The Pardoner's Crime

by Keith Moray

  ‘Robert Hood, my lord.’

  Sir Thomas leaned forward, his face suddenly suffused. ‘The contrariant! Then why is this woman not already in the Tolbooth herself?’

  ‘Because this court will not permit it, Sir Thomas,’ Richard said patiently, yet firmly. He went on, ‘You were ill the night of the alleged rape?’

  Matilda looked down, her face registering both anxiety and embarrassment. ‘I had a flux of the bowels, my lord.’

  ‘And your cousin went out to meet someone after the curfew time. Who was that?’

  Matilda looked at him beseechingly.

  ‘You need have no fear in answering,’ Richard urged. ‘You are safe here. We merely wish to get to the truth.’

  ‘It was to meet my Robin.’

  ‘Outrageous!’ Sir Thomas thundered.

  ‘You may stand down,’ Richard said. ‘Bailiff, now call the maid, Lillian Fenton.’

  It was clear to all that Lillian was reluctant to appear before the court. Most people were aware of her bandaged wrists, and the reason for the bandages. Richard tried to put her at her ease. Apart from her blue gown and grey wimple, she looked very much a younger version of Matilda Oxley.

  ‘Your cousin tells us that you went to meet her betrothed. Where were you to meet him?’

  ‘In the town cemetery, my lord. But I could not see anyone. And then … and then —’

  ‘Tell us,’ Richard urged.

  ‘I was grabbed from behind, sir,’ Lillian replied, her voice quavering as she replied tremulously, tears only a moment away. ‘Someone grabbed my neck and forced me to be still. I … I believe that he would have snapped my neck. And then — he lifted my clothes and entered me — from behind, like a dog!’

  ‘He used you, and then left you?’

  ‘I … I didn’t dare move for many minutes, my lord. But when I did dare to look up, he had gone.’

  ‘Do you know who this man could have been?’

  Lillian’s voice quaked. ‘I … I do not know —’

  ‘Who do you think it was?’ Richard asked sternly. ‘You are here under oath and must answer truthfully before God.’

  ‘I … I think it could have been … Robin.’

  Matilda Oxley gasped, and then cried out in rage. ‘Liar! Traitor!’ And it looked as if she would throw herself upon her kinswoman, except that Hubert took a step forward in case.

  ‘Why do you think this?’ Richard asked.

  ‘I had seen Robert hold a deer just like that, my lord. By the neck, so that it couldn’t move.’

  Matilda began pushing her way through the crowd but was intercepted by Beatrice, who threw her arms about her.

  Richard rapped his gavel. ‘This court accepts that Matilda Oxley may be justifiably distraught. She may leave and may go back to the Bucket Inn.’

  Sir Thomas let out a gasp of surprise. ‘Ah! I see what this is all about now. Clever, Sir Richard, clever! It was the contrariant, Robert Hood. And you think he was trying to silence the Pardoner. To make it look as if he was meting out punishment when it was really to conceal his own crime.’

  Lillian Fenton had dissolved into tears. Richard rapped his gavel. ‘I am adjourning this court for today. Bailiff, record that it is the court’s urgent desire to speak with the outlaw Robert Hood.’

  For the first time, Sir Thomas laughed. ‘Oh don’t worry about that, Sir Richard. I will be true to my word. I will bring this dog before you.’

  The court gradually filtered out of the great oak-beamed hall, and Richard noted that Emma Oldthorpe had gone quickly to comfort the distraught Lillian. He watched her guide the younger woman out of the court, with her arm about her shoulders.

  Lady Wilhelmina caught Richard’s sleeve as her father left. ‘Don’t you think that you were a little cruel this morning, Sir Richard?’ she asked, with one eyebrow raised sardonically.

  ‘I am afraid that sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, my lady. And sometimes to learn the truth, you have to be even crueller still.’

  10

  Between them, Richard, Hubert and John of Flanshaw spent a good three and a half hours rounding up, interrogating and recording the accounts of all the people who had bought pardons from Albin of Rouncivale. There were some fifty-eight in total, and by the end of the session the bailiff’s writing hand felt cramped and his wrist was beginning to pain him.

  The reasons for purchasing the pardons varied immensely, although for the majority they seemed banal to Richard. The folk of Wakefield seemed to have felt guilty about all sorts of misdemeanours, including being suspicious of a new husband, wishing a plague of warts on a neighbour, and wishing impotence on a rival in love. For the most part Richard felt that he could dismiss most of these, yet for others, such as the baker who was worried about having given short measure to his customers, and the draper who was concerned about giving less than the legal length of cloth to his customers, he made a mental note to instruct the bailiff to arrange for them to have random checks. And for those who had clearly made up reasons that were fabrications, he decided to let them depart in the belief that they had successfully fooled the circuit judge. When they were recalled over the next day or two, he would ensure that they told him the truth.

  Richard dismissed the bailiff and sent Hubert out to bring back a couple of meat pies and a flask of ale, which they ate in the Roll’s Office.

  ‘I am going to return to the castle tonight, Hubert,’ Richard said, as he brushed crumbs of pastry from his tunic.

  Hubert looked crestfallen.

  ‘But I want you to stay at the Bucket Inn,’ he went on. Hubert immediately cheered up. ‘You need to keep an eye on Matilda Oxley and the maid, Lillian Fenton. I fear that they may not be over-friendly from now on.’

  ‘It would be a mystery if they were, my lord.’ Hubert took a gulp of ale. ‘I was surprised that you brought it all out in the open court.’

  ‘It had to be done, Hubert.’ Then, without explaining further, he opened his purse and handed over a number of coins. ‘This should pay for your bed tonight.’

  ‘It will certainly pay for a mug or two of ale, my lord.’ Hubert grinned, for he hoped that his bed would not cost him over-much, if anything, that night.

  Richard went from the Moot Hall down the Westgate towards the apothecary’s premises. Gilbert, the Oldthorpe servant was laying fresh reeds on the earthen floor of their undercroft when Richard entered. Seeing Richard, his eyes opened wide with alarm and he strove hard to get words out of his dribbling mouth.

  Richard felt sorry for his discomfiture and tried to calm him with gently upraised palms. ‘Have no fear. Your name is Gilbert, is it not?’

  The hunchback nodded his head vigorously, a trail of saliva dropping from his lips.

  ‘Is your mistress in?’

  There was the crunch of a foot on a reed and Richard turned quickly, expecting to see Emma Oldthorpe, but instead found himself facing the apothecary himself.

  ‘You wished to see my wife, Sir Richard? I am afraid that she has been called to a childbirth.’ He gestured at Gilbert, who hobbled gratefully from the room.

  ‘No,’ Richard lied. ‘I came to thank you both for your care. I think that my wound is well healed now, and I came to pay you for your services.’

  ‘We are always pleased to be of service, my lord.’

  Richard opened his purse and drew out more coins. Already his mind was thinking of ways that he could legitimately call upon the apothecary’s wife.

  Hubert had gone to the Bucket Inn as quickly as he could. He had a powerful thirst on him and somehow felt at home as soon as he pushed open the door of the inn and entered its smoky, crowded interior.

  The surly-looking potman, whose name Hubert had since learned was Hap, presumably on account of his welcoming demeanour, was knocking the spike out of a fresh barrel of ale. ‘Mistress Quigley is upstairs, Master Hubert,’ he announced. ‘She is with the upset womenfolk. And small wonder they are upset, what with all the misery that has befallen t
his inn of late.’

  Hubert ordered a jug of ale and offered to buy Hap one as well, which was greeted with a curt nod and a grunt of thanks when he tossed a coin on the barrel top. His drink appeared a few moments later, and Hubert took it and sat at a vacant table.

  ‘There is a bad smell in the Bucket today,’ came a deliberately loud voice from a group of men at the neighbouring table. Hubert recognized two of the group of five as having been with George-a-Green the pinder the other day when they threatened to eject him. The speaker was the one with a cloth round his head, covering one eye. ‘Beatrice Quigley is letting all sorts of scum in here these days.’

  Hubert slammed his mug down noisily. ‘Was that remark meant for me, One-eye?’

  ‘It might have been — if you are the cause of the smell!’ retorted the other.

  An older man with a bald pate prodded him in the side. ‘Have a care, Hector. That is the judge’s man,’ he whispered to him.

  The man called Hector shrugged him away. ‘I know who he is,’ he said, his voice now noticeably slurred. ‘I don’t like the way that judge handles things, and I don’t like the way he didn’t come out with it and say what everybody knows.’

  ‘You should listen to your wise friend,’ said Hubert. ‘And you ought to hold your counsel.’

  ‘Why? What you going to do? Have me put in the stocks, like poor old Will Scathelocke?’ The other three members of the group made placating noises to Hector, but he waved them aside as well. ‘Even that wicked fool Sir Thomas Deyville saw what was going on, but what did your judge do? Nothing!’ he sneered. ‘And the Hood is free.’

  At this there were murmurs of agreement from the others at the table, as well as from several other tables. It was clear to Hubert that there was a tide of feeling against the man called Robert Hood.

  ‘He raped Lillian,’ someone cried.

  ‘He murdered Scathelocke!’

  ‘And that Pardoner, the poor sod!’

  And almost like a flame that suddenly erupted from a smouldering ember, the anger in the room became palpable. And it was stoked up by the inebriated Hector.

  ‘Enough!’ cried Hubert, jumping to his feet, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. ‘The man called Robert Hood is wanted for questioning, as you all heard this morning. But my master, Sir Richard Lee, is a Sergeant-at-Law; he knows every scrap of the law, and the fact that he hasn’t accused this Robert Hood is because there is not enough evidence against him.’

  Hector rose unsteadily to his feet and faced Hubert. ‘And I say he’s not as clever as you think. I say —’

  Hubert shot a hand out and grabbed Hector’s tunic. ‘You have had too much to drink, fellow.’ With his other hand, he slapped him hard across the cheek. ‘No one insults my master in my presence. Now I give you one chance. Go home and get sobered up. And next time we meet, be polite!’

  He gave Hector a gentle push as he released him, but he stumbled and somersaulted over a stool to lie on his back. Then he was on his feet and rushing at Hubert with his arms flailing like windmills. But Hubert merely sidestepped, ducked a wild punch then delivered a couple of short blows to his midriff before following up with an almighty wallop that lifted him off his feet and catapulted him onto the table among his cronies.

  ‘Does anyone else want to insult my master or the King’s law?’ Hubert demanded.

  In answer there was a mighty belly laugh from the door. Hubert looked round to see the burly figure of George-a-Green, the pinder, standing half bent with amusement. ‘A fair beating you have given Hector there,’ he said, advancing towards him.

  ‘Go … get … him, George,’ rasped Hector.

  ‘Why?’ returned the pinder. ‘I heard what he said, and I heard what you said. And if I had been here earlier, I would have cuffed you myself. You bloody fool. Robert Hood is no murderer. This judge seems to have some idea of justice. Now get you home, Hector, before Beatrice Quigley sees you and really boxes your ears.’

  Hector sneered and made suggestive thrusting movements with his pelvis. ‘I’ll box her, and no mistake.’

  At this Hubert took a step towards him, but he was restrained by George-a-Green.

  ‘Just get out now, Hector Lunt, before I put out your good eye myself!’ the pinder replied threateningly. ‘Beatrice Quigley is a good woman, you remember that.’

  As Hector’s cronies helped him towards the door, the pinder extended a ham of a fist to Hubert. ‘I like the way you disport yourself, stranger. That Hector is not as bad as he sounds, except when he drinks too much. But come now, let us have a drink together.’

  Half an hour later, and three mugs of ale each found Hubert and George-a-Green the best of friends, all previous animosity forgotten. It surprised Beatrice Quigley when she came downstairs and found them laughing and joking together.

  ‘This is a good fellow, Beatrice,’ George-a-Green said. ‘He knows how to fight and set Hector Lunt right when he went on about Robert Hood being a murderer.’ He drained the last of his ale and stood up. ‘And now I must be away.’ He slapped Hubert on the shoulder and blew a kiss at Beatrice, then departed.

  Beatrice sat in the pinder’s vacated seat. ‘Now there is a turnaround. I was sure that you two would end up tearing each other’s arms off.’ She took a sip of his ale. ‘I must say that I am pleased. And I am pleased that the judge only wants to talk to Robin Hood. That Sir Thomas Deyville would like to see him brought in dead.’

  ‘And how go things here, Beatrice?’ Hubert asked.

  ‘Do you mean with us?’

  ‘Aye, with us, my sweet. I tried to call in and tell you that my master had ordered me away last night, but —’

  She silenced him with a kiss that took him by surprise. ‘I know. Hap told me later. And so maybe we can make up for it tonight?’

  Hubert stroked her knee through her gown and returned her kiss. ‘Not even my master could stop me tonight. But to return to the other matter: how are things between Matilda and her cousin Lillian?’

  Beatrice sighed. ‘I wonder if things can ever be right between them. Matilda is furious and will not talk to Lillian. And yet Lillian feels that her kinswoman should at least listen to her. I feel like the pig in the middle.’

  Hubert put his hand round her waist and squeezed. ‘No one could ever call you anything so base, fair Beatrice. Tonight, I shall show you how much you are admired.’

  Beatrice kissed him again and gently ran a hand up the inner surface of his thigh. ‘I will hold you to that promise, my fine lad,’ she replied, with a sweet smile. Then she clamped a hand on his thigh and whispered in his ear, ‘But if you disappear again like last night, I promise you you’ll end up as well equipped as was that Pardoner!’ And with that she was up and off collecting mugs.

  Lady Alecia seemed to be in pain at dinner that evening. Even grasping her knife seemed to cause her discomfort, Richard noted.

  ‘My joints have pained me these last two years,’ she explained, as she produced a small vial and poured a powder into her wine goblet. ‘If it was not for Master Oldthorpe and his potions, I doubt if I would be able to get out of bed some mornings.’

  ‘My mother is a fine musician and that is what really pains her,’ Lady Wilhelmina added. ‘She used to play the lute, but can no longer.’

  Richard pointed to the empty minstrel’s gallery. ‘Where are our musicians, by the way?’

  ‘They are practising in Wakefield,’ Lady Alecia said. ‘For the mystery plays. They are only a few days away, after all.’

  ‘Ah yes, I supped with Father Daniel last night and he told me much about the mysteries.’

  ‘Yes, we missed you last night,’ Lady Alecia remarked, with a faint smile in her daughter’s direction. ‘Is that not so, Wilhelmina?’

  In answer, Lady Wilhelmina gave a curt nod. ‘I am sure that Father Daniel provided stimulating conversation.’

  ‘He did indeed,’ replied Richard. ‘Yet I had need to talk to him. I had to ask him some pertinent questions about my investig
ations.’ Sir Thomas gulped some ale and then gave a short laugh. ‘I am sure you did, Sir Richard. I have to admit that I had doubts about you when you first sat in the court. I thought you were too lenient, but this morning I saw another side. Methinks that you have a shrewdness about you.’

  Richard bobbed his head in acknowledgement of the compliment.

  ‘And while I may not be the shrewdest of fellows,’ Sir Thomas went on, ‘yet I have a certain cunning. I used that cunning today when I set about the job of catching the outlaw Robert Hood.’

  ‘Another trap?’ Richard asked.

  ‘No trap. Rather a disengagement.’

  Richard raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘You will have to explain, I fear.’

  ‘I had words with Midge the Miller. His son is a contrariant and a member of the Hood’s band, as you know. Well, I told him that if he wanted his son to be pardoned, he had the means in his hand. All he had to do was to get word to him that Robert Hood was wanted for murder and for the rape of Lillian the maid.’

  ‘That is cunning, Sir Thomas, but not entirely legal.’

  ‘Damn this legal nonsense. We need a result. These dogs are traitors, but no man likes a rapist. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they didn’t cut off his balls and send him to us in a sack.’

  Richard took a deep breath and willed himself not to lose his temper at his host’s table. ‘But I need him alive. I need to talk to him.’

  Sir Thomas took another hefty swig of ale, and then wiped his beard with the back of his hand. ‘I shouldn’t worry, Sir Richard. After all, as we heard this morning, a man can live without his balls.’

  At that he fell into a laughing fit, despite the blushes of his wife and daughter.

  Richard lay on his bed later that evening, staring at the circle of light on the plastered ceiling above him. The castle had long since retired to bed and he himself had unsuccessfully tried to get to sleep. Yet there were so many thoughts that kept intruding upon his consciousness. So many unanswered questions.