“Certainly, Master,” said one, with a slight bow. “I believe he is in the infirmary.”
Thanking him, Cordwainer continued up the low hill to the chapel. The building was, like the infirmary, built of stone. Double oak doors stood at the top of four steep steps that Cordwainer could negotiate only with the help of Thomas. They entered and stood for a moment to let their eyes adjust to the dim light. The air was almost as cold as outside, but it seemed warmer out of the wind. Cordwainer could smell candle-wax and incense, but the aroma could not mask the sickly-sweet, cloying odor of decay. In front of the rood screen were not one, but two biers, each with a corpse laid out upon it. They crossed themselves and approached.
On the first bier lay the body of an old man, emaciated in death and sewn tightly into a shroud left open at the head. Cordwainer crossed himself and looked at the corpse for a moment. The man’s cheeks were sunken so far that Cordwainer could see his few remaining teeth through the papery skin, and the thin lips were separated by a dark black line of foul-smelling liquid. Cedric Tanner, that was his name. He had a shop, once, on Coppergate. Memento mori, Cordwainer told himself, remember you will die. Cedric had not been even ten years older than he was. He said a brief prayer for the soul of the old man and turned to the second bier, on which Molly lay still dressed in the clothes she had worn the night before. Someone had laced up her shoes, he noticed, and had tried to clean the filth off her skirts. Her hands were crossed upon her breast and her tongue no longer protruded, but there was no mistaking the dark bruise across her throat.
The chapel doors opened, letting a flash of light into the dimness. “Matthew?” a voice said quietly.
“Stefan!” The two men embraced briefly. Stefan de Vale was the third son of a minor Yorkshire nobleman. A small, wiry man with reddish-brown hair and sharp hazel eyes set in a well-proportioned, handsome face, he always seemed to Cordwainer to have boundless energy. Unlikely ever to inherit, Stefan had been packed off to Oxford in his teens with an eye towards a career in the Church. There he had studied medicine and, finding he had no religious vocation, returned to Yorkshire as a secular physician, to his father’s unconcealed dismay. Their disagreement had led to the elder de Vale’s injunction that Stefan earn his own way in the world, and so he had come to York. Unlike many university-trained physicians, de Vale did not shy away from the practical aspects of his profession, and although not formally part of the spital’s staff, he was a familiar sight in the infirmary at Saint Leonard’s in the mornings, helping and advising the canons. He reserved his afternoons and evenings for visits to wealthier, paying patients. He had assisted Cordwainer in his duties as Coroner on several occasions, mainly in the sometimes tricky business of distinguishing between accidental death and suicide. In the course of those investigations, the two men had discovered a mutual fascination with the subject of history and had become fast friends.
“I was told I would find you here,” said Stefan. “Was old Cedric a friend of yours?” He nodded towards the first bier and crossed himself. “If so, you have my sympathy. He died peacefully in his sleep. We will hold his requiem when his daughter and her husband arrive from Leeds, two days from now if the weather doesn’t keep them longer.”
“Aye, he was,” said Cordwainer. “But tis the poor girl I’m here about. Her death was not so peaceful, I’m afraid. I’d like you to look at her and tell me what you can.”
“She must have been brought here in the night,” said Stefan, taking a candle from a sconce on the wall and bending closer. “A maudlyn, by her clothing.”
“Aye,” Cordwainer replied. “Her name was Molly.”
“She was strangled, for certain,” said Stefan. “I would guess with a heavy leather strap – you can see the edges clear on the bruise. And whoever did it was tall, for he pulled the strap upwards and to the left. See how it has dug deeper into her skin here, and here, even cutting it enough to draw blood. It takes a good strong man to do that.”
Not the butcher, then, thought Cordwainer. He might be strong enough, but he would have pulled down, not up.
“The pull to the left is odd; most would pull to the right,” Stefan continued. “Your killer must be left-handed.”
“The devil’s work is done with the left hand,” murmured Thomas.
“Aye, but this was no devil. Tis a human killer we’re looking for,” said Cordwainer.
Stephan moved to examine Molly’s hands. “She fought him, though. Look how her nails are broken and the fingers bruised. Poor girl. May our Lord be merciful to her.”
He stepped back and crossed himself. “Eternal rest grant unto this man and this woman, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls rest in peace. Amen.”
“Amen,” repeated Cordwainer and Thomas. The three men stood looking at the two bodies for a moment, each in his own thoughts. Stefan returned the candle to its place. Then Cordwainer spoke. “Once more I’ve learned from you, my friend. I would not have thought to consider which was the stronger hand. I will summon you to the inquest, Stefan, if I may. We have no firm evidence to find the killer, but I’d like you to testify nonetheless.”
“I will be there. When will it be called?”
“Tomorrow morning. Best to do it soon so the girl can be buried. Would you tell the canons to have the body brought to the Castle early tomorrow?”
“I will indeed, on one condition.”
“And what is that?”
“That you come dine with me this week. I’ve purchased a book you might be interested in, a history of the Britons by a Welsh cleric. His Latin is somewhat difficult, but we can piece it out together.”
Cordwainer smiled. “I shall gladly come. God willing, my investigation will be over by then.”
Tuesday, January 10, 1273
1
Owen Hywel pulled his knife from its sheath and tested the edge against his thumb. He stood with his back to the warehouse hearth, watching the two men as they walked between the high shelves towards him, Philip with a steady, measured pace, Ulfsson gliding like a cat. Nervous as a cat too, by the look of him. Good. The two armed men who guarded the warehouse door followed silently. Hywel kept the cold fury he felt from his face, knowing that it could be read in his eyes if they were intelligent enough to see it. Failure was anathema to him, in himself or in others, and these men had failed. When they stood before him, he dropped his gaze to the knife. Slowly, he began to pare his fingernails, letting the blade cut closer and closer to the quick. Philip stood quietly, but Paul Ulfsson’s hands trembled as he watched the knife. More than nervous, he thought, the young pup is afraid. He raised his eyes from the knife and met Philip’s gaze.
“How difficult can it be,” he asked, “for a trained Sheriff’s man to find a single runaway novice? Especially when,” his eyes turned to Ulfsson’s thin scarred face, “that novice is also most likely trying to find you to sell you the most valuable object that has ever been stolen in York?”
“It has been but two days, Owen,” said Philip. “These things take time.”
“Every minute brings the Sheriff or the Abbot closer to the crucifix,” replied Hywel. “I want the novice brought to me now.” His fingers tightened on the knife.
“We do not even know for certain that the novice has the crucifix. And yet I have done everything possible to find him,” said Philip. “He has not tried to sell the cross in Stonegate or anywhere else in the city, nor is he hiding anywhere along the riverbanks. I believe….”
“What you have done and what you believe are of no interest to me,” Hywel interrupted. “Nor do I care where he is not hiding. The crucifix has not been found along the route of the procession, else we would have heard. Ergo, it has been stolen. I want the thief found. You have failed me, Philip.”
“Twill take a bit longer than we thought,” Philip replied. “Neither the Sheriff nor the Abbot has found him either. I believe he is waiting until the hunt has died down to go to Ulfsson. You must be patient. I know tis hard for yo
u.”
Hywel’s eyes blazed with sudden fire at Philip’s condescension. “You go too far. You believe you need not fear me, Philip, because you think I fear that you will betray me to your Sheriff. You forget that I am your Master. I have no fear.” He nodded, and the guards stepped forward, twisting the men’s arms behind their backs. Ulfsson made a high-pitched strangling sound deep in his throat. Hywel smiled and brought the knife up to rest under Philip’s right eye.
“There is no need for this, Owen,” said Philip. His voice was steady, but his face twitched below the knife. “I will find the novice.”
Hywel pressed the knife and a single drop of blood rolled down Philip’s cheek. Ulfsson whimpered.
“You said you would find him before,” said Hywel. “You failed. I will allow you to keep your eye if you bring the novice to me within two more days. Will you do that for me, Philip?” The voice was a caress.
“Aye.”
Hywel pressed the knife deeper and Philip flinched as the blood dripped down his face and off his chin. “Aye?”
“Aye, Master.”
Hywel dropped the knife to his side. Without turning his eyes from Philip, he said, “Let the pup run back to his chandlery, the novice could be waiting for him.” The guard holding Ulfsson released him, and he fled, letting the warehouse door slam behind him.
Hywel turned his back to Philip and stared into the fire. “Release him,” he said. He heard the guard step back, and there was silence. He counted his heartbeats; he had reached close to one hundred when he heard a whisper of fabric behind him. Steady footsteps paced down the floor, the door creaked open, then shut firmly. He fears me now, Hywel thought, and hates me. Pray God the fear is stronger than the hate.
Hywel wiped his knife on his sleeve and sheathed the blade. All his senses tingled, aroused by the moments wondering if Philip would strike. Perhaps he would visit that young whore again, what was her name? He had turned and was walking to find his cloak when a loud rapping came at the warehouse door. He paused as the guard opened it. “Bailiff for the Crown,” a voice said. “Is Owen Hywel within?”
He walked slowly towards the door. “I am,” he said.
“Owen Hywel,” said the bailiff. “You are summoned to the Castle to appear at an inquest into the death of Molly Weaver. The inquest begins in one hour.”
“Who in hell is Molly Weaver?” asked Hywel, but the bailiff was gone. God’s blood, was the whore dead?
2
By the time Cordwainer and Thomas reached the Castle Tuesday morning, most of those summoned to testify at the inquest had arrived. York Castle, built to protect the city and its environs, was close to two hundred years old although its stone walls, rising ever higher to replace the older wood, were a more recent addition, their construction filling the air with dust and the ears with the steady noise of hammers falling on chisels. As he listened to the masons at work, Cordwainer wondered if the rebuilding would ever end. The Castle had been rebuilt twice before, he knew, once after the city’s Jews -- some one hundred fifty men, women, and children -- had taken refuge in it during the riots ninety years earlier and had died in smoke and flame as the Castle burned around them. Forty years later, a great wind had come from the north and blown the Castle down. Cordwainer had been but a child, but he well remembered the roar of the wind down the narrow streets of the city, the crash of wood and even slate as roofs gave way. Huddling with his parents in their bedchamber, he had been convinced the end of the world had come. Now they were finally building the walls to last, and he wished twere not in his lifetime, for the perpetual pounding never failed to give him a headache. Despite the noise and dust of the construction, however, both the Tower and the other Castle buildings were in constant use. The Castle walls enclosed stables, houses, a barn, a smithy, and even a brewhouse. The Sheriff and the Exchequer had their offices in the Castle hall, and both local and circuit courts were held in its chambers. The King’s jail was housed within the walls, with cells for the most dangerous criminals deep below.
Cordwainer sat in the Coroner’s chair at the front of the inquest chamber and watched as Molly’s body, supported only by a woven pallet, was carried in and laid gently on the trestle table next to him. Sconce torches burned on the wall behind him, lighting the body and adding a bit of warmth to the frigid air, supplemented by braziers smoking towards the back. The jury -- comprising Stefan, Rolf, and the men who had been in the Shambles that night, along with a few men summoned to make up the number whom Cordwainer knew to be fair and honest in their judgments -- took their places on the bench. The Sheriff of York, Rupert de Bury, entered and sat on a dais opposite them, a candle in an iron candlestick beside him.
Cordwainer noted with some amusement that Mistress Agnes looked almost respectable, dressed in a long gown of russet wool and with her hair tucked into a demure brown wimple. She simpered coyly at the men surrounding her, although neither her dress nor her flirtatious manner did anything to mediate the hard look in her eyes. Gylfa and Maeve hovered near her, while Tibb slouched in the shadows next to a brazier in the back. There were few other spectators, only a small group of women huddled together, maudlyns by the look of them, several butchers and shopkeepers from near the Shambles worried about violence in their neighborhood, and the usual assortment of curiosity seekers drawn by the presence of death.
As the finder of the body, Rolf testified first, swearing that the corpse laid out before them was the same that he had found in the Shambles. The other jurors, those who had responded to the hue and cry, were called to examine the body and swear the same. Although as a woman she was barred from serving as juror, Mistress Agnes could testify and did, saying that the deceased was one Molly Weaver, eighteen years old, who had lived on her premises for two years. She repeated her accusation of Owen Hywel, at which de Bury looked up in sudden interest. Cordwainer wondered what the name meant to the Sheriff. He squinted through the gathering smoke from the braziers, but could not find anyone he thought could be the Welshman. He barely listened as Agnes further petitioned to have Molly’s clothing returned to her by the canons once Molly was sewn into her shroud, to have as a remembrance of the poor girl whom she had loved as a daughter. Warin Butcher, trembling as his name was called, testified that he had been the last to see the maudlyn alive. He blushed a deep scarlet as one of the spectators made a crude remark to his neighbors and raised a general laugh.
Stefan’s testimony was a repetition of what he had told Cordwainer the previous day, and he earned a scowl from Bartholomew when he emphasized the height of the killer. Thomas recounted the finding of the bare footprints, and although Cordwainer testified as well, he did not mention the golden crucifix. He felt some guilt over the omission, but reasoned that there was nothing tangible connecting the cross with Molly’s murder aside from proximity, and if he were ever to find the killer, the crucifix might prove useful. He did not want it returned to the Abbey treasury just yet.
He was about to call for a verdict when the Sheriff spoke up. “Master Owen Hywel, you are just in time for your testimony,” he said. “How kind of you to join us.” Cordwainer studied the swarthy, dark-haired man who stood at the door, his eyes glittering in the torchlight. He was dressed in a richly dyed and embroidered gown with soft leather boots. As he stepped forward his eyes swept the room and found Agnes, and he stared malevolently at her under massive dark eyebrows. Cordwainer cleared his throat and the dark eyes turned to him. “Master Hywel, where were you on the night of January the seventh?” he asked. “Twas the Feast of the Epiphany.”
Hywel’s gaze moved to the figure of Molly lying on the table. “What is this about?” he demanded. “What has that bawd accused me of?”
Cordwainer repeated his question.
“I was at home,” Hywel said. “I stayed up late working on my ledger. I had a wagonload of goods come in just before the snow, and I needed to reconcile my accounts.” The Welsh lilt in his voice presented a strange contrast to his scowling face.
“I
s there anyone who can swear to that?” Cordwainer asked.
“My man Ulfar was there,” Hywel replied. “He’ll swear.”
“He was awake?” asked Cordwainer. “He would know if you left?”
Hywel flushed. “I said he will swear to it.”
“And you swear that you did not kill Molly Weaver?”
“I never harmed the girl, not so as to kill her!”
Cordwainer paused. Not so as to kill her, he thought. Does the man think we’re speaking of Gylfa? “Master Hywel,” he said. “Would you be so kind as to examine the body?”
Hywel strode to the front of the chamber and glanced down at Molly. He raised his head and stared at Cordwainer. “Who is this woman?” he asked. “I’ve never seen her before in my life!”
Cordwainer nodded. “You are certain?”
“Of course, I am,” Hywel snapped. “Did you not hear me?”
“And yet you have visited Mistress Agnes’s establishment, have you not?”
Hywel looked speculatively at Cordwainer as if judging what he might know. He turned again and gazed down at Molly, crossing himself and seeming to consider. “Aye, perhaps I’ve seen her there. I do not know her.”
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 5
