The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1)

by Joyce Lionarons

  “But what else was she to do?”

  Another shrug. “Anything,” she said.

  Cordwainer shook his head. He dug again in his scrip, handed her another coin. “I thank you for your time,” he said. “May God go with you.”

  3

  When he returned to the house on Saint Martin’s Lane, Cordwainer was pleased to see that Thomas had not spent the afternoon at the Pomeroy house, at least not in its entirety. He and Agnes had clearly taken advantage of Cordwainer’s absence to clean the house, something he preferred be done when he could be out from underfoot. The old rushes had been swept from the floors and new laid down, laced with dried lavender to give off a sweet scent when crushed. Cobwebs that had endured most of the winter above the hunting tapestry were now gone and the tapestry itself newly beaten, spent candle-stubs had been replaced, and even more freshly chopped firewood was stacked by the hearth, where a roaring blaze heated the room. The stuffiness that so often accumulated in houses shut tight for the winter was gone. Cordwainer sank into his favorite chair with a sigh of relief. Twas a pity he had missed Nelly’s burial, but he had learned more from de Bury than he would have at Saint Leonard’s, and he would not have seen Gylfa had he gone. He should, he supposed, inform Abbot Simeon of the developments while twas still light, but nay, it could wait until tomorrow.

  4

  Bartholomew sat at the large loom in Master Ludgate’s workshop, trying to make the intricate pattern come right. Two smaller looms occupied the space on either side of him, but the apprentices who had labored there during the day were gone, off to a cookshop for their supper. He had refused their invitation to join them, preferring to finish what he had begun rather than leave it till morning. He was not hungry, was never hungry any longer, and their jests and laughter but sharpened his grief. So he had lit the largest candles and continued working, though his mind was elsewhere and his heart not in the weaving. Twas lucky his Master was busy in the shop, for he had twice needed to unravel his work to begin again. How had everything gone so wrong? Molly was dead, and that bitch Agnes would take him to court if he did not pay her debt. He would leave York behind for good, but twould mean giving up all hope of becoming a Master Weaver, for without a good word from Master Ludgate, he would never be taken on as journeyman back home. And all because he was a coward.

  He cursed aloud and reached out to untwist an errant thread. The image of the golden crucifix rose in his mind and he pushed it away. Twas Molly’s fault. If only she had not argued, if she had been compliant, but twas never Molly’s way. If only he had kept his temper and his mouth closed. Aye, twas his fault. If he had had the courage, he and Molly would be far away by now with her alive and well. If only he had not been so angry with her that night, if only…. He cursed again and took at quick look at the curtain separating the workroom from the shop, then stood to glare at his work. He would have to begin again. Nay, he would not. Twas almost Compline and the lads at the White Ram were waiting. He pulled his russet cloak from the peg and left through the back door into the alleyway.

  5

  Prioress Alyse lay awake in her bed planning for the next day. If Sister Julia’s cough didn’t improve, she would have to send to the Abbey for their Infirmarian. Sister Cecilia would feel insulted, but neither her remedies nor her prayers had brought relief. Julia was too old and infirm for Alyse to put Cecilia’s pride before the elderly nun’s health. A lay sister could be sent to the chandlers to replenish their dwindling supply of candles, but she herself would have to go see the miller about getting another cartload of flour at a price lower than he had asked the last time. Alyse suspected he believed that nuns did not know what worldly things cost. As if she didn’t have to know such things better than any housewife in York! She began to slip into sleep.

  A familiar creak sounded from below. And she would have to find something to grease that hinge… She was suddenly wide awake. Who was coming into the dormitory at this hour? Compline was long over, and it was not yet Matins. There was a patter of feet on the tiles, each step sticking slightly to the floor as if the intruder were barefoot. Alyse sat up. She gave thanks that she had worn an old, patched woolen habit to bed, scratchy but warmer than her night shift. Whoever this was, she did not want to face them undressed. She reached in the darkness for her veil as the footsteps came slowly up the steep stairs and stumbled. There was a low curse.

  Sweet Mary in heaven, it was a man. She stood up from the bed clutching her veil as a jolt of fear ran through her. Breathing a prayer that the Lord might protect her and her nuns, she threw the veil over her head, taking silent inventory of the objects in the room, wondering what she might use as a weapon. There was nothing. The steps were almost at the door. She moved back into the corner behind the door, pulling her veil down over her forehead and holding it closed it front of her face with its folds covering her hands. Moonlight shining through the cracks in the shutter over the single window left dim streaks of light across the rumpled bedclothes. Alyse prayed that the man would be unable to see her standing wrapped in black wool in the dark corner. As the door opened, she pulled her feet in under the heavy hem.

  A tall shadowy figure stood still by the door holding something long and thin in his hands, then moved towards the bed, his back to Alyse. She heard a low hiss. “So the bitch is off bedding her leman,” he whispered. “Whore.” His arm reached out to pull the bedclothes onto the floor and he stepped forward, trampling them. He tucked what he was holding into his belt and let out a grunt of frustration. He fumbled at something for a moment, then began to chant in a low voice, “Bitch, whore, cunt; bitch, whore cunt…” As he spoke his back jerked rhythmically. For a moment, Alyse wondered what he was doing, then to her horror she understood. She lowered her eyes, trying to shut out the sounds. She could think of nothing to do save pray. She began slowly to recite the rosary in silence, her fingers flexing over invisible beads.

  When the man had finished, he rushed from the room and clattered down the stairs, heedless of the noise he made. Alyse sank to her knees. She continued to pray until the chapel bell rang for Matins, when she got unsteadily to her feet, thinking about the dark cloister walk from the dormitory to the chapel. Lighting the candle by her bed, she ventured into the hallway where Sister Julia already waited. Surely it would safe with all the nuns together. She had never been afraid within the walls of Clementhorpe before, she would not be so now. She stood erect, facing the nuns as they emerged from their cells, her hands clasped around the base of the candle to stop their trembling. When all ten nuns were present, she turned and led them down the stairs and into the night towards the chapel.

  6

  Owen Hywel lay on his side on the thin straw, his legs drawn up almost to his chest, his injured hand held close to his breast. The chain beneath him chafed miserably, and he could hear Wulf’s labored breathing from the shadows. Dear God, he thought, how much more of this can I endure? The door above opened and the chains of the ladder clanked to the floor behind him. He shuddered, and a whimper rose in his throat. He waited for de Bury’s voice.

  “Wulf, I need you.” It was not de Bury, though the voice was familiar. He could hear the torturer shuffling away from the wall. Probably has the brazier in his hands, he thought. He struggled to turn onto his back, gasping with the effort.

  “Put the brazier down, there on the floor. Come here, I need your help.” Thank God and all the saints in heaven! It was Philip. He felt a surge of hope. But nay, Philip had betrayed him, had helped de Bury torment him. He was alone. Apathy washed over him and he closed his eyes. He listened idly as the shuffling footsteps resumed, followed by a grunt and something falling heavily to the ground. The smell of fresh urine and feces filled his nostrils, along with the coppery odor of blood. He opened his eyes to see Wulf lying on the floor, arms and legs thrashing as blood pumped from the gash across his throat. He watched as with one final kick the man’s limbs went still and the blood slowed to a thin trickle.

  “I’ll have you free
in a moment,” said Philip in a low voice. “I’ve told the guards above that de Bury has sent for you. Can you walk?”

  He heard the chain rattle against the lock. For a few moments he lay unmoving and confused, before realizing that Philip truly meant to release him. He struggled to sit up. “There’s nothing wrong with my legs,” he said, his voice rasping. “What took you so long? You helped that devil torture me, you whoreson bastard!”

  “I had hoped to free you without revealing myself, Owen,” Philip replied. “But that has proved impossible. Let me help you up.” He grasped Hywel’s good arm and hauled him to his feet. “Watch your head,” he said. “Can you climb?”

  “Able or not, I will climb,” said Hywel.

  As he pulled himself slowly up the ladder the pain in his infected hand and wounded arm rivaled the agony of his torture, but he gritted his teeth and finally stood on the landing with Philip in front of him and two guards by his sides. One of the guards stooped to pull the ladder up while the other took him by the arm. “Nay, tis no need,” said Philip. “I can handle him, he’s weak as a puppy. Stay here till Wulf calls to come up.”

  “Aye, Master Colter,” replied the guard.

  “And shut that trap door,” added Philip Colter. “The stink will go through the entire Castle.”

  Hywel shuffled down the corridor past the common cell, leaning heavily on Colter. They passed a second set of guards, who nodded to Colter and let them pass through the metal-studded door. He looked around, confused by the darkness. He had expected sunlight, but of course Philip could not take him during the day. They hurried across the Castle Keep, staying in the shadows. At the gatehouse, Hywel waited with his head down while Colter spoke to the night guards. The heavy iron bar across the door was drawn back and the familiar smells of the city washed over him. He realized that he was free.

  They stepped into the darkness and he took a deep breath. Garbage and rotted fish had never smelled so good, he thought wryly. The two men walked across the bridge to Castlegate, Colter stepping confidently with both hands clasped under his seeming prisoner’s arm, Hywel shuffling. Forgetting himself, he grabbed at Colter’s arm as yet another night guard stepped out of the shadows, then winced and pulled his festering hand back. “Easy,” said Colter. “All is well.” He heard a clink as coins changed hands, and the guard nodded and walked away. Then they were hurrying down Castlegate into the city. Keeping to shadows and alleys, they made their way as quickly as he could stumble to Monkgate, where a postern stood in the city wall. Colter drew a large iron key from his pouch, opened the gate and locked it behind them. Two horses stood tethered on the other side, snorting and stamping their hooves in the snow.

  Hywel grimaced as he accepted Colter’s help mounting the horse, angry at the humiliation of his weakness. He gathered the reins in his right hand, hoping the horse was docile enough for him to handle with an injured arm. Philip had seen him groveling at de Bury’s feet, crying like a babe in arms. He would have to establish his dominance again, quickly. He kicked his horse into a trot and followed Colter towards Galtres forest.

  Tuesday, January 16, 1273

  1

  Cordwainer had just finished telling Thomas about his conversation with de Bury over an early breakfast when a knock sounded at the door. Thomas jumped to open it, scattering crumbs and letting a draft of cold air in from the street, making the candles flicker and Cordwainer to draw his gown closer around his legs. He could hear Thomas and another, deeper voice, but could not make out their words. He fumbled for his stick and was rising from his chair when Thomas shut the door and returned, his face flushed with excitement. “Who was it?” asked Cordwainer.

  “One of de Bury’s men,” said Thomas. “Owen Hywel has escaped from the Castle.”

  “Impossible!” Cordwainer sputtered. “Twould take an armed assault. How many are dead?”

  “Twas not violence, Master, but betrayal,” said Thomas. “Twas Master Colter, my lord Sheriff’s assistant. He was Hywel’s man, seemingly. He told the guards the Sheriff wanted Hywel brought to him, then walked him straight out of the Castle. The criers are out looking for news of either of them.”

  Cordwainer settled back in his chair with a snort. De Bury betrayed by his own assistant. Twould be a miracle if the man kept his position now. He had scarcely time to digest this new development when a second rap came at the door. “Perhaps de Bury has found his fugitives,” he said as Thomas rose once again.

  At the door was a small boy, his face red from the cold under a misshapen hat and his hands wrapped in heavy wool. He looked up at Thomas, then twisted his head around to see Cordwainer at the table. “Master Coroner!” he shouted. “You must come, Master, to Mistress Agnes’s house in the Shambles. She’s dead!” Without waiting for an answer, the boy took off running down Saint Martin’s Lane towards Micklegate.

  Cordwainer was already out of his chair. “Thomas!” he bellowed. “My boots!”

  “All in good time, Master,” Thomas answered. “Mistress Agnes will wait for you.” He disappeared up the staircase.

  2

  A small group of onlookers had already crowded around Agnes’s doorstep when Thomas and Cordwainer arrived. Cordwainer pushed his way through them and entered the house, letting the door swing closed behind him. He found himself in almost total darkness. Twisting around, he saw that the single waxed-parchment window was crusted both outside and inside with dirt. Without waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, he called out, “Where is she?”

  “In the back, in her bed chamber,” said a small voice. Cordwainer squinted. He could barely make out Gylfa crouching on a bench by the wall. The girl had drawn her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She sniffled and began to sob.

  “Is there a light?” he asked.

  “Only rushlights,” she answered. “Mistress don’t like us burning them in daylight. Waste of tallow. But the window in her room is open.”

  Cordwainer proceeded carefully towards the back of the house, where he could now see a shaft of light coming through a partially opened door. Taking a deep breath, he entered the chamber. Agnes lay supine on the large bed that filled most of the room, its curtains torn and dangling. The bedclothes lay half on the floor, and her night shift was tangled around her legs. Cordwainer could see no blood, but a dark bruise circled Agnes’s throat. Just like Molly and Nelly, he thought. He stepped to the bedside, bending to look closer. Nay, not just like. Molly had been strangled with a strap, Nelly with the chain she wore around her neck; Agnes’s neck bore the clear imprint of a man’s two hands. He crossed himself and reached to close the bawd’s eyes.

  The wind blew cold through the open window and Cordwainer turned to close the shutter. He would light a rushlight, tallow be damned. He pulled the top half of the shutter down and saw the latch was broken, most likely long before to judge by the rust. A string of cloth had been used to keep the shutters closed; one end still dangled from the useless latch. Easy enough to slip a knife through the crack and cut that, Cordwainer thought. He’d be through the window before she heard him. He left the shutter as it was and turned to examine the rest of the room. The hard dirt of the floor was covered in a deep layer of lavender-scented rushes. A large chest sat at the foot of the bed, but it did not look as if it had been disturbed. He tried the lid, locked. He would have to find the key. A row of pegs lined the wall beside the bed: Agnes’s embroidered cloak hung from the first; the rest held gowns in a variety of gaudy colors, with a single dark gown of russet wool at the end. Shelves on the wall opposite held candles, not rushlights, amid decorated combs, scented soaps, and various inexpensive trinkets. A low cabinet served as a bench beneath the shelves; it held only more clothing.

  Cordwainer stepped toward the door to leave. He would have Thomas fetch the lay brothers from the spitalhouse. From the corner of his eye, he spied something small and dark emerge from beneath the bed into the rushes. It streaked across the floor towards the cabinet, leaping for its top. Rat, he th
ought, lifting his stick reflexively to kill the vermin. He stopped himself with arm upraised. A tiny cat crouched on the chest staring up at him, nay, not a cat, a kitten. Moving slowly to avoid frightening the animal, Cordwainer lowered his stick and reached out a hand to scratch behind the kitten’s ears. A loud purring erupted from her throat as she leaned herself against his hand. He picked up the kitten in one hand and carried her with him out of the room.

  Gylfa was still sitting on the bench, rocking herself from side to side. She wore a long night shift with a robe thrown loosely over it and a ribboned cap. Thinking to comfort her, Cordwainer touched her shoulder lightly and offered her the kitten, but the maudlyn pushed it away. “How will I feed myself, Master Coroner?” she sobbed. “Master Fuller will turn us out when he hears of Mistress’s death. Where will I go?”

  Cordwainer had no answer. He felt foolish standing with the kitten in his hand. He placed it on the floor, where it mewled and curled round his ankles, then stretched and clambered up his leg, its needle-sharp claws piercing the wool of his gown and hose to his skin. He winced and pulled the kitten off, pausing to disentangle a thread caught in a claw. He looked around helplessly, then dropped the kitten carefully into his scrip. It snuggled down into the pouch and became still, its head peeking out. Twould keep the animal out of his way for a time. Leaning on his stick, he squatted next to Gylfa.

  “Was it you who found the body?” he asked gently.

  “Aye,” she said, sniffing loudly. “Maeve went out to the baker for bread and Tibb left so Mistress wouldn’t see him. I went in to rouse her….” The girl faltered, raising one hand to her mouth.

  “Was she just as she is now?” Cordwainer asked. “Did you touch or move anything?”

  “I touched nothing. I ran into the street, calling for Maeve and Tibb. Warin Butcher were there, opening his shop. I told him what I’d seen, and he sent a boy for you.”

  “You did well, Gylfa,” said Cordwainer. “Now tell me, were the shutters open when you went in?”