The Golden Crucifix
Joyce Lionarons
A Matthew Cordwainer
Medieval Mystery
©2018 Joyce Lionarons
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
York, Mid-December, 1272
Paul Ulfsson sauntered down Skeldergate smiling to himself under a weak winter sun. The dirty remnants of last week’s snow lined the street, having long been melted or trodden off the muddy tracks on either side of the gutter than ran down the center. The jettied second stories of the buildings reached for each other overhead, forever just short of touching. Ulfsson was a tall, skinny man with yellow hair braided into a long queue down his back and pale-lashed blue eyes. A scar snaked down his right cheek into his beard, emphasizing the thinness of his face and the length of his nose. If he was not what his sister would call handsome, the women never seemed to mind, and he had found that confidence made up for a multitude of inadequacies. He paused as a tavern girl pushing her way through the narrow lane approached him, admiring her trim figure and firm breasts under her thin wool gown as her cloak blew back in the wind. She had an apron tied round her waist, and her dark hair was caught up in a linen scarf. His smile widened as he caught her eye and received a flirtatious wink in return. He took her arm as she passed and guided her smoothly into the shaded entrance of an ironmonger’s shop, away from the crush of people in the street.
“Where are you going in such a hurry, my lass?” he asked.
She laughed and pulled her arm away. “The White Ram,” she said. “I’m late, and you’re making me later.” The words were harsh, but the smile wasn’t.
“The White Ram,” he said. “I’ll remember, my love.” He leaned in and gave her a kiss on her lips, heedless of the disapproving scowl on a passing priest’s face. She was still gasping in surprise as he smoothly merged into the stream of people walking past. He didn’t look back.
The crowd thinned as he drew nearer to the Old Baile. He turned off Skeldergate and made his way through the warren of streets south of the river. The sun sank behind the rooftops and as the day dimmed, he became increasingly aware of the smell of the Ouse, a damp reek made up of decaying fish and the accumulated waste of the city. He wondered how Owen Hywel could stand living in the stench of it. As wealthy as he was, he could afford to move upriver where the water ran clearer. Tis because he’s Welsh, he decided. Foreigners grow up in filth, it probably doesn’t bother them. He turned onto a quiet lane lined with stone and brick houses and a minute later was standing at Hywel’s door. He rapped once and waited.
The door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing a plain oatmeal-colored gown covered by a long apron, her hair tucked into a white wimple and veil. Her eyes brightened when she saw Ulfsson, and she smiled. “God give you good day, Master Ulfsson,” she said. “Come in by the fire and I’ll tell the Master you are here.”
He smiled and winked at her. “God give you good day! You’re looking beautiful as usual, Mistress Elly.” He stepped into the house and walked to the fireplace, holding his hands out to the flames.
“Oh, go on wi’ you,” Elly scoffed, waving a hand as if to brush the compliment away, although she smiled as she said it. “I’ll go fetch the Master.”
As she disappeared into the back of the house, Ulfsson turned his back to the fire and stood regarding the room in front of him. Thick wax candles burned on every surface despite the fading daylight coming in through glazed windows. The tapestries on the walls, the carved and inlaid chairs and benches, the tall open cabinet displaying silver plates and expensive glassware, all bespoke wealth of a kind he envied and lusted for. His practiced thief’s eyes roved the room, noting which objects were small enough to be concealed in a cloak, which would bring the greatest price, which would be least likely to be missed. Not that he was fool enough to steal from Owen Hywel, no need to kill the goose laying the golden eggs, not yet anyway. If Hywel even suspected what he’d been thinking, he wouldn’t leave the house alive. Best to bide his time, keep the man’s trust, and make his move when he was certain he’d survive.
“Paul,” said a lilting voice, “I was not expecting you. I trust there is not a problem, that you would come to my home unasked.”
Ulfsson gave a start. God’s blood, he hadn’t even noticed Hywel come into the room. He moves like a cat ready to pounce. “Nay, not a problem,” he answered, swallowing. “Call it a windfall, perhaps.”
“A windfall,” repeated Hywel. He was a compact man of medium height, with a dark complexion and piercing black eyes under thick eyebrows. Gesturing towards a table in the back of the room, he said, “Next time you will bring your windfall to the warehouse. But you are here now. Come, let us sit and discuss your windfall.”
They sat across from each other, the dark wood of the tabletop shining in the candlelight between them. Elly set a cup in front of each man and poured wine from a silver flagon as the faint noise of a child playing came from the floor above. Hywel glanced up in irritation, and Elly dropped the flagon to the tabletop to rush for the stairs. After a few moments, the noise stopped. Hywel turned his eyes back to Ulfsson and nodded, gesturing for him to begin. Ulfsson drew a woolen pouch from the sleeve of his cloak and opened it, letting its contents spill out onto the table. He grinned at Hywel and sat back, taking a sip of the wine. Hywel glanced once at the silver candlesticks, then pushed them to the side. A ring and ruby pendant were of greater interest. He lifted the pendant’s gold chain with his fingertip, watching the ruby twirl in the candlelight. He caught it with his hand and held it closer to the flame, examining the stone and its setting, then placed it on the table. Picking up the golden ring, he hefted it in his hand to gauge its weight and held it to the candle, peering closely at the gemstones set around its circuit. Placing the ring next to the pendant, he turned his black eyes to Ulfsson. “How did you come by this windfall?” he asked.
Ulfsson sat forward eagerly. “It came to me, Master Hywel, by way of a young man about to enter Saint Mary’s Abbey as a novice. He said the jewels had been his mother’s.”
“And the candlesticks?”
“Benedict Wotton’s shop.”
“I thought so, they are clearly his work. Who was the lad’s mother?”
Ulfsson thought for a moment, groping for the unfamiliar name. “Lady Anne Plankett.”
Hywel furrowed his brow. “If the jewels were his own, why not sell them to one of the jewelers on Stonegate? He would surely get a better price than you could pay. But wait, Sir William Plankett is still alive. Are you telling me that his son – his only heir, if I remember correctly – is entering Saint Mary’s, and to do so he has stolen his mother’s jewels? Tis nonsense. If the lad were entering the monastery with his father’s consent, he would need no jewels, and if not, well, I should not imagine a thief would desire the tonsure. What fairy tale is this?”
Ulfsson laughed. “The way the lad told it, his father has remarried, a young lass less than half his age – about the age of the son. The new wife is with child, and the old man is packing young John off against his will. The lad stole the jewels for spite.”
“Then
one of them is mad,” said Hywel, “or else the son is lying to you. What if the new bride loses the child? Who will be Sir William’s heir then? Is the son mad or half-witted, unfit to inherit?”
“Not half-witted, at any rate,” Ulfsson said, wondering why Hywel cared. “He drove a hard bargain for the jewels. Mad?” He shrugged. “He wasn’t raving. There was something, um, off about him. Does it truly matter?”
“Nay,” answered Hywel with a cold smile. “Twill be your neck if he’s mad enough to say where he sold the jewels, not mine. Or if the family reconciles and wants their jewels back. Risky thing, dealing with families and lunatics. How much did you say you paid for them?”
Ulfsson stammered, catching himself before he named a figure. It had not occurred to him that the strange lad might reconcile with his family and charge him with receipt of stolen goods. Hywel’s eyes bored into his, looking for the lie. “I didn’t say,” he answered finally. “I said he drove a hard bargain.” He tried to infuse his words with the confidence he no longer felt. “The question is, how much will you pay for them?”
Hywel nodded. “You’re learning,” he said. He sat back in his chair and gave Ulfsson an appraising look. “I will give you five gold coins for them.”
“They’re worth ten times that!” Ulfsson exclaimed. He tried to keep the anger out of his voice. All that about the lad, twas only Hywel trying to frighten him, to distract him from his bargaining. But he would not be bullied and condescended to by a mere Welshman and then cheated out of a fair price.
Hywel looked amused by his outburst, but his dark eyes bored into Ulfsson’s. “They are worth what you can sell them for,” he said.
“I will have ten gold coins, no less,” said Ulfsson.
“Six.”
“Eight.”
Hywel laughed.
“Seven, or I’ll sell them elsewhere.”
Hywel laughed again. “There is no elsewhere in York, you know that as well as I. Let us settle for six, and an end to it.”
Ulfsson hesitated. He knew he was being cheated, but the look in Hywel’s eyes belied his friendly tone. He had heard stories of those who had crossed Hywel that made his blood run cold. Twas six gold coins, after all, and he’d paid young Plankett only three. The lad hadn’t tried to bargain at all. Putting an amiable smile on his lips, he said, “Six. You drive a hard bargain yourself, Master Hywel.”
“As do you, Paul.” Hywel rose. “I will get your coin now.” He crossed the room to the staircase by the front door and ascended. Ulfsson remained seated, finishing his wine and pouring himself a second cup. He hadn’t told Hywel the best part of his dealings with young Plankett, that the lad had promised to keep his eyes open at the wealthy Abbey and take what he could. John Plankett was no madman, despite the strange look in his eyes and his odd manner. He was a son angry at being cheated out of his inheritance. That was something Ulfsson could understand. As he watched Hywel come down the stairs with a coffer in his hands, he let his mind go back to the girl on Skeldergate. Where exactly was the White Ram tavern?
Saturday, January 7, 1273
1
Bartholomew stood in the crowd of worshippers as the Twelfth Night procession marking the Feast of the Epiphany and the end of Christmastide inched its way past up Petergate towards the Minster. He had to admit it was an impressive sight, even if it was led by the Archdeacon instead of Archbishop Giffard, who was spending Christmas and most likely the rest of the year at Westminster, one of the three great lords ruling England until Prince Edward was safely home from Crusade and could be crowned. He would have liked to have seen the Archbishop. As it was, he had never seen so much gold and silver in all his life, crafted into crosses and candlesticks, embroidered into copes and banners, all glittering in the light of a hundred wax candles. Although the most important and richly-decorated of the clerics had now passed him -- the Archdeacon with his retinue, the Abbot of Saint Mary’s, the Priors of Saint Leonard’s Spitalhouse and Micklegate Priory -- the flickering light still illuminated the hands and faces of the chanting monks who carried them, casting the folk standing in the dirt and waste of the city streets into shadow, transforming the everyday into the miraculous, giving the hundreds of spectators of glimpse of paradise. The clear notes of the monk’s plainsong echoed from the jettied overhangs of the houses and shops. Behind him, away from the light and glitter of the procession, the streets were growing dark even though it was barely past Sext, the westering sun blocked by the closely-built shops and houses with their jettied roofs.
He wrapped himself tighter in his woolen cloak, pulling the hood up to cover his head and ears. The spectacle included all those in religious orders in the city of York, which made for a long procession in the coldest January they had had in years. He had seen more than one monk slip on the icy cobbles, though none had actually fallen. Nay, the falling was left to the worshippers celebrating the season with ale in the dark streets away from the spectacle of light. Most of those drunk were young men, apprentices and servants given a holiday to watch the procession, laughing and shoving each other in the mouths of alleys and lanes, the city’s maudlyns plying their trade among them. The pious lined Petergate itself, flattening themselves against the buildings to allow the monks to pass. Bartholomew stood among them, his back pressed against a grocer’s shuttered window. He let the chanting of the monks wash over him, closed his eyes, and tried to pray.
When his eyes opened, the nuns of Clementhorpe Priory were passing by, the Prioress in front with a double line of ten nuns behind her, each with a tall white candle, capped to stay lit in the wind. The Prioress wore the plain black habit and veil of her order, her face shining with ethereal beauty in the light of her candle. At her belt was a rosary from which dangled a golden crucifix, ten inches long, gems at the ends of the cross-span and at the top and foot. Bartholomew stared at it, transfixed. He had never seen anything so beautiful, so valuable. His eyes followed the nun as she paced slowly up Petergate toward the Minster.
2
Molly yawned as if her face would split. The day had been long, and the evening longer still. Twould have been nice to have seen some of the procession, but twas better still to bring back so much coin. Even Agnes had been pleased with her when she’d come staggering in to pay the old bitch. She couldn’t remember when she had drunk so much ale, serviced so many clients, or been up so late into the night. Christmas, maybe, or before. Thank God there would be no more men and ale tonight, for her head pounded as if twere a tambour being beaten. It had been well past Compline when old Warin Butcher had rapped on her door, braving the night watch and the curfew. God’s bones, did they get any fatter or heavier than that one? She drew the last comb from her hair and let the long chestnut coils fall down her back, then rubbed her swollen eyes. She placed the combs on the bench next to the burning rushlight in its battered tin dish, turning them to watch the bits of glass glitter like jewels. Twas pity they weren’t jewels; if they were, she would pay off Agnes and be gone from here.
A clay jug of water sat in a basin, and she moved it to the floor. Pulling the battered tin pisspot from under the bed, she lifted her skirts and squatted, drawing a quick breath as she poured cold water from the jug over her private parts and washed herself. She should not complain. Old Warin was a kindly sort and regular custom since the death of his wife, God bless her. She’d had far worse. She looked with satisfaction at the coppers Warin had paid her sitting on the bench by her combs.
Aye, Warin was kind, and gentle in his way. She struggled to her feet and stepped back from the pot, adjusting her skirts so they fell almost to the rushes strewn thinly across the wooden floor. Better Warin than some, like that monster Owen Hywel. Hywel had sneered at her, two nights ago it was -- calling her ‘old mutton’ when he wanted ‘young lamb’ -- and she not even eighteen years old. She’d been angry then, at him and at Tibb, who had laughed and agreed with him as Maeve looked on, smiling at whatever Tibb said or did. Now she thanked God Hywel had scorned her, for he
had left poor Gylfa torn and bleeding, breasts, buttocks and back. Molly shuddered at the memory. He’d beaten the girl with a leather strap as if she were a mule, bitten her breasts until they bled. And her but thirteen! When Owen had taken his pleasure and was gone, Molly had washed Gylfa’s wounds and spread the healing salve on the cuts and bites as the girl cried out in pain, her thin legs kicking wildly. Mistress Agnes had merely laughed and stuffed a pillow in Gylfa’s mouth to muffle her cries. When Molly finished, there had been feathers everywhere.
She placed the jug back in its basin and wiped her hands on her skirt to dry them, shaking her head to clear the memory from it and wincing as the pounding increased. She had wanted to sleep after Warin left, but then her brother had rapped on the door, although what he had been doing out in the dark of night she could not guess. His brown eyes had glowed golden in the rushlight as he told her that soon they would leave this life behind, leave York and build a new life somewhere in the south. There were just a few things he must take care of first. He had spun tales of how they would live in France or maybe Italy. She shook her head again, slower this time. She’d given up hoping a long time ago, and listening while her head ached and her body longed for sleep had put her on edge. He’d brought her two fine, fat mutton chops as a Christmastide gift. They sat now on the bench between the coppers and her rushlight. They would stay fine till tomorrow, the weather being so cold.
But even her brother’s excitement over his plans had not kept him from berating her, once again, for her foolishness in running away from their father’s edict that she marry Aelfric Bolt -- old and ugly as he was -- and her greater foolishness in letting herself fall into debt to Mistress Agnes, being still too innocent to realize the woman was a bawd and would force her to work off the debt on her back. She needed no one to tell her how stupid she had been. At fifteen, life with old Aelfric had been the worst thing she could imagine. When Agnes had been kind to her, she had been trusting, certain a woman would do her no harm. As if anyone in this cursed city could be trusted. She had learned her lesson, aye, learned it well, but too late.
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 1
