The Pardoner's Crime

by Keith Moray

  Eventually, he had come to Wakefield, which seemed to be a veritable den of iniquity, incest and just plain ordinary dishonesty. In fact, a place no different from anywhere else in King Edward’s realm. Except that it boasted a market, a regular fair and the prospect of a great deal of trade as the feast of Corpus Christi approached, when the town guilds would be putting on the Mystery Plays that the town prided itself upon. Yes, he reflected, there was much to look forward to.

  ‘Good day, Master Pardoner,’ cried one of a group of five maids who were busily treading laundry in a trough at the back of one of the great timber-framed houses behind the parish church of All Saints. ‘Are you preaching or pardoning this day?’

  ‘A little of both,’ he said with a smile, turning in his saddle and waving the cross that he had balanced against his shoulder like a pikestaff. ‘But you already bought a pardon from me yesterday, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did. But I think I might need another after what me and my man got up to last night.’

  She was a comely, buxom girl, as indeed were the others. They worked away, showing off their legs and arms as they trod the linen of the great house in the trough of urine and lavender, giggling merrily among themselves.

  ‘Perhaps I shall be seeing you later then,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I shall be preaching near the Bull Ring this afternoon.’

  ‘We might all be there, Pardoner,’ cried the forthright one again, and they all trilled with suggestive ribald laughter.

  Albin of Rouncivale grinned and stroked his smooth beardless chin. The wenches of Wakefield seemed to be a healthy bunch with good appetites in matters pleasurable.

  He coaxed his donkey towards the Bull Ring, where the bull-baiting was held every fair’s day, but which now was packed with temporary market stalls. He threaded his way through the throng then passed the all but deserted square by the Tolbooth, which served as the town gaol, and the nearby Moot Hall. The town stocks and pillory were in the middle of the square. A miserable, unkempt-looking fellow plastered with rotten vegetables and dung was sitting there, with his feet ensnared by the great hinged boards. Beside him was a flask of water and a crust of bread. He looked up beseechingly at the sound of the donkey’s feet.

  ‘Bless me, Father?’ he asked.

  Albin of Rouncivale stared at him then slowly shook his head. A cruel smile passed over his thin lips. The fool had committed a crime and he was being punished. That was only right. After all, if he was stupid enough to get caught, that was his problem. The Pardoner made a point of never being seen doing wrong. He had no intention of ever getting caught and suffering the humiliation of the stocks or the pillory — or worse.

  For all of Wilfred the apothecary’s portly, middle-aged build, and the fact that he had been dragged up the stairs by Beatrice when he was faced with a situation requiring his skills in medicine, he responded with admirable swiftness. Although Richard and Hubert were only mere moments behind them, the apothecary had already assessed the situation and pitched in by the time they arrived on the scene.

  It was a spectacle that Hubert of Loxley had not been prepared for. Despite all of his battle experience, when he had seen men’s bodies hacked, maimed and dismembered, the sight of a young girl bleeding profusely on a pallet bed from knife cuts to her own wrists made him feel weak at the knees. Richard noticed and steadied him until he regained his strength and straightened himself with a combined look of gratitude and embarrassment.

  ‘What has happened here?’ Richard asked. ‘Why has this girl taken a knife to herself?’

  Beatrice had been standing with her arm about the shoulders of the woman who had called her upstairs, while the apothecary was applying tourniquets that he had taken out of a shoulder bag which was now discarded on the floor. At the sound of Richard’s voice she turned, her face grim and challenging.

  ‘And exactly what business is it of yours?’ Beatrice demanded. She had disengaged her arm from the other’s shoulder and now stood with her hands on her hips, effectively barring the entrance to the room. ‘Who might you be anyway?’

  ‘I am Sir Richard Lee, the Circuit Judge of the King’s Northern Realm and this is my assistant Hubert of Loxley. And since taking one’s own life is a crime against the King’s Law and against the Church, it is very much my business.’

  The girl was about seventeen years old and a blonde beauty by anyone’s standards. She was unconscious, her face almost alabaster pale, and her breathing fast becoming laboured. A glance at her and the woman with corn-blonde hair who stood wringing her bloodstained hands told Richard that they were not distantly related.

  ‘The girl is not yet dead, my lord,’ said Wilfred. ‘And she will not die this time, if I have anything to do about it.’

  ‘Well said, Master Apothecary,’ returned Richard. ‘How can we aid you?’

  ‘By helping me get her to my premises on Westgate. I have need of my wife, who will help me cauterize these wounds. Then I will prepare a restorative.’

  ‘Has … has she lost much blood?’ Beatrice asked anxiously.

  Wilfred pointed to the blood-soaked blankets on the pallet bed. ‘A few minutes longer and she might have lost a mortal amount.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘But I think that she will recover well. By bleeding herself, she has probably removed much of the black melancholic humour that had made her feel so wretched.’

  Beatrice shook her head. ‘It is not a disease humour that made her do this, Master Apothecary. It was the crime committed on her person, as we all know.’ Then before he could reply, she turned to the other woman. ‘There, Matilda, you can rest easy again. She will live and grow old.’

  The woman called Matilda heaved a sigh of relief and bent to stroke the younger woman’s brow. ‘May the Lord be praised,’ she said. ‘I will not let you out of my sight after this.’

  The apothecary heaved himself to his feet and looked at Richard and Hubert. ‘If one of you gentlemen will carry her, I will lead the way.’

  Richard was about to move forward, but Hubert stayed him with a hand on his arm. ‘I will take her, my lord.’ And, bending, he gently scooped her up as if she weighed nothing at all, then he followed the apothecary down the stairs.

  ‘This girl is called Lillian, is she not?’ Richard asked of the two women.

  They both exchanged looks of amazement.

  ‘How … how do you know this, my lord?’ Matilda asked.

  ‘I talked with a man in the Outwood. He is your man, I believe.’

  Matilda gasped and covered her face with her hands. ‘My Robin? You … you saw my Robin?’

  Beatrice quickly interjected. ‘Robert Hood is a good man. You have not harmed him, have you, sir?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘He was well and was looking at me from the other side of a longbow when we talked. He told me that your kinswoman had been raped, and I said that I, as the Circuit Judge of the King’s Northern Realm would investigate. I am a man of my word.’ He turned to the stairs. ‘My man and I shall take Lillian to the apothecary’s and I will call back later. There are certain things that I must know.’

  They rode up to the Birch Hill and passed the busy market with its many stalls and booths of timber and plaster, the superior ones having dwelling quarters above them. As they made their way through the noisy throng of people, pigs and sheep, they caught the characteristic smell of blood and offal from the shambles, where the butchers plied their trade, and the odour of fish and the noise of poultry as they neared the market cross. Finally escaping the crowd, they arrived some moments later at Wilfred Oldthorpe’s establishment on the Westgate. All the while Hubert had ridden with Lillian in his arms. He kept looking at her concernedly, as if worried that the journey could cause fresh haemorrhaging.

  There were trays of fruit and vegetables and bundles of herbs on a wooden table outside the premises, and above the open door there was a signboard with a painting of a flask of wine beside a pestle and mortar. Through the large open-shuttered window, a young woman could be seen
measuring a quantity of some sort of powder and pouring it into a jug which was being stirred by a man in his mid-twenties who was bent almost double and who had the hump of a hunchback over his right shoulder. His open mouth dribbled saliva, and he seemed to move slowly as if his wits were impaired.

  ‘Emma!’ the apothecary called through the window. ‘I have a patient. Get the cautery irons.’

  Richard stood aside to let the apothecary inside, and then Hubert followed carrying the girl in his arms.

  ‘Is your daughter used to treating wounds, Master Apothecary?’ Richard asked, as the woman responded immediately and moved quickly through into a back room.

  ‘Emma is my wife,’ the apothecary replied drily. ‘And yes, she assists me in many things. She is also skilled in midwifery, the preparation of herbs and the spicing of wines.’ He spread a hand out to indicate the shelves that reached to the ceiling of the room. They were laden with labelled jars of herbs and spices, bundles of liquorice roots and sticks of rhubarb. Against the counter were open sacks of various grains and cereals and against another wall were hogsheads of wine and shelves full of a variety of flasks. The floor was covered with reeds, lavender and fleabane stalks.

  ‘And this is our grocery business,’ he went on, with a note of pride in his voice. ‘Bring the lady through here if you would, sirs.’ Then, to the simple-looking servant, ‘Look after any customers, Gilbert.’ But seeing the flustered look on the man’s face, he snorted, then said, ‘Just call out if anyone comes in.’

  They went along a narrow corridor and entered a room with a desk, shelves with more bottles and flasks of medicines and heaps of scrolls. A small fire was burning and Emma, the apothecary’s wife was bending in front of it, prodding some instruments with a gloved hand.

  Wilfred Oldthorpe pointed to a couch beside a shuttered window. ‘Lay her down gently, sir.’

  Hubert laid her down and stroked a wisp of corn-coloured hair from in front of her eyes. ‘I would feel better if the girl would wake up,’ he said, anxiety written across his face.

  ‘She will wake as soon as I cauterize her wounds,’ said the apothecary. ‘You see if she doesn’t.’

  ‘Good, for I mean to talk to her,’ said Richard.

  Emma turned from the fire to face them. ‘I have the instruments all ready, Husband. They just need a moment longer.’

  Richard found himself studying her, for she was a singularly attractive woman of about twenty-eight. Perhaps half the apothecary’s age, he guessed. She was dressed in a green gown with an apron covered in flour and some sort of paste. Her long raven hair was braided and looped twice about her brow. Her skin was pleasingly pale with just a hint of colour in her cheeks. Her features were fine and her lips were full. Her eyes settled upon him and she smiled.

  The apothecary immediately set to work and unbandaged Lillian’s wrists. As soon as he released the tourniquets, blood started flowing again. ‘Hmm, I had hoped that I would have got away without doing this, but the blood will not stop unless I seal the wounds with heat.’ He redid the tourniquets and then took the glove that his wife proffered him. ‘Hold her, Emma,’ he instructed.

  Emma did as she had been bidden without question. Clearly, she knew what was needed and he had little doubt that she realized that Lillian had just a short time before attempted to take her own life.

  Wilfred Oldthorpe took one of the cautery irons from the fire in his gloved hand, then removed the temporary dressing and moved closer with the red hot metal. ‘Hold her hand will you, sir?’ he asked Hubert, who winced, but immediately grasped Lillian’s hand.

  As soon as the cautery iron touched and seared her flesh, Lillian’s eyelids flickered. And as the apothecary worked the instrument to seal the wound, the air was filled with the stench of burning flesh. Then Lillian’s eyes opened wide with a start, her mouth gaped and she screamed. It was but a short scream, for her body bucked most violently, only to be restrained by the surprisingly strong hands of Emma Oldthorpe and Hubert. Then she swooned and lapsed into unconsciousness again.

  The apothecary had kept working through all this. ‘Now take her other hand and I will seal the other wound.’ His eyes rose to meet those of the horrified Hubert. ‘I told you she would wake,’ he said, with a smug professional grin.

  Richard had been watching Lillian closely. Now he was all too aware that his leg was beginning to pain him quite badly again, and he could feel perspiration dripping down his face. He looked up to see Emma Oldthorpe appraising him with interest. Immediately, she tapped the apothecary on the shoulder.

  ‘Husband, I think that once we have finished with this patient, you had better see to this gentleman, too. He looks as if he may have a fever!’

  Half an hour later, while Emma and Hubert sat with Lillian, Richard let the apothecary examine his leg wound.

  ‘It is festering, but the fester has not reached the bone,’ Wilfred Oldthorpe informed Richard. ‘I have just the right treatment for this.’ And after he had cleaned the wound to remove the film of pus that had collected, he pulled a pot off a shelf and from it drew out a foul-smelling piece of rotting cowhide, which was covered in a green mould. He smoothed it over the calf wound then bound it with a bandage. ‘This mould will cleanse the pus and inflammation away. I have seen it work on many a festering wound or sore. This was an arrow wound, I take it.’

  ‘Aye, it happened at Boroughbridge. It has been fine and was healing well until a couple of days ago.’

  ‘It is damp that does it,’ Wilfred said, standing and wiping his hands on his sides. ‘It acts upon the fire element and makes a steamy humour which makes the flesh fester.’

  Richard nodded. As an educated man he was aware of the Doctrine of Humours, the principle upon which medical men worked out what sort of ailment someone had.

  ‘Bleeding you a little might also help,’ the apothecary suggested, somewhat doubtfully.

  Richard produced some coins and left them on the desk. ‘I think not, Master Oldthorpe. I lost enough blood at the hands of the monks at the Abbey of St Mary in York. It feels more comfortable already. Now, when can I talk to the girl?’

  ‘You may talk to her now,’ came Emma Oldthorpe’s voice from the door. ‘She is awake and a trifle groggy. I have given her some of your best nostrum for her pain, Husband.’

  Hubert was still sitting beside Lillian’s couch. She was leaning against a bank of cushions that Emma had provided, her wrists neatly bound, an empty goblet on a small table by her side.

  Richard introduced himself and sat down in the chair that Hubert vacated for him.

  Lillian immediately covered her face with her hands and began to sob. ‘I am such a fool,’ she whispered. ‘I … I … am so sorry. I just feel so … so unclean. I am so guilty.’

  ‘Lillian, I make no judgement about you trying to take your own life, although I am sure that you understand that the Church considers it a sin. I believe it is a matter for your own conscience,’ Richard said gently. ‘I will say that there is no reason for you to feel guilty if you have been raped. That is someone else’s crime, and if we find out who did it, I shall see that they are punished as the law decrees.’

  ‘But I am tainted! I will never be able to wed.’

  Richard put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You are not tainted. You have been wronged. Now tell me, what did you see of your assailant?’

  ‘N… nothing, my lord. It was dark and I was caught from behind. He threatened me and … and … he —’

  ‘Go on,’ Richard coaxed.

  ‘He used me from behind! Like a dog! Then he told me to be still and not look after him. I was too afraid to move a muscle until I thought he had gone.’

  ‘The villain!’ said Hubert between gritted teeth. ‘I would like to meet him — face to face.’

  ‘Did you get any sense of him?’ Richard persisted. ‘Was he big or small? Old or young? Did he smell of anything?’

  ‘I sensed nothing about him at all, my lord.’

  Richard pursed his li
ps. ‘And where did this take place?’

  ‘In the parish cemetery, my lord, three days ago.’

  ‘And it was dark. So it was after the eight bells curfew,’ Richard reasoned. ‘Why were you abroad then? You know that is against the law?’

  Lillian bit her lip. ‘I was there on my cousin’s business, my lord. She was unwell with a flux and was vomiting her insides out. I was there to meet her betrothed.’

  ‘You mean the outlaw, Robert Hood?’

  Lillian looked uncertainly from Richard to Hubert. Then her lower lip began to tremble and she once more burst into tears. At the sound of her misery, Emma Oldthorpe the apothecary’s wife came into the room and threw a comforting arm about Lillian’s shoulders. Lillian’s sobbing gradually settled down, and she sniffed and finally calmed.

  ‘Yes. Robin Hood. We call him Robin,’ she explained. ‘And that is why I feel so dirty. So guilty. I — I fear that it might have been my cousin’s betrothed who ravished me.’

  A miller’s cart was parked outside the Bucket Inn when Richard and Hubert returned. The miller himself, a work-hardened fellow of some sixty summers, bow-legged, pug-faced and ruddy of complexion was struggling through the inn door with a sack of flour. Hubert had dismounted and was a step behind him when he stumbled and went headlong, the sack slumping beside him.

  ‘Let me help you, Father,’ said Hubert, helping the miller to his feet and then lofting the sack effortlessly upon his shoulder. ‘Where would this need to be taken?’

  But the miller dusted his knees and shook his head. ‘I thank you, sir, but I am no father to thee and I shall do my own work.’ And saying, he took the flour sack from him and made his way through the busy inn towards the kitchen door.