Cordwainer had lain awake most of the night again thinking, and he now believed he knew what had happened on the night of Molly’s murder and the morning of Agnes’s. Nelly’s death he was not so certain about; twas possible Stefan was right and twas a separate killer altogether. He had nevertheless stopped on his way to the Castle to think things through one more time before speaking to de Bury. Rewritten copies of his Coroner’s rolls were in his scrip, ready to be copied over by the scribe for the Crown. With them was the golden crucifix, which he planned to give to de Bury, explaining his possession of the cross with the lie that he had found it among Agnes’s possessions. Let the Sheriff puzzle over that.
His confusion, he had decided, had arisen from his assumption that all the elements were related. But if he divided what he knew into two separate series of events, he could account for most of what had happened. On the Feast of the Epiphany, Brother Ambrose had confronted Prioress Alyse in a fury of pious rage and been whipped for it. Ambrose was, by the Sheriff’s account, a thief, while Abbot Simeon had called him proud and quick to anger. Ambrose must have felt humiliated by the incident with the Prioress and even more so by the whipping. He had avenged his pride on both the Prioress and the Abbot by joining the crowd watching the procession and taking the crucifix as Alyse passed him. He had then fled from the Abbey. Whether John Plankett had become Brother Ambrose to steal from the Abbey or whether he had truly believed he had a religious vocation and had stolen the cross out of sheer rage at his whipping, Cordwainer did not care: that was the Abbot’s business. In his flight from the Abbey, Ambrose had passed through the Shambles and had dropped or discarded the crucifix there. Eventually, Ambrose had taken refuge in the Minster site, where his injured pride had festered. He had intruded into Clementhorpe nunnery, frightened the Prioress with his onanism, and fled once more. He had nothing to do with Molly or Agnes, whom he had probably never seen, much less had reason to kill.
Nor had Tibb killed either Molly or Agnes, though twas possible he had murdered Nelly for her pouch. Nay, he was, as Gylfa said, at heart a coward. He had slept at Agnes’s house in the Shambles on the nights of both killings. Had he wanted to kill Molly, he had no reason to venture into the icy street where he might be seen to do so, nor need he have cut the shutter’s makeshift tie to get into Agnes’s room. He had not the intelligence to do either to conceal his crimes.
Nay, Cordwainer thought. The killer must be Bartholomew. Bartholomew had been humiliated by what his sister had become, angered by the outrageous debt Agnes had imposed upon Molly, and finally enraged by listening to her bedsport with Warin Butcher. The two had fought. Bartholomew had lurked in the Shambles feeding his anger until Molly emerged to empty the pisspot and had strangled her in his fury. His left-handedness was further evidence of his guilt.
Cordwainer sighed. Had Molly remained in her room that night, she would most likely be alive. Certainly, once the murder was done, Bartholomew had felt remorse; he had loved his sister and had wept for her in Cordwainer’s home. But he had also voiced threats against Agnes, whom he blamed for coercing Molly into her life as a maudlyn and who was threatening his livelihood by insisting that he pay his sister’s debt. The second killing had been planned and carried out ruthlessly, in cold hatred. Cordwainer would explain his reasoning to de Bury and let the Sheriff send his men to arrest Bartholomew. The young weaver would soon confess.
Cordwainer finished his ale in one long draught and sighed again. He knew there were loose ends, but he had resolved to ignore them. Life was never as neat as he wished it to be. He stood and saw that a stout crone had joined the two greybeards by the fire, her thin hair done up in braids under a flounced cap, her eyes all but lost in the mass of wrinkles that was her face. One of the men made a lewd gesture in her direction. The three were laughing raucously as Cordwainer paid for his ale and continued walking to the Castle.
De Bury received Cordwainer in his private chamber. Once they had settled into their chairs with cups of hot wine, Cordwainer outlined his reasoning with regard to Bartholomew. Better, he thought, to leave the crucifix to the end. De Bury listened, his sharp eyes intent on Cordwainer’s. When Cordwainer finished, the Sheriff spoke. “You have no proof, Matthew. You know tis unlikely that jurors will vote to hang one of their own, especially if Bartholomew is her brother, as you say. You need a confession.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Cordwainer. “But I think the lad will confess easily enough if we press him a bit. He’s not a born killer nor a hard man, though he makes himself out to be harder than he is.”
“If I send a bailiff out to arrest him,” said de Bury, “he’ll confess, hard or not.”
Cordwainer suppressed a shudder, trying to convince himself that Bartholomew would confess before he could be tormented. “I believe also,” he continued, “that twas Brother Ambrose who intruded into Clementhorpe. He may attempt to do so again if we do not find him first. Are your men still watching the nunnery?”
De Bury laughed. “Nay, there you’re wrong,” he said. “Why should young Plankett do such a thing? I would think he’d stay far away from the Prioress. What happened there was a mere prank, a lad trying to prove his manhood to his friends by spilling his seed on a nun’s bed.”
Cordwainer sputtered, “But, my lord….”
“Matthew, don’t look so alarmed! I did send Rolf over to look at the walls, and he found a place where the wood had rotted. He has told the Prioress of it. Once tis fixed, the nuns can rest easy.”
“But Brother Ambrose…” began Cordwainer as the Sheriff’s sour-faced clerk entered and hurried to de Bury’s side. He waited while the clerk whispered something in de Bury’s ear, wondering where the Sheriff had heard the full story of Clementhorpe’s intruder. If monks gossiped, as Stefan had said, he supposed that nuns must also. At any rate, Prioress Alyse had been right about de Bury’s reaction.
“Splendid!” exclaimed de Bury. “Send them in immediately. Nay, Matthew, you must stay,” he added as Cordwainer rose to follow the clerk. “Tis Sir William Plankett and his wife, come to recover their stolen jewelry.”
Cordwainer remained standing by his chair as the clerk ushered in a middle-aged man wearing a luxuriously furred cloak. Sir William’s hair was black with a touch of white at each temple. His dark eyes were shadowed by bushy black brows, his nose long, his thin lips drawn back in a polite smile. A man accustomed to getting whatever he wants, Cordwainer thought as he met the knight’s haughty gaze, and ruthless if someone stands in his way. He glanced at the woman by Sir William’s side and froze. Sir William’s wife could be Molly’s twin. He struggled to keep his smile in place as he examined her more closely. She must be at least twenty years younger than her husband, no more than sixteen years old if that, and thus clearly not Ambrose’s mother. Long chestnut hair flowed beneath a veil so finely woven as to be transparent, held in place by a thin circlet of silver. Her cloak was as elaborately furred as her husband’s, but it hung open to reveal a trim figure in a silk gown – trim but for the unmistakable bump of her pregnancy.
Cordwainer hid his confusion in a low bow to Sir William. God’s blood, he thought, this changes everything. Composing his features into what he hoped was a suitably neutral expression, he rose, only to meet a pair of blue eyes brimming with amusement over his awkwardness. Eyes, he realized with another jolt, that could be Molly’s but could just as easily belong to Prioress Alyse. He had not imagined the resemblances after all, and they were not, could not be, mere coincidence. As his mind struggled to absorb what he had seen, he barely heard de Bury’s introduction of Sir William and Lady Elizabeth and the ensuing conversation.
“Isn’t that right, Matthew?” asked de Bury.
“Ah, aye, my lord.” He wondered what he had missed. De Bury was studying him with a frown.
He was saved from further conversation by a parade of Castle servants bringing high-backed chairs for the noble guests, embroidered cushions for the chairs, more wine, and a variety of savory dishes. By the t
ime they had settled into their seats and been served, he had regained his composure. The clerk who had announced the Planketts came in carrying a small locked coffer, which he presented to de Bury. The Sheriff unlocked and opened the coffer, drawing out the pendant and ring. “These are yours, I believe,” he said, showing them to Sir William, who nodded. De Bury returned the jewelry to the coffer, stood, and presented it formally to the knight. Sir William took the coffer in both hands, nodded again, and placed it on the floor beside him.
As they ate and drank, de Bury described the search of Hywel’s house and the recovery of the jewelry to Sir William in detail. Cordwainer tasted nothing as he tried furiously to reorder his thoughts while keeping part of his attention on the conversation. He looked up when he heard his name.
“And you, Master Coroner,” Sir William was saying, “have you found your murderer, if it was not Hywel?”
“Soon, my lord, very soon,” said Cordwainer.
“I am glad to hear it. Now,” Sir William continued, turning back to de Bury, “about my son. With the safe return of our jewels, I see no reason to subject my family or the Abbey to any scandal.”
“Your son,” replied de Bury, “is under the rule of Abbot Simeon. I have neither the authority nor the desire to pursue the matter of your treasures further.” Cordwainer thought he detected a slight emphasis on the word ‘your,’ but if Sir William noticed, he gave no sign.
“Excellent,” said Sir William. He turned his eyes to Cordwainer.
“I merely assisted Sheriff de Bury, my lord,” said Cordwainer, “and I did so in strictest confidence.” Sir William nodded and turned away. “But I wonder, Cordwainer continued. “Do you know where your son may have gone? Have you had any news of him?”
De Bury’s glare could melt iron, Cordwainer thought. Sir William arched an eyebrow, but answered politely. “I have heard nothing, and I have no idea as to where he might go. I am not familiar with the city.” He exchanged a glance with Lady Elizabeth, sighed, and spoke again. “My son is, has always been, troubled in his soul. He has never been able to put aside his grief for his mother’s death though it has now been four years. When he wished to enter the monastic life, I agreed, albeit reluctantly, for it left me without an heir.”
“Only temporarily, my lord,” murmured Lady Elizabeth. Sir William smiled at her and clasped her hand.
“We will pray that you are safely delivered of a son, my lady,” said de Bury. “I beg pardon for having taken up so much of your time. I trust you have found pleasant lodgings in the city?”
“Indeed, yes,” replied Sir William. “We are staying with a cousin of my wife’s at Stonegate.” He smiled again at Lady Elizabeth. “We should return before my Lizzie tires.”
They all rose as the noble couple took their leave. Once Sir William and his wife were safely out of earshot, de Bury turned to Cordwainer. “What in the name of all that is holy were you thinking, Matthew? To question Sir William as if he were one of your jurors? I’ll not be surprised if he lodges a complaint about you!”
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Cordwainer stammered. “It seemed a good opportunity to find out where Ambrose might be. I meant no offense.”
“You had best pray that no offense was taken,” said de Bury. “Still, better you do the questioning than me, I suppose, though you learned nothing.” He sat again at his writing table and picked up a wafer dipped in honey from one of the serving plates. “You had something you wanted to say about John Plankett before his father arrived. What was it?”
“Nothing, my lord,” said Cordwainer. “Tis not important now. What is important is that I was wrong about Bartholomew. Totally wrong, and I only see it now. Pray do nothing to arrest him, not now, not yet.”
De Bury swallowed the wafer and stared at him. “Matthew, are you feeling all right? These murders seem to have muddled your wits. You have been acting illogically since the beginning. Twas Hywel who killed the maudlyn – you have the bloody strap he used. And twas Hywel who killed the bawd, as I told you when you found the body. The old whore was throttled for her purse. I will not arrest Bartholomew Weaver, not until you bring me clear proof.”
Cordwainer flushed. “I am fine, my lord,” he said. “I shall not trouble you again, not until I have clear proof of what I say.” He turned and rushed from the chamber.
3
Cordwainer hurried back up Castlegate, the crucifix heavy in his scrip. He did not fully understand what the striking resemblance between Lady Elizabeth, the Prioress, and the two maudlyns meant, only that it tied Brother Ambrose to the murders. The one thing he was certain of was that if Ambrose were indeed the killer, the Prioress was in grave danger and the Sheriff was not protecting her. He slipped on a stray patch of ice and caught himself, twisting his bad hip. He straightened and continued walking. God’s bones, his hip hurt worse with every step. Sharp pains coursed up his leg whenever he put his foot down, no matter how he leaned on his stick. Halfway to Ouse Bridge, he stopped, unable to go farther. He would rest, just for a while, and then see if he could drag himself home. People shoved past him; a few grumbled about how folk should know better than to stand still in the street. The sound of hoofbeats came to his ears and a horse-drawn cart rumbled up behind him, moving far faster than it should have been. A voice cried, “Ware the cart!” as Cordwainer flung himself to the wall on his right, crying out as his foot hit the ground. He stood clinging to the wall as the cart jolted to a halt beside him. Angry voices berated the carter for his speed and carelessness, then a hand fell lightly on Cordwainer’s shoulder.
“Master Cordwainer, are you all right? Dear Mary, mother of God, please tell me I didn’t hit you!”
Cordwainer opened his eyes. Twas Theo, Master Wetherby’s apprentice, his freckled face white with fear. “Nay, lad, you didn’t hit me,” he said. “And I’m as right as I can be with my bad hip hurting. I’ve twisted it and cannot walk.”
“Let me help you into my cart,” said Theo. “I can carry you home.”
Cordwainer breathed a silent prayer of thanks, cut short as he looked at the butcher’s cart. It was heaped high with slaughtered sheep and stank of blood and offal. The narrow carter’s bench was designed to seat only a driver. “Where am I to sit?” he asked.
Theo grinned and began to rummage in the cart, lifting the sheep and turning them, heedless of the shouts demanding that the cart be moved to clear the street. In a few minutes he had rearranged the dead sheep so that they lay with their legs tucked under their bodies to form a cradle in the center of the cart. “There,” he said, “as nice a bed of fresh sheep’s wool as you could like.”
Cordwainer looked at the blood-smeared animals in dismay. He snorted once, then said, “Boost me up, lad. And drive slowly this time.”
4
Thomas came running into the lane as Theo’s cart drew up in front of Cordwainer’s home. He and Theo lifted Cordwainer from his bed of sheep and set him on his feet. “Tis only sheep’s blood, Thomas,” Cordwainer said in answer to Thomas’s cry of alarm. “I’ve not been harmed, but I’ve twisted my hip slipping on the ice. Help me into the house, quickly now. I have work for you lads to do.”
Cordwainer fretted and fumed as Thomas insisted on finding him clean clothing, helping him wash and change, and serving him ale before he would listen to what his Master wanted him to do. Finally, Cordwainer sat in his chair with Isolde curled on his lap and Thomas and Theo in front of him. He could hear Agytha chopping herbs in the kitchen as she prepared a hot poultice for his hip. He took a deep breath. “The Prioress of Clementhorpe is in grave danger,” he said, “and de Bury’s men are not watching. Thomas, I need you to talk to Rolf, make certain he keeps an eye on the part of the nunnery wall that has rotted; he knows where it is. Then find Alf from the Minster gate and see if he’d be willing to help out on the night watch for a day or two. He’s the Archbishop’s man and need not report to the Sheriff.”
“What am I to do?” asked Theo. “Begging your pardon, my Master will b
e angry if I do not bring those sheep to him soon.”
“I have a different job for you, Theo,” said Cordwainer. He broke off and scowled at Thomas. “What are you waiting for? If you don’t go now, twill be judgement day…”
“Aye, Master.” Cordwainer waited while Thomas wrapped his cloak around himself and pulled the green hat down on his head. “God go with you,” he said. “Hurry!”
When the door was shut, Cordwainer leaned forward. “Now, Theo,” he said. “Here is what I want you to do.”
5
Much to Cordwainer’s annoyance, Thomas returned an hour later with Stefan. The physician examined Cordwainer’s swollen hip and pronounced that he was not to walk for at the least two days. Cordwainer snorted, “I can’t spend my life in bed, Stefan, or in my chair. I have matters that must be attended to.”
“You will do as you wish, as always,” answered Stefan, shaking his head and exchanging a look with Thomas. “But if you wish to be walking at all when you are older, you will do as I say.”
Cordwainer grunted and turned his attention to Thomas. “What news? Did you find them? What did they say?”
“Aye, they will both be at Clementhorpe as soon as tis dark,” said Thomas. “They will watch each night until the wall has been repaired.”
“Good,” said Cordwainer. He grinned at Stefan’s inquiring look. “Nay, my friend, if you want to hear about my investigation, you must stay to supper. But we must eat soon, for I have had naught but a few crumbs at the Sheriff’s since I broke my fast.”
He explained what he had learned over an early supper of meat pies. When they had finished, Stefan wiped his mouth on a square of linen and shook his head. “I am not certain I understand. Are you saying the novice is mad?” he asked. “If he hates his father’s new wife badly enough to kill, why not kill her instead of the maudlyns? Or is he so mad he cannot tell the difference between them?”
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 18
