but the boredom was far worse. He prayed that Brother Ambrose would come to the nunnery again that night, that they could catch him and be done with watching.

  A shadow moved and some brush piled by the street rustled. He tensed, ready to give a shout, but it was only an orange cat who had found a mouse. He watched as the cat played with its prey in the moonlight. The bells for Matins had rung some time ago and the voices of the nuns had faded; he fancied he could hear them shuffling back to their warm beds in the dormitory. When he looked again down the nunnery wall, he realized Alf was gone. Was that a shadow on the wall or was Alf climbing over? He came out of his crouch and stepped forward, his heart beating fast. But nay, Alf was back, fumbling to readjust his clothing. There was nothing on the wall. Thomas sank back on his haunches with a sigh. The orange cat trotted down the road with its tail straight up, the mouse dangling from its jaws. Thomas began to feel drowsy. He closed his eyes and yawned.

  A scream split the night air, followed by another. Thomas jerked to his feet, saw Alf leap up and scramble over the rotted place where the wall had partially fallen. He ran for the spot, climbed halfway up the ruined wall and cautiously peered over it. He could see nothing but the bare branches of the orchard trees and Alf’s deep running footprints leading away through the snow. He could hear Rolf pounding on the nunnery gate, and from farther away came the sounds of the nuns running and crying out. Dropping to the ground, he stepped back from the wall to wait. Twas now his job to stop anyone trying to leave the nunnery over the wall. He clutched the truncheon Alf had given him, the guard not trusting his untrained hands with a sword. His hands sweated and he wiped them on his cloak, then grasped the bound-leather handle and grinned. He would give as good as Cordwainer had gotten, he promised himself. Aye, twice as good.

  7

  Alyse thrashed in terror as Ambrose pushed her towards the bed, one arm around her neck. She clawed at his hand over her mouth and felt skin pull away under her nails. He dragged her hand away, wrenching her neck sharply to one side. Her kicking foot caught under the low bench by the wall and it toppled with a crash. Ambrose cursed and threw her face-down onto the bed, placing one knee on her back. His hand came away from her mouth and she tried to scream, but could not get enough breath. As his strap went around her neck, her flailing arm brushed the candle to the floor. Smoke rose as the dry rushes kindled. She tore at the strap, feeling as though her lungs would burst. Her vision narrowed to a tiny circle surrounded by glittering blackness. As the blackness closed in, she heard her nuns running in the corridor, Sister Julia’s voice shouting “Fire!”

  Ambrose fell heavily onto her back with a sudden grunt and the strap loosened. Alyse gasped, sucking in as much air as she could. All around her was commotion: someone was beating at the rushes with a blanket, extinguishing the flames; she could hear scrambling and screaming behind her; pounding sounded from the gate. Ambrose twisted from the bed and fell. As her vision cleared, she found the strength to turn over. Ambrose was struggling to rise from the floor as Sister Ann pounded on his chest with her fists and Sister Cecilia scratched at his eyes. Sister Julia slipped the strap from around Alyse’s neck and helped her to sit. Sister Lucia, hysterical, stood screaming by the window. Ambrose roared loudly and threw the women off his chest, scrambling for the door. His bare footsteps echoed on the stairs. “Let him go,” Alyse rasped, but Ann and Cecilia were already out of her chamber in pursuit.

  Alyse coughed and drank a sip of the water Julia held to her lips as the remaining nuns crowded into the chamber. “Please,” she said, “I am all right. See if you can quiet Sister Lucia. Some of you go after Ann and Cecilia; they must not be hurt. And find out who is at the gate, perhaps tis the Sheriff’s man.”

  Four of the nuns hurried from the chamber. In a few moments, Sister Lucia’s screams blessedly stopped, replaced by low sobbing. Alyse began to shake uncontrollably. Hugging the bedclothes around her, Sister Julia coughed again and whispered, “I shall bring you some wine.” She left the room wheezing. Alyse looked at the nuns standing around her bed staring at her. Through chattering teeth, she said, “Kneel, sisters, and let us pray.”

  8

  Thomas grasped the club tightly in his right fist. Rolf had stopped pounding on the gate and the night was quiet save for the rustling of footsteps on the other side of the wall. He moved closer and crouched ready to pounce, his heart beating like a drum. A face rose slowly above the ruined wall and he let out a cry. Blood, black in the moonlight, dripped from deep scratches across a white face that looked barely human. One blackened eye was squeezed shut, the corner of the mouth was torn and hung flapping next to the chin below yellowed teeth. As Thomas hesitated, trying to take in what he was seeing, Ambrose leapt from the wall, crashing into him and knocking the club from his hand.

  They grappled beneath the wall, Thomas’s solid strength more than matched by Ambrose’s wiry desperation. They rolled over and back again in the bracken, each trying to pin the other to the ground but neither succeeding for long. Finally, Thomas pushed one hand against Ambrose’s ruined mouth and felt the novice’s grip falter. He flipped Ambrose onto his back and placed a knee on his chest, gasping for breath and reaching for the truncheon. With a grunt, Ambrose bucked him off and scrambled to his feet as Thomas fell hard onto his side on the ground. By the time Thomas pushed himself up, Ambrose was already almost to Bishopsgate. He cursed, grabbed the truncheon, and ran after him.

  9

  Cordwainer stood as Rolf began to pound on the nunnery gate. He thought he could hear faint cries, but could not be certain. He grasped his stick, leaving the lantern on the ground. His feet were numb from the cold and sitting, and he stumbled as he tried to walk. Leaning on the stick, he managed to stay upright. He took another tentative step and was in the road. A few more steps, and he felt pinpricks in the soles of his feet. He stamped his feet, willing for sensation to return. Why had he waited so far from the gate? He considered calling out to Rolf, but nay, Rolf must stay at the gate, must be there if the nuns opened it. He stamped again, then shuffled as quickly as he could manage down Bishopsgate, trying to watch his footing and Rolf at the same time. Hearing a noise, he looked up and saw that the gate had opened, and Rolf was disappearing within.

  The gate slammed shut. Cordwainer stopped, feeling suddenly helpless. What was he doing here? Whatever was happening would be over by the time he arrived, and Thomas and the guards would simply berate him for having left his bed. Aye then, he would arrive once it was over. Twas still his investigation. He took a deep breath and hobbled on.

  A shout echoed down the narrow road. Cordwainer looked up to see a bloodied Ambrose running towards him, Thomas in hot pursuit but too far behind. Alf was nowhere in sight. He tried to throw himself to the side of the road to keep Ambrose from colliding with him, tripped and fell heavily to his knees, losing his stick. A sudden blow to his ribs knocked him face down into the snow. Ambrose sprawled over him onto the road. Cordwainer twisted to sit up, gasping at the sudden pain in his chest. He seized his stick and brought it down on Ambrose’s back with a satisfying thump.

  In seconds, Thomas came sliding up and straddled the novice, pulling his hands behind him. Producing a rope from within his cloak, he bound Ambrose’s wrists securely, then turned to stare at Cordwainer. “What in the name o
f all the saints are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Finishing my investigation,” Cordwainer panted. “You would never have caught Ambrose on your own – you were too slow. Someone had to make certain we weren’t out here tomorrow night. Now help me up! We must see if Prioress Alyse has been hurt.”

  Thomas gaped at him.

  “Hurry up, lad,” said Cordwainer, “or twill be judgment day before we get there.”

  Monday, January 22, 1273

  1

  Abbot Simeon received Cordwainer in his private chamber early Monday morning. Dark shadows lay under his eyes and his normally smooth brow was furrowed. Cordwainer sat as before in the cushioned chair across from him, holding himself stiffly in deference to his bandaged ribs. His scrip lay in his lap where he could reach it without bending. The two men waited in silence as Brother Sebastian served wine and cakes. When the door was shut, Simeon sighed. “I must thank you for saving the life of Prioress Alyse,” he said, “and for returning our prodigal to us before he could commit yet another grievous sin.”

  “What will happen to Brother Ambrose now?” asked Cordwainer.

  “He will be tried in the Archbishop’s court. Until then he will remain here in a locked cell. I have asked one of the canon-physicians from Saint Leonard’s to assist our Infirmarian in tending him, in hopes that we may bring him to his right senses before his trial.”

  “Do you think it likely they may cure him?”