“If he truly exists,” said a younger maudlyn with a laugh. “She’s been put in the stocks for looking for custom on Stonegate twice now.” Edyth gave her a sharp look, and the maudlyn stared back in defiance. “Tis true, she was!”
Cordwainer looked past them to see Thomas returning with the young maudlyn, holding the brazier carefully between his wool-wrapped hands. “Did none of you see her after Tierce yesterday?”
When all had shaken their heads, he said, “I’ll need the names of the men here for the inquest. You’ll be summoned as jurors.”
“Nay!” said one of the men by Rolf. “Twill shame us in front of all for being here. We saw nothing save the body after twas found.” He looked around to see the other men nodding and moving away from the alley. Rolf raised a questioning eyebrow at Cordwainer, who shrugged and shook his head. He had recognized several of the men and could find them again if necessary. Whoever had done the killing was long gone. He snorted as several of the maudlyns began taunting the fleeing men, some with good humor, others maliciously. Only Edyth and the young maudlyn Lizbeth looked troubled by the death.
“Will you see to the burial?” he asked Edyth. “Is there a priest who can be called?”
Edyth looked at him as if he were mad. “Tis no priest I know of will bury a maudlyn in his churchyard and she died unshriven,” she said.
“Aye. I’ll have Rolf send to Saint Leonard’s,” he replied. “The canons will bury her.”
Edyth nodded, biting her lower lip. “Perhaps we can find the coin for a coffin if all the women on the lane will donate. I will try.”
An unpleasant odor of cooking meat and hot urine rose from within the alley. Cordwainer turned to see that Thomas had placed the brazier on the ice next to Nelly’s face. “Nay, lad, don’t burn her!” he shouted, sliding his way along the side of the building towards him. “Pull it away, tis too close.”
Thomas jerked the brazier to the side as Cordwainer knelt beside him. “I’m sorry, Master,” he said. “She’s not truly burnt, I don’t think.”
“Aye, but she’s cooked – see, the skin is cracking. She would have burned. Move the brazier farther down now, keeping it well away from her. Remember that clothes will burn sooner than flesh. Tis best to go slowly.” He reached to turn Nelly’s discolored face from the murky liquid and suppressed a gasp. The resemblance to Molly was striking, not merely in the blue eyes and chestnut hair, but in the shape of the nose and curve of the chin. But she was older, likely well into her forties, though given the hard life of a maudlyn she could have been younger. He wondered if twas possible she was Molly’s mother.
Remembering Stefan’s words about Molly’s killer, he gently pulled the skin around the bruised wound on her throat back, trying to gauge the depth. Aye, twas clearly deeper on the left side. It looked to have been made by a chain of some kind rather than a strap, for where it had not cut into the skin, the imprint of small links was visible. He closed Nelly’s eyes and looked up to see Rolf standing in the entrance. “If you can move her,” Rolf said, “the lay brothers are here.”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer with a glance at Thomas. “She’ll move.” He stood with a groan and stepped through the rancid meltwater to the street. “Thomas will need your help to carry her.”
He stood with Edyth and Lizbeth as Rolf and Thomas carried Nelly from the alley. They crossed themselves as the body emerged into the light. “Where’s her purse?” asked Edyth. “She’s been robbed!”
“What purse?”
“She wore a purse, a leather pouch, on a chain around her neck. Kept it tucked into the front of her gown. Tis gone.”
“Might she have left it in your kitchen?” asked Cordwainer.
“Nay, she never left it anywhere, never took it off,” Edyth replied. “Twas nearly all she owned.”
“Twas what he strangled her with,” said Cordwainer. “You say ‘nearly all.’ Did she leave anything else with you when she went out? I want to see her belongings.”
“Aye,” said Edyth. “When she’s gone.”
They stood in silence as the lay brothers put the body into their cart. Rolf nodded, and the carter flicked his whip. The horse trudged down the lane at a walk. When the cart turned on Petergate, Cordwainer followed Edyth across the lane, Thomas and Lizbeth following. He could see that the house had once been two separate structures, one stone, one timber, rebuilt into one by the addition of wattle-and-daub walls at front and back connecting the two. Edyth opened the door on the timber-built side and led them through to what had once been the front room of the stone house. The floor demarcated the original parts, one side tiled and slightly raised, the other wooden, the middle hard-packed dirt. Two pillars, one stone, one timber, had been left to hold up the sagging ceiling. Narrow staircases on either side led to the solar. Plain woolen tapestries divided the rooms into a number of tiny chambers, and Cordwainer wondered how many maudlyns lived and worked in the house.
In the kitchen, Edyth pointed to a bundle pushed into the far corner next to a rolled straw pallet. “Tis Nelly’s,” she said. “Twas all she had.”
Cordwainer lifted the bundle to the worktable as Edyth pushed knives and bowls away to make room. “Tis clothing,” he said as he unwrapped it.
“I will bring it to Saint Leonard’s,” said Edyth. “Twill be something to put on her for the inquest that don’t smell like the piss she were lying in.”
“Nay, she must remain as she is for the inquest,” replied Cordwainer. “Tis so the jurors know how she was found.” He picked up a tiny cloth bag laced shut at the top. Inside was a twist of pale hair tied with string, two baby teeth, and a tiny silver ring. “Did Nelly have a child?” he asked.
“Not that she ever spoke of,” said Edyth, peering over his shoulder. “Long dead, I’d imagine, poor thing.”
Cordwainer slipped the bag into his scrip. “For her burial,” he explained. “If you hear anything at all about last night, please send word to Saint Martin’s Lane. You’ll be summoned to testify at the inquest.”
“Aye,” said Edyth. She shook her head sadly over the armload of clothing. “Poor Nelly, may God have mercy on her.”
“And on us all,” said Cordwainer. He made his way out of the house and sighed. Twas getting warmer with a blue sky and bright sunlight, but he had seen clouds waiting in the north from the bridge. If he hurried, he had just enough time to go home and change from his filthy clothing before he must be back by Stonegate for his dinner with Stefan. Perhaps twould not snow till he was home again.
3
Most of the early-morning ice had melted by the time Cordwainer walked the wet streets to the small house Stefan rented from the Church on a quiet lane off Stonegate. Although only a few blocks from Grope Lane, this was a pleasant neighborhood of brick and stone buildings owned mostly by Church authorities and comprising bookshops, goldsmiths, and jewelers’ shops on Stonegate itself, with housing on the surrounding streets for the wealthier secular clergy and those of the learned professions who, like Stefan, were not attached to one of the religious houses. The jutting second stories of the buildings shaded the streets from the sun, and he kept one eye on the muddy cobbles for any remaining patches of ice. Twould not do to slip and fall at his age.
The two men sat to eat in a quiet room at the back of the house, where on a warm day, Cordwainer knew, they would have looked out on a small garden, but the cold kept the shutters closed tight for winter. A branch of candles stood in the center of the table, lending a warm glow to the room. Stefan’s housekeeper Annie bustled in and out with platters of food and ale, and for a while the men were too busy eating to have time for talk. Finally, Annie cleared the plates away, leaving a large flagon of hot spiced wine in their place. Cordwainer leaned back and smothered a belch.
“A feast, as usual,” he said. “What a treasure your Annie is!”
“Indeed, she is,” said Stefan. “Now, tell me how your investigation fares.”
Cordwainer snorted. “It has become, well, compl
icated.” He described the finding of Nelly’s body that morning and her odd resemblance to Molly. “Twas the same killer, I’m certain of it. Twould seem unlikely there are two left-handed men strangling maudlyns in York.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not,” said Stefan. “Tis a dangerous life the maudlyns lead. Look at the differences between the killings. Nelly’s killer lured her into the alley to steal her pouch and strangled her with her own chain. Molly wasn’t robbed as far as we know, didn’t intentionally go out to meet with a man, and her killer brought the strap with him. Nay, I think there are two killers. You know why Nelly was killed. If you are to find Molly’s killer, you need to find out why he killed her.”
Cordwainer was not convinced, but did not argue. He stared down into his wine. He might as well tell Stefan all of it. “Tis not the only complication that has arisen,” he said. “I was certain I’d found the key to unlock the mystery, but now I’m thinking my key may have nothing to do with Molly’s murder at all.” He told the story of finding the crucifix and went on relate his conversation with the Sheriff about its disappearance, the Prioress, and the arrogant young novice. He was drawing a breath to continue when Stefan interrupted.
“I had heard about the loss of the crucifix already, and I am glad you have found it and kept it safe,” he said. He flashed a sudden grin at Cordwainer. “And I know who that novice was. Monks do talk, whatever their vows may say.”
Cordwainer sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”
Stefan poured wine into both their cups and settled back into his chair, holding his cup with both hands. “I was called to the Abbey two days after the Feast of the Epiphany, that is the day after Molly was killed. It was after I saw you at Saint Leonard’s. One of the older brothers at the Abbey is quite ill, and the Infirmarian wanted my advice. It was obvious that something was wrong – all the monks seemed tense, and they were warier of me than I had ever seen them. I asked the Infirmarian what was going on. He shouldn’t have told me, and of course I really shouldn’t have asked, but I think he wanted me to know that this was all quite out of the ordinary. Apparently, the young man who insulted Prioress Alyse – Brother Ambrose, he’s called -- has been nothing but trouble since he was accepted as a novice. He insists on undertaking extreme fasts and self-mortifications without permission of the Abbot -- wearing the hair, whipping himself, keeping extraordinarily long vigils -- to the point of damaging his health. He shows contempt for the brothers unwilling to follow his lead. He argues with his superiors and has been punished for disobedience to Abbot Simeon himself. This affair about the Prioress was probably the last straw.”
“Will they allow him to take his final vows?” asked Cordwainer. “Surely, he hasn’t the humility to become a monk, despite his penitential practices.”
“That’s a moot point, now,” said Stefan. “It turns out Brother Ambrose left the Abbey that night and hasn’t been seen since.”
“I can’t imagine they’ll be looking too hard for him,” remarked Cordwainer.
“That all depends. If his family made a large donation to have him admitted to the novitiate in the first place, they’ll be looking for him rather than having to return the coin. Saint Mary’s is one of the wealthiest houses in the kingdom; they didn’t get that way by being free with their treasury.
“And as you might expect,” Stefan leaned forward, “there is talk among the monks that Brother Ambrose is to blame for the loss of the crucifix. Tis said that because he was unable to take it from the Prioress before the procession, he must have taken it sometime during the procession -- twas why he ran away the night of the theft. I’m surprised de Bury didn’t mention that to you.”
“Is it possible the Abbot didn’t tell him? He did say that Simeon would want it kept quiet if there were a thief in the Abbey,” Cordwainer said. “I think the good Abbot hopes de Bury will find the crucifix on the procession route; he’s had the bailiffs searching for two days now. I also believe the Abbot will try to find -- Brother Ambrose, did you say? -- himself. Twill be a scandal either way, of course, if word gets out.”
“I expect the entire matter will be kept as quiet as anything can be in this city,” Stefan observed. “But forgive me, Matthew, I interrupted your tale. What happened with the bawd’s accusation of Owen Hywel?”
Cordwainer continued his story. When he had finished, Stefan was staring at him with a troubled look on his face. “But that’s terrible! May God have mercy on William March, aye, and on the rest of the dead.” He crossed himself. “Did March have a wife and children?”
Cordwainer shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.
“At least we may thank God that neither you nor Thomas were harmed. But Matthew, I cannot believe you truly suspected that the Sheriff planted the strap. De Bury is ambitious, but he would not intentionally perjure himself.”
Cordwainer snorted again. “I would not think so either, much as I dislike the man, but finding such a strap when I am certain Hywel is not Molly’s killer is an odd coincidence. And now that there are two deaths – at least we may be certain Hywel did not kill Nelly, as he was in the King’s jail when it happened. Look at this strap they found and tell me if you think it the one that killed Molly.” He pulled the strap from his scrip and handed it to Stefan.
Stefan examined the strap carefully, holding it close to the candles and turning it from one side to the other. Cordwainer waited. Finally, Stefan placed the strap carefully on the table and spoke. “I cannot be certain without comparing it to Molly’s injury,” he said, “and that is impossible now that the poor girl is buried. But I do not believe this is the same strap. It is not as wide as the bruises would indicate, if I remember correctly. And the blood is wrong. Molly’s cuts were not so deep as to leave this much blood, and it would not have smeared equally on both sides of the strap.”
Cordwainer nodded. “I thought the same. Would you be willing to swear to it?”
“I would not like to have to swear,” Stefan said. “A man’s memory can play tricks. You are certain Hywel is not Molly’s killer?”
Cordwainer frowned, “Like you, I would not like to swear to it. He certainly showed himself to be a killer in the fight. But aye, I believe him to be innocent of Molly’s murder.”
“Then you will have to look further,” said Stefan. “I do think, though, that you must give de Bury the crucifix. It will help matters between you; aye, it will do more than that. Abbot Simeon has sworn he will have de Bury removed as Sheriff if the cross is not found. De Bury will owe his position to you, a useful thing if he is indeed dishonest.”
Cordwainer grunted, then shook his head. “I think,” he said slowly, “that I may delay giving the crucifix to de Bury until I’ve had a chance to speak with Brother Ambrose, if I can find him. If Ambrose stole the crucifix, tis possible he is also my murderer, and I may need the cross as evidence.”
Stefan looked doubtful, but nodded. “You must do as you think best,” he said. “I will say nothing about the crucifix if you don’t want me to, and I wish you good luck. But now, let’s leave off speculating and move into the front chamber. I want you to look at my book!”
The two men spent a pleasant afternoon engrossed in the history of Britain. Stefan read aloud, parsing the Latin for Cordwainer when the language was difficult. They were deep in discussion when Cordwainer realized that if he were not to spend the night, twas time to go. He did not want to walk home in a snowstorm after dark. They bade each other farewell with promises to continue their reading the next week, weather and time permitting. “You must come to my house next time,” said Cordwainer. “Agytha will want to outdo Annie once I’ve told her of that meal!” Stefan laughed and agreed.
The skies were darkening as Cordwainer made his slow way through the crowded streets of the city towards Ouse Bridge. The temperature had dropped sharply, and new ice was forming on the cobbles of the major streets and in the ruts of dirt-packed lanes. Clouds heavy with new snow were gathering over the housetops. Cordwainer’s thought
s returned to the problem of what he had forgotten to do, what question he had needed to ask. It had come to him at Molly’s poor funeral, he remembered. Dear Lord, he was getting old. What could it have been?
4
Thomas picked his way through the icy garbage that lay strewn in the alleyway behind Pomeroy’s house. He had taken advantage of Cordwainer’s dinner with Stefan to visit Emma, and once again she had asked him to leave when the bells rang Nones. This time she had led him to the kitchen at the back of the house where the serving girl Cate was preparing leeks and onions for soup. In future, Emma told him, he was to come to the back, to the kitchen door where Cate could hear his knock and admit him if Pomeroy was in. Cate had nodded and winked a mischievous eye at him, happy to participate in their secret. He had agreed, but was now having second thoughts.
Did he truly want a girl whom he could not visit openly, without deception? A girl he had no chance of marrying or making a life with? Nay, he did not. But he wanted Emma. He wanted Emma more than he had wanted anything or anyone in the sixteen years of his life, perhaps even more than he had wanted his mother after she died. He turned onto Stonegate and merged into the steady flow of folk making their way towards the river. A beggar tugged at his cloak, but he pulled it roughly away and continued walking, then turned back in shame and dropped a coin in the man’s lap.
He wished he had someone he could talk to about the problem. Cordwainer still thought of him as a child, and so twould be no help. Agytha, for all her sharp talk and teasing, would be shocked that he had overstepped the barrier between the serving and monied classes. Stefan, perhaps. But Stefan might tell Cordwainer about the situation, he was Cordwainer’s friend, not Thomas’s. Adam? Twas Adam who had brought him to Pomeroy’s, and he might feel it his duty to tell his father. Nay, twas better to say nothing to anyone. The plain truth of it was, he knew twas wrong and twould end badly. He should not return to Emma’s house, but he knew he could not stay away.
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 9
