4
Cordwainer was silent on the walk back to Saint Martin’s Lane. Upon reaching his house, he hung his cloak and scrip on their peg and sank into his favorite chair by the window, putting his bad foot on the footstool. He listened to Thomas bustling around the house and waited for the young man to bring him wine or perhaps ale. When Thomas returned, however, he was carrying neither wine nor ale, but a wooden box containing, Cordwainer knew, a wax tablet and stylus, vellum, a pumice stone, quills, and a stoppered ink pot. He groaned loudly.
“I cannot write the roll tonight,” he told Thomas. “We do not even know who killed her yet.”
“We may never know,” replied Thomas. “If you wait, you may forget something important. Tis best to at least start the writing now.”
Cordwainer growled, but rose and walked to the table. He was tempted to exaggerate his limp and claim severe pain as an excuse, but rejected the behavior as childish; besides, Thomas would not be deceived. As Coroner, he was obliged to keep a record of all unattended deaths in the city, with the name and occupation of the deceased, the date of death and the inquest, the verdict of the inquest, and the names and occupations of the jurors. Cordwainer hated writing the accounts, but at the same time insisted on making the job more onerous than it was by including not only the legally required information, but also details about the state of the body and what it had revealed, the course of the investigation, and in murders, when possible, the name of the killer. He harbored a fond idea that such details might help future coroners in their work, even though he knew in his heart that none were likely to read them. Although he wrote the first version in wax, copying the writing from tablet to vellum was always attended by much cursing, sharpening of quills, and blotting of ink. Once he had finished, Thomas would take Cordwainer’s vellum to a professional scribe for a fair copy, which would then be affixed to the official coroners’ rolls in the Castle.
“God’s bones,” he muttered. “May a man not have rest?” He looked up at Thomas’s satisfied smile and picked up the stylus. “Bring me some ale!” he bellowed.
Wednesday, January 10, 1273
1
Brother Ambrose sat on his makeshift pallet as the sun rose, feeding small pieces of wood into the discarded tin basin he had found and repurposed as a brazier. Twas a good hiding place, this hut, and with the three gold coins he had received from Ulfsson for the vixen’s jewelry he need not worry about starving for a long time. He pulled the new brown woolen cloak he had purchased from a travelling peddler around himself and held his hands over the flames. The leather boots were stiff and hurt his feet, but they would stretch in time. No one would guess that he had once aspired to be a monk. He would do as he had planned, but then, if he wanted to leave the city -- as he must -- he would need help more than money. The bars and posterns would be watched, the gatekeepers alerted as to his description. He could try to wait at one of the bars until a large group was passing through and slip out that way, but twould be risky. He ran his hand over the top of his head, feeling the stubble where his tonsure had been. Twas not yet long enough to conceal that he had been in the Abbey, though he could cover it with his hood well enough.
Nay, once twas done, he would find Paul Ulfsson again and ask for his help. Surely a man like Ulfsson would know how to slip out of the city unseen. He had planned to offer the crucifix in exchange, but God had intervened, and he knew now that he must never treat such a holy object as if twere coin. Twas no matter, God would help him do what he must. And Ulfsson owed him something after the pittance he had paid for the jewels.
Elizabeth would be surprised to see him, he knew, though he doubted she’d welcome him. Nay, she’d had what she wanted from him. He had lusted for her from the day his father had brought her home as his bride, all chestnut hair and laughing blue eyes and bee-stung lips, although he knew twas sin. That night, and every night thereafter, he had slipped from his bed and left the house at dark to stand barefoot in his night shirt beneath his father’s window and listen to their coupling, taking what pleasure he could. One night he had stood in an early snow, spent and trembling as his father began to snore, and she had come to him, divining somehow that he was there. She had taken him to the cow byre, and after, when they lay exhausted and shivering in the muck of the stable, she had put his face to her breast and whispered, “I am your mother now.” The sin of it had washed over him, and he had seen her for what she was.
He pushed the memory away, but his body was not so easily controlled. Picking up the bundle of twigs he had lashed together, he stood and let his cloak fall to the ground. Stripping himself to the waist, he began to whip himself, rhythmically slapping the bundled twigs over one shoulder, then the other. The twigs lashed against his back, opening the tender wounds and cutting new ones. As the blood flowed down his legs, he prayed that God might release his soul from her keeping, release him from the sin she had forced upon him.
2
“Thank God, it’s warmer this morning,” Cordwainer muttered to himself as he struggled to keep up with de Bury. The wind had died down in the night and the snow was melting into slush. The icy water seeped into Cordwainer’s boots, and despite the warmth of the early sun his toes had gone numb. It did not improve his mood, already sour from the fact of the search itself and the early hour the Sheriff had chosen. De Bury had sent a messenger to Cordwainer’s home the night before, interrupting his writing and telling him to meet at Ouse Bridge at daylight. The Sheriff himself had come to oversee the search of Hywel’s house, bringing ten armed men with him. Cordwainer recognized William Hodd, Walter March, and one or two of the others. He eyed their swords uneasily. They were making their way along the river, their forms grey and shadowy in a rising mist that dampened the sounds of the city and beaded their hoods with moisture. Cordwainer tried to breathe shallowly, in part to lessen the stink of the river water, redolent with fish and the city’s garbage, and in part to keep the river damp from settling in his lungs. Illness in winter was a thing to be feared, especially at his age.
Hywel lived just within the city walls a few streets back from the quayside near the Old Baile. His house was expensively built with a ground story of stone and above it a solar of wood, its wide jettied edges supported by heavy beams to allow for more room than the close-packed streets of the city could provide. Cordwainer noticed that all the windows were glazed except one small opening directly beneath the eaves. Attic room up there, most likely, he thought. The walls gleamed white with recently applied limewash. He edged his way up beside the Sheriff as the party stopped at the door.
De Bury nodded, and William Hodd rapped sharply. They waited, and de Bury nodded a second time. This time William used the hilt of his short sword to bang loudly on the door. A moment later, it was opened by Owen Hywel himself, his black eyes glittering in the weak sun. He was wearing a thick leather jerkin over a shirt and leggings, and a sword hung at his side. Hywel scowled at William, then turned his attention to de Bury.
“What are you here for at this hour?” he asked. “Your man has damaged my door. I expect you to pay for it.”
Cordwainer stepped forward and cleared his throat. “As King’s Coroner, I am here to search for deodand in the murder of Molly Weaver,” he said. “We ask you to vacate the premises while we conduct our search.”
“You’d believe that old cunt over me?” Hywel spat. “Nay, Master King’s Coroner, I will not leave my home. Find the murderer and search his house!”
At a sign from de Bury, William and one of his fellows stepped forward to grasp Hywel by the arms. Hywel made as if to shrug them off with a sneer. At the same time, two of Hywel’s men slipped out of the door behind him. Both wore leather jerkins and helmets, and both carried naked swords. De Bury’s men halted and William, his hand on Hywel’s arm, glanced back at the Sheriff, unsure whether to fight or not. Cordwainer could see two more armed men waiting behind Hywel. He felt, rather than saw, the Sheriff’s man next to him loosening his sword in its scabbard. Hywel�
��s eyes darted from man to man as if counting, then stared levelly at de Bury. The noise and clatter of the city seemed to fade into the mist as the two men faced each other. Cordwainer breathed a grateful prayer that he had not come to face Hywel alone. He edged himself slowly backwards.
With a shout, Hywel drew his sword and struck at William’s wrist. The sound of bones splintering echoed from the overhang as blood spurted, splashing onto Hywel’s jerkin. For a moment the hand hung limp from a shred of gristle and skin, then it dropped to the ground. De Bury’s men charged forward to be met by Hywel’s confederates. Cordwainer was pushed to the rear, struggling to keep his feet. He saw one of de Bury’s men thrust a sword into the mouth of one of Hywel’s companions and withdraw it, only to drop the sword on the falling man’s body as a blade sliced into his arm. His stomach lurched, and he stepped farther back, pressing himself against the house opposite and swallowing bile. But although the fighting was fierce, the odds were in de Bury’s favor and it was soon over. Two of Hywel’s men lay dead in the street, one was gasping from a sword thrust in the belly, and the other had disappeared in the melee. De Bury had lost three men, with two wounded. Hywel, disarmed and wounded, clutched at a gash in his right arm. Four of de Bury’s men surrounded him.
“Take that scum to the Castle,” de Bury said. “And you, Walter, go with them and bring back more men to clear the dead from the street. You, boy,” -- he pointed at Thomas – “run to fetch a healer. Quickly!”
Thomas looked at Cordwainer, who nodded. Thomas turned and sprinted back the way they had come.
Cordwainer watched as a man knelt by William, tying a belt tightly around the wounded arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding. William’s face had turned grey and he seemed scarcely to be breathing. He bowed his head and prayed for William’s survival. His own heart was still hammering as if it would burst. He raised his head and saw the man pick up William’s hand from the street and lay it on William’s chest. His stomach heaved again and he fought to keep from vomiting.
“Matthew,” de Bury said, touching his shoulder. “The search.” Cordwainer swallowed again and nodded. He followed the Sheriff into Hywel’s house, glad he had not embarrassed himself. His anger that he had allowed himself to become involved in what was entirely the Sheriff’s business had swelled with the violence, and he said a prayer to calm himself.
A slender woman in an expensively-dyed deep blue gown with a wimple and veil of lighter blue stood by the hearth facing them. Her face was pale, but she held herself straight and still, her hands tucked into her sleeves. A quick movement by the top of the stairs revealed a second woman in plainer dress. Hywel’s wife seemed remarkably calm, Cordwainer thought. She must have heard the fighting. Perhaps she was simply in shock.
“Mistress Hywel,” said de Bury. The woman nodded, her eyes widening as she took in the blood on the Sheriff’s hands and clothes. “I must ask you and your servants to vacate this house while the King’s Coroner searches it.”
“Is my husband alive?” she asked.
“He is,” said de Bury. “He is being escorted to the Castle.”
“Then he has not been hurt?”
“Nay, Mistress,” answered de Bury. “He has a wound in his arm. I do not think it serious.”
The woman turned her dark eyes to Cordwainer and opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. She straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. Walking past de Bury to the staircase, she spoke. “Elly, bring young Master Owen to me. Make certain he is warmly dressed. Tell Mary and the kitchen girls to go home, and Jack as well. Then come with me. We will visit Mistress Raimer for the rest of the morning.” She looked back at de Bury. “Please send to tell us when you have finished.”
Cordwainer admired Mistress Hywel’s dignity. What must she be feeling, he wondered, to have her husband hurt and imprisoned? Her pride would let her reveal nothing, not in front of strangers. Elly came down the stairs carrying a boy of about three years old wrapped in a fur-trimmed cloak. Tears slid down her face. She placed the child on the floor next to Mistress Hywel, then disappeared into the back of the house. Cordwainer could hear her voice as she spoke sharply to the other servants. When she returned, Mistress Hywel gave a curt nod to de Bury. She reached down to take her son’s hand, and the boy stood with his thumb jammed firmly into his mouth. He looked gravely at the strange men, turning his head to watch them as his mother led him away. Cordwainer wondered what would become of them. If de Bury found stolen goods, the house could be seized by the Crown in reparations. He prayed that they would have somewhere to go.
As soon as the door closed behind the women, de Bury’s men began their search. Cordwainer gazed disconsolately around the richly appointed chamber. Many of the furnishings seemed to have come from abroad and were made in a style he was unaccustomed to. A large open cabinet displayed silver plates and goblets, along with expensive glass cups rimmed in gold. He flinched as de Bury’s men tore down tapestries to look behind them and pulled richly embroidered fabrics from chests, tossing them carelessly into the rushes on the floor. He spied a cushioned chair by the hearth and sat with his wet feet stretched towards the fire and his back to the room. He did not want to witness the destruction of Hywel’s finery.
Cordwainer had been staring into the flames for some time when he heard one of the searchers give a loud shout. A minute later, de Bury called to him from the top of the stairs. His boots creaked as he pulled himself up from the chair and walked to the staircase, his stick catching on some loose fabric. He climbed slowly to find de Bury waiting for him in what had obviously been Hywel’s bedchamber. A large bed with a carved frame stood covered in feathers from its ripped mattress, the thick bed curtains torn down and trampled on the floor. Chests full of clothing had been emptied on top of them, a cabinet with its door wrenched off lay on its side. A ladder close to the wall led to the attic room. One of de Bury’s men stood next to him, holding something in both hands. John Archer, that was the man’s name, Cordwainer thought. He stood night watch at Bootham Bar. “I’ve found it,” Archer said, drawing a leather strap between his fingers and grinning at Cordwainer. “It was just under the bed.”
Cordwainer took the strap and looked at it, brushing a stray feather onto the floor. The leather was stained dark along one edge, no doubt with blood. He tried to remember the bruise on Molly’s throat, the cuts the strap had made. There’s too much blood here, he thought, isn’t there? He wished Stefan were there to examine the strap. Was it wide enough? He couldn’t remember. He looked up at Archer, but the man had turned away and was descending the stairs. God’s bones, Cordwainer thought. Had de Bury been desperate enough to fabricate evidence? He pushed the thought away as unworthy. He didn’t like the Sheriff, but the man had always been honest. He prayed that God would forgive him his suspicion.
“Well, Matthew,” de Bury said, smiling. “A successful day all around!”
Cordwainer stared at him. “Five men have died, my lord,” he said, “and perhaps a sixth. Was what you’ve found worth their lives?”
De Bury flushed, his scar turning bright red. “Men died for Owen Hywel’s greed and thievery. Tis not my fault he would not go quietly.”
“Have you found the crucifix?”
“Nay, we have not. But we have found two other items missing for some time.” He opened his hands to display a thick gold chain with a ruby pendant and a gold ring set all around with gemstones. “There will be others in his warehouse, no doubt. Perhaps the crucifix is there.”
Cordwainer peered closely at the jewelry. The stones had been set with exquisite skill. “Very beautiful,” he said. “Who is the rightful owner?”
“Sir William Plankett, or rather his lady wife.” De Bury smiled. “Hywel would hang for these were he not to hang first for your maudlyn’s murder.”
“Tis not certain it’s the same strap, my lord,” said Cordwainer cautiously.
“A leather strap, bloodied on one edge, just as de Vale said at the inquest,” de Bu
ry replied, irritation plain on his face. “What more do you want, Matthew?”
“I want Stefan to look at this strap you’ve found, so he can verify it matches the marks he saw on Molly’s body.”
“You’ll not delay a trial for that!” de Bury snapped.
“I would not wish to deny you the pleasure of trying him first for the jewels, my lord,” Cordwainer said. “Not when I am yet unsure he is my man. His behavior at the inquest troubles me. I still do not believe he so much as knew Molly Weaver.”
De Bury stared at Cordwainer in astonishment, then laughed. “Very well, Master Coroner. Tis your office to investigate deaths. Sir William will be quite pleased with me for recovering his treasures. Once we have searched Hywel’s warehouse and ships, my task will be finished. May God help you find your killer.”
“I pray that He will, my lord,” said Cordwainer. He bowed slightly. “God give you good day.” He made his way carefully down the stairs and looked around for Thomas, who was standing in conversation with John Archer. Together they left the house. The mist had burned off the river and the day was clear. The bodies were gone, and people walked the street unheeding of the violence that had occurred. Then again, Cordwainer thought, one would scarcely know the fight had happened, save for the red slush pooled between the cobblestones.
“How is it with William?” he asked.
Thomas shook his head.
As they walked slowly back to Saint Martin’s Lane, Cordwainer pondered the Sheriff’s callousness. It came with being a fighting man he supposed, one became used to violent death. He thanked God he had never been a soldier. Yet he had attended deaths for over a decade, many of them violent, others the result of ignorance or stupidity and clearly unnecessary. He never took death lightly and had been deeply shaken by the violent deaths he had just witnessed. That de Bury could laugh with joy at finding the stolen jewelry after watching his men die astounded him. The Sheriff had expected him to react the same way at the sight of the bloody strap. God’s bones, the strap. Despite his words to de Bury, he found himself beset by doubts. Was Hywel truly innocent of Molly’s murder? His unease was compounded by a gnawing sense of guilt for having concealed the crucifix and a growing anxiety that there was something he had forgotten to do. When he did give the crucifix to de Bury, he would have to lie about exactly when he had found it. Perhaps God would forgive such a small white lie. He had meant well.
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 7
