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

by Joyce Lionarons

  Agytha sat with her feet on a low stool. Her head slumped onto her chest, and a gentle snoring merged with the soft purring of the kitten curled in her lap. Cordwainer set the plate quietly on Agytha’s work table, then fetched the blanket from his chair and spread it over his housekeeper’s sleeping form. He watched for a moment, then went back to his chair to wait for Thomas.

  Wednesday, January 17, 1273

  1

  Cordwainer returned to Agnes’s house early the next morning. Gylfa opened the door for him with red, swollen eyes. Her pale face was creased from sleep and her ribboned nightcap was askew atop her unwashed hair. “Have Maeve and Tibb returned?” he asked.

  “Maeve is above stairs sleeping. I think Tibb is at Grope Lane. Did you want them?”

  “Nay, I need to see your Mistress’s room again.”

  Gylfa waved toward the back of the house, then climbed back up the steep ladder. Agnes’s room looked untouched from the day before. Crouching over the chest, Cordwainer fitted the key into the lock and turned it. A single sheet of folded parchment lay atop a large leather pouch. Setting the parchment aside, he lifted the pouch and shook it, heard the jangle of coins. He snorted. All coppers, most likely, though there were a lot of them. He would give the coins to Gylfa; twould be something for her to go on with, anyway. He opened the pouch and drew in a sharp breath, then stirred the coins with his fingers. There were coppers, but half at least of the coins were silver and many were gold. He let the pouch fall back into the chest and unfolded the parchment. It was a simple will. Agnes had left a bequest comprising half the coins to Saint Andrew’s church on condition that she be buried within the church walls. The remaining half, Cordwainer was relieved to learn, went to her maudlyns, to be divided equally among them. Twill be more for Gylfa and Maeve, he thought, with Molly gone.

  He spent the rest of his morning dealing with recalcitrant clerks and lackeys in the Castle and the Mayor’s office. Finally, after a dinner of burnt mutton and wilted vegetables in a tavern on Fossgate that did nothing to improve his mood, he made his way to Saint Andrew’s, stabbing his stick into the icy mud and muttering under his breath about the amounts he had paid out in taxes and to have the will properly entered into probate. When he reached the church, he stopped and crossed himself, said a brief prayer to compose himself, then entered and made his way to the sacristy. A short, round priest whose bald head had no need of a tonsure identified himself as Father Damien. Cordwainer explained the bequest and the condition.

  Father Damien squinted up at him. “A bawd?” he said, shaking his head and pursing his thick lips. “I am certain she has never set foot in this church. I see no reason why she should rest here eternally. Which parish did she live in? You must take the body there.”

  Cordwainer nodded and turned to leave. “Tis a sizeable bequest,” he said, “but I’m sure you’re right to refuse. Saint Crux will be happy to have it.”

  “Wait,” said Father Damien. “How large did you say?”

  “I didn’t,” replied Cordwainer. He drew the parchment from his scrip and unfolded it. Pointing to where the clerk had carefully tallied the amounts, he handed it to the priest.

  Father Damien’s eyes widened. He stepped to the sacristy door and stared up at the ceiling of the church. Water stained the limewash between the rafters and some of the wood was rotting. “Still,” he murmured, “a bawd.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “There is some room by the wall,” he said. “We will bury her there.”

  By late afternoon Cordwainer stood solemnly in the tiny church with Gylfa and Maeve, watching as the priest blessed Agnes’s shrouded form and two muscular parishioners lowered it carefully into the ground next to the west wall of the building. Tibb slouched against the door at the back of the nave, his eyes blackened and a deep split in his lower lip that he had refused to explain. Father Damien had balked at allowing Agnes to rest in front of his rood screen over night; with no family to contact and no parishioners wishing to pay their last respects, he had pronounced it best to bury the body as soon as could be done. Maeve and Gylfa had washed Agnes’s body and sewed it hastily and somewhat untidily into a linen sheet. Father Damien had prevailed upon one of his parishioners to provide a cart to transport the body and had sung a hasty requiem for the three mourners and a scattering of elderly women whom Cordwainer suspected attended every service held in the church. His nose filled with dust as the dirt was packed down over the body, topped by a flat stone bearing a simple cross.

  “Could you not find a mason to carve her name upon it?” Cordwainer asked.

  Father Damien rested his folded hands on his stomach and sniffed. “Nay. The will said naught about a name. Twill do the parish no good to have it known such a woman lies here,” he said. “I have given her a Christian burial in consecrated ground, though she died unshriven. I need do no more.”

  Light snow was falling as Cordwainer stepped out of the church. The two maudlyns thanked him once again for his help with the will and set off with Tibb for the Shambles. Gylfa was quiet, whether mourning or overawed by the amount of her part of the inheritance, he could not tell. Maeve and Tibb chattered happily about their plans for the money, Maeve’s voice carrying back to Cordwainer until the three turned a corner and disappeared. He walked slowly home, pondering Agnes’s death and wondering if Tibb’s injuries were enough to ask de Bury to arrest him for the murder. The brief inquest – squeezed in between the will and the funeral -- had been unhelpful, with none of the jurors revealing anything Cordwainer did not already know. Mistress Short and Master Wetherby had argued vociferously over the description of the running man and de Bury had departed early in disgust. The verdict was unsurprising: unlawful death by strangulation by an unknown person. He sighed. Bartholomew had been his most likely suspect for Molly’s killer and he could easily see the weaver killing Agnes, but why should the lad have killed Nelly? Now Tibb looked more likely, with his bruised face that could have come from Agnes struggling against him as he strangled her. Yet he had no proof either way, and his discovery of the crucifix had not helped him. Either man could have taken it during the procession, or perhaps twas Brother Ambrose who was the thief, aye, and the Prioress’s intruder as well. He gave a loud snort. He was no closer than he had been to solving the mystery of Molly’s death or Nelly’s, and now there was a third murder. He wondered if twere possible that there was more than one killer in York.

  2

  He entered his house to find Thomas dangling a string with a feather tied to it over the kitten, who leapt and chased it, her claws skittering among the rushes. Cordwainer laughed and scooped the kitten up in one hand, holding her gently but firmly to face him. “And to think I thought you were a rat,” he said. The kitten began to lick his fingers. She was black except for a white tuft on her chest, a matching streak on her head, and two strikingly white front paws.

  “Have you thought of a name?” asked Thomas.

  “A name? Aye, I suppose she needs one,” answered Cordwainer. “Ouch!” He bent over and let the kitten leap to the floor. “She bites.”

  “Then she will be a good mouser,” said Thomas. “A name?”

  Cordwainer thought for a moment. “I think,” he said, “I shall call her Isolde, for her white hands.”

  Thomas chuckled. “As long as those white hands have claws. Agytha complains the mice have been worse with the cold.” He jerked the string for the kitten, watching her bat at the feather and pounce. “Though she’s scarcely bigger than a mouse herself now.”

  “She’s young,” said Cordwainer. “She’ll grow.” He sat heavily in his chair by the window, lifting his foot to the stool.

  Thomas dropped the string. “Now we have three killings to investigate,” he said, “rather than two. Tis dark and will snow soon, so we can do nothing more today. How shall we proceed tomorrow?”

  “I would like to question Bartholomew,” said Cordwainer. “I want to know what he was doing early Wednesday morning.”

  “Bartholomew? I tho
ught twas Tibb would be more likely -- or Owen Hywel.”

  “Aye, Tibb was my first thought as well. But Tibb would have no reason to cut the latch string, being already within the house. De Bury is searching for Hywel and we can do nothing there. Bartholomew threatened Agnes when we spoke. Do you remember where he lives?”

  “Aye, tis not far,” said Thomas, “just up to Fossgate. He’s journeyman to Jasper Ludgate, who became Master after old Oleg died.”

  “I remember,” said Cordwainer. He remembered Jasper as a red-headed boy with a pug nose and more freckles than pale skin, but there was no need to say that to Thomas. “Then as soon as you can be ready in the morning, we will go.”

  Thursday, January 18, 1273

  When they arrived at Jasper Ludgate’s shop on a small lane off Fossgate the next morning, they were greeted by a tall, lanky man with large hands and feet wearing a patterned wool gown with a leather belt. His red hair was not as bright as Cordwainer remembered and was now threaded with grey, but the pug nose and freckles remained. Jasper had done well for himself, Cordwainer thought, judging by the quality of the wares on display. A door to their left led into the warehouse they had passed on the lane, and Thomas had pointed out the large house to the right of the shop as Jasper’s home. Cordwainer could hear the slow, rhythmic thump of a loom coming from a room behind the shop; between the thumps came the clacking of one, perhaps two, smaller looms at work.

  “What can I do for you today, Master Cordwainer?” asked Jasper. “I have some fine soft wool suitable for hose, or perhaps something thicker for a new cloak? Or is it linen you are looking for?”

  “I am looking for neither,” said Cordwainer. “I need to speak to your journeyman Bartholomew. Is he here today?”

  A dark flush appeared on Jasper’s face beneath the freckles. “He’s here, right enough,” he replied, “but not for long if he don’t mend his ways.” He looked at the curtained door into the back and shouted, “Bartholomew!” All three looms stopped. “You two don’t stop,” Jasper commanded, throwing back the curtain and striding out of Cordwainer’s sight. “You’ve lost the rhythm now, and twill cause a flaw in the web, you addle-pated half-wits! Bartholomew, the shop!”

  Bartholomew came through the curtain and paused behind the counter. His face was sullen under his bushy black brows. Dark pouches hung beneath both eyes and one had been blackened, the bruise shading to purple around its edges. A pair of deep scratches ran down his left cheek. He stood in a slight crouch as though protecting himself.

  “What happened to you?” asked Thomas.

  Bartholomew raised his left hand and self-consciously touched a healing split in his lip. “Tis nowt,” he mumbled. “A fight in a tavern. What do you want with me?”

  “We want to know where you were on Wednesday morning,” said Cordwainer. “Early, just at daylight.”

  “I can tell you where,” said Jasper, appearing in the doorway, his face still flushed with anger. “He was above stairs in the bed I give him in exchange for the work he didn’t do because he was still drunk from brawling the night before. I sent Ned and Hob out looking for him and they had to carry him home. Aye, that was Tuesday night – or Wednesday morning, whatever you prefer to call it. The scoundrels got as drunk as he was! They woke me up getting him back to his room, and I sleep in the house next door. If it happens again, he’ll be out on the street, and Ned and Hob with him.”

  “Ned and Hob are your apprentices?” asked Cordwainer. “Will they swear he was in his bed when the sun was rising?”

  Jasper stiffened and raised a hand to silence Bartholomew. “What is this about, Matthew?” he replied, laying his large hands on the counter top. “Do you mean a formal oath in court? If there is a complaint against my journeyman, it should go to the Guild.”

  “There is no complaint nor any need for the Guild to be involved,” said Cordwainer. “If Bartholomew was here as you say, my question has been answered. Were Ned and Hob truly as drunk as he was?”

  “Aye, near enough, though the two of them could walk,” grumbled Jasper. “I should get rid of the lot of them.”

  Cordwainer turned to Bartholomew, who stood with his head down. “Did you stay in your bed?”

  “Aye, till after Prime.” Bartholomew looked up. “What has happened? Was another maudlyn killed?”

  “Mistress Agnes was strangled in her bed that morning,” said Cordwainer. Jasper gasped and crossed himself. Bartholomew’s mouth fell open.

  “I’m not sorry to hear the bawd’s dead,” he said defiantly. “But tweren’t me that killed her. I were here. Hob and Ned will swear for you.”

  “Aye,” said Jasper, folding his arms in front of his chest. “And I shall swear he was in his bed almost an hour after Prime when I came looking for him. I’ll not have you accusing my journeyman of a crime he could not have committed.”

  “I have accused him of nothing,” said Cordwainer.

  Jasper glared at him. “I would thank you to leave my shop now, Master Cordwainer. If there is aught else, you may take it up with the Guildmaster.” He gestured for Bartholomew to return to the workroom.

  “Master Ludgate, I am sorry to have disturbed your work,” said Cordwainer. “I shall not be bothering the Guildmaster. May God give you good day.”

  As they walked back to Saint Martin’s Lane, Thomas spoke up. “So twas not Bartholomew who killed the bawd. I was certain of it after you remembered how he threatened her in our house. I suppose the Sheriff is right and twas Owen Hywel after all.”

  “Did I say twas not Bartholomew?”

  “Nay, master, but – ”

  “Bartholomew is uneducated,” said Cordwainer, “but he is not a stupid man. Twould be easy to feign drunkenness in front of two young apprentices who were drunk themselves. Then he need only wait till they were asleep, or unconscious more likely, to slip from the house. His Master sleeps next door and would not hear. He need only have been back in his bed by Prime. What I wonder is who beat him, and why.”

  “Could Agnes have hurt him?” asked Thomas. “Master Stefan said she fought her killer.”

  “Aye,” said Cordwainer, “she could have given him that black eye and split lip. And did you notice how he stood? I’d wager his injuries were worse than that. Agnes was a strong woman. But if he did kill her, he was still well enough to lead you two lads a merry chase through York.”

  “Do you believe he killed her, Master?” Thomas persisted.

  “I don’t know, lad. I just don’t know.”

  Friday, January 19, 1273

  1

  Brother Ambrose stood outside Paul Ulfsson’s chandlery as the sun rose, his feet aching in their stiff leather boots. Would the shop never open? He needed more than a safe way out of the city once twas done, he needed a safe place to stay right now and he did not want to annoy the chandler by waking him. His nights by the river after being driven from the mason’s hut had frightened and disgusted him. The people lived like animals, forced to do so by poverty and desperation. He had never seen such emaciation, such rotting flesh on a living person. Nor had he ever met folk so willing to use violence for but a crust of bread, even the women, who fought with nails and teeth as well as their fists. Ulfsson must give him refuge; he would promise the man anything if only he could stay.

  Someone lifted a shutter on the upper story, glanced out, and let it fall back with a heavy thud. Good, Ulfsson was out of bed. In a few minutes, he would knock at the door, beg if he must. Nay, the chandler would not make him beg. He had been friendly, even welcoming when Ambrose was first in the city. He cringed a little at the memory. He had stupidly tried to sell the jewels at the goldsmiths’ shops on Stonegate. The first had merely turned him away, but the second -- Wotton, that was the goldsmith’s name -- had shouted at him and threatened to turn him over to the Sheriff for selling stolen goods. Not even the truth that the jewels had been his mother’s had convinced Wotton to consider buying them. Ulfsson had glided into the shop in the midst of it, picked up a pair
of silver candlesticks, and left as silently as he had come. It had taken all of Ambrose’s strength not to laugh in the goldsmith’s face. When Wotton had thrown him out of the shop, Ulfsson was waiting in a ginnel not far away. He had taken Ambrose to his chandlery, given him wine, and paid three gold coins for the jewels. Surely, Ulfsson would help him now.

  As the day brightened, people began to appear on the snowy street, and Ambrose drew his head farther into his hood. He reached up and gingerly touched his blackened eye, then his bruised ear. He had not known the whore could be so strong. It was time, Ulfsson must be dressed and able to answer the door whether the shop was open or not. He stepped to the door and knocked, waited, knocked again. Heavy footsteps sounded within and the door was opened by a burly, balding man he had never seen before. Ambrose stammered, “Is Master Ulfsson here?”

  The bald man looked at him and smiled. “Brother Ambrose? We’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

  2

  Cordwainer sat in the Old Boar Tavern nursing a tankard of ale and idly watching two ancient, toothless men sitting close by the hearth. One was bald, with brown age spots massed together on his pate; the other had long grey hair much like Cordwainer’s own, but left to hang loose on either side of his craggy face. Both had ragged, untrimmed beards. The tavern staff treated them like old friends or perhaps relatives, certainly regulars. The remainder of the room was empty of customers at this hour of the morning: the tavern keeper sat at a bench by the wall mending a chair; a young woman in an apron moved table to table with a wet rag in one hand, a dry rag in the other, swabbing each table with herb-scented oil, then wiping up the excess. The tavern boy entered the room and stopped for a few words with the old men. A cackle of laughter filled the room, and the boy turned, still smiling, to begin replacing the spent rushlights of the night before with fresh, recently dipped rushes. Sunlight gleamed through waxed-parchment windows, casting reflections on the newly oiled table tops.