“I don’t know,” answered Cordwainer. “Aye, he is mad, I think, although he does not rave openly. Perhaps he feared being struck down by God if he harmed Lady Elizabeth at the manor, and he entered Saint Mary’s to avoid doing so. But then the rage came over him when saw Prioress Alyse, and even worse when he saw Molly and Nelly.”
“But then why kill the bawd Agnes? She looks nothing like Molly or the Prioress,” Stefan continued. “Your theory breaks down there, I think.”
Cordwainer drank his wine. “Aye, it may,” he said, “but not entirely. That is why, unless I am proved completely wrong, we must be certain the Prioress is guarded until we can find Brother Ambrose.”
Thomas entered and began to clear away the remains of their supper. “Twill soon be dark,” he said. “I must go to meet Rolf and Alf.”
“You?” said Cordwainer. “What can you do? Tis too dangerous. You’ve never trained in arms. Leave this to men who have.”
Thomas stared stubbornly at the table. “We talked it over. Tis impossible to see everything with only two men. If Rolf is at the gate and Alf at the broken wall, someone must be at the corner to signal if one of them sees something. That will be my job.”
Cordwainer nodded slowly. Thomas was no longer a boy, he reminded himself. “Then you’d best be going,” he said, “if you’re not to be late.”
Thomas grinned and rushed to the kitchen with their plates.
“That was well done, Matthew,” said Stefan in a low voice. “You cannot keep him a child forever.”
“Aye, I know,” Cordwainer sighed. “But tis hard.”
“I do have one more question, though,” Stefan said, speaking louder as Thomas entered the room and hurried to put on his cloak and hat. “When Agnes’s body was found, why did you have a cat in your scrip?”
Saturday, January 20, 1273
1
The night passed slowly. With a final admonishment to Cordwainer to avoid walking as much as possible, Stefan had departed for home soon after Thomas left, leaving Cordwainer to stare into the fire and worry until he finally climbed the stairs, silently thanking Agytha for her healing poultices at every step, and put himself to bed. He tossed and turned in the darkness, rehearsing his plan in his mind. If he was correct as to where the novice had gone and all went well, he would have Brother Ambrose back to the Abbey tomorrow; if not, if the Prioress were attacked tonight or if he could not find Ambrose as he hoped, he would have to rely on Rolf, Alf, and Thomas. He knew he needed to sleep, but found himself listening instead for any sound of Thomas’s return. He had counted on Thomas joining the watch on the nunnery; he needed the lad to be fast asleep tomorrow morning, not hovering over him trying to enforce Stefan’s proscription. He had not expected to worry about him so much.
He was awakened by the sound of the outer door opening just after dawn. “Thomas!” he shouted. “Thomas!” He listened anxiously as Thomas climbed the stairs.
Thomas appeared in the room with his lantern. “Master, are you all right?” he asked. “What do you need?”
“I need you to tell me what happened!”
“Nothing,” said Thomas. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, and dark smudges lay under them. “We watched and waited. Twas terribly cold. We saw no one and heard nothing.”
“Good,” said Cordwainer. “Warm yourself by the fire for a bit, then help me get up. Once I’m below stairs, you should sleep.”
“Tis early for you, Master,” Thomas objected. “I can come back in an hour or so, if you wish.”
“Nay,” replied Cordwainer. “You need your sleep. You’ll be watching again tonight.”
Thomas did not look altogether pleased at the prospect, but he remained silent. He helped Cordwainer dress and assisted him down the stairs. Despite Cordwainer’s protests that his hip was much better, he insisted that Cordwainer lean on him as they made their way through the kitchen door and down the path to the privy. “I can manage, Thomas,” said Cordwainer testily. “Tis better, as I told you.”
Thomas nodded. He waited to escort Cordwainer back into the house and to his chair at the table. “There is only day-old bread,” he said. “Agytha will be here soon with fresh if you want to wait.”
“Day-old is fine,” snapped Cordwainer. When would the lad go to bed?
Thomas took his time toasting the bread before bringing out cheese and ale, then ate in the kitchen while he waited for Cordwainer to finish. Finally, the table was cleared, the fire built to a roar, and Cordwainer ensconced in his chair by the window with his book in his hands and hot wine by his side. “Is there anything else you need, Master?” asked Thomas.
“Nay! Go to bed now, there’s a good lad,” said Cordwainer.
Thomas gave him a puzzled look, but turned and headed towards his small curtained alcove next to the kitchen. Thank God and all the saints, thought Cordwainer. He waited until he was sure Thomas must be asleep, then rose and rummaged in the low cabinet until he found an old, somewhat tattered woolen cloak. No need to get more filth on the good one, he thought, and twould be best for that cloak to be hanging on the peg should Thomas glance out. He shouldered his scrip and stood for a moment listening. As silently as he could, he opened the door, stepped out, and closed the door behind him.
Theo waited with his cart in the lane, the nag that pulled it breathing white vapor in the cold morning air. “Quietly, lad,” whispered Cordwainer as the boy helped him climb into the back. He held his breath against the stench, which if anything was worse today despite the cart’s being empty, and moved to one side to avoid a large smear of sheep droppings. “Slowly, till we are out of the lane.” Theo nodded and climbed to his seat. He clicked his tongue to the horse and they proceeded at a walk.
Once on Micklegate, Theo allowed the horse to move at a steady trot. The cart bumped and jolted over the icy ruts. Cordwainer gripped the sides tightly, but still bounced and slid on the filthy boards. So much for staying out of the sheep shit, he thought. I shall be bruised and reeking by the time we reach the gate. He prayed he would not fall from the cart and that once it stopped he would be able to walk. The smell of the river with its public privy came and went; they were past Ouse Bridge. Theo slowed the cart as, with the sun’s rising, the streets began to fill with people going about their daily business. Cordwainer pulled his hood over his brow and kept his head down lest someone recognize him and ask what he was doing. At long last they arrived at the postern by Monkgate. Theo stopped the cart, leapt down from his seat, and pulled at the gate. “Master Cordwainer,” he said. “Tis locked.”
Cordwainer cursed. “What time do you think they open it?” he asked.
“It must be soon,” said Theo. “I’ve come through not much later than this. Of course, that were in spring when lambs are plentiful and the gate often used. It may be later in winter.”
With another curse, Cordwainer settled himself to wait. At least twas a fine day with no threat of snow, though cold. He drummed his fingers on his stick. There would be enough time. If he was right, Ambrose would not be far from the city. “Help me down, lad,” he said to Theo. “I can walk from here.”
With Theo’s assistance, Cordwainer climbed down from the cart and began brushing clumps of filthy wool from his cloak, grimacing as he fouled his hands with sheep dung. He bent over and washed his hands in snow, then found a clean spot on his cloak and wiped them. Theo laughed. “You get used to it, Master Cordwainer,” he said. “After a while, you don’t even notice the smell.”
Finally, a bailiff arrived with the key to the gate. “God give you good day, Master Coroner,” he said. He looked curiously at Cordwainer’s dung-spattered cloak and sniffed. “Visiting Saint Maurice’s are you?” he asked with a grimace.
“Aye,” said Cordwainer.
“Is there a death?”
“Nay.”
The bailiff waited for him to say more. Cordwainer glared at him. “I want to be there before tis judgment day.”
“Aye, aye,” said the bailiff, unlockin
g the gate. “Tis your business, not mine.” He pulled the gate open and nodded to Theo. “Go with God.” With a scowl at Cordwainer, he strode away down Monkgate.
Cordwainer snorted. “Be back here at Sext,” he said to Theo. “I shall be waiting for you. If I’m not, wait one hour, then fetch the Sheriff and his men to find me.”
“Aye, Master Cordwainer, just as we planned,” said Theo. “Take care, and may God go with you.” He jumped back up to his seat on the cart.
“And with you,” said Cordwainer. He watched as Theo turned the cart onto the path that paralleled the city walls to Bootham Bar. His own path was plain to see, running north from the postern gate in a straight line as far his eyes could reach. Theo had sworn that the road was not well-travelled in winter, but it must see some use, at least as far as the church, for carts and wagons had left deep ruts in the snow, wide enough to walk in. On either side lay a wide swath of bare ground covered in white, the trees having been cut back to discourage thieves. He took a deep breath and began to walk, blessing Agytha and her poultices. If Brother Ambrose had left the city through the postern, this was most likely the path he had taken. The crisp air was invigorating after the stench of the cart and he felt his spirits rise. His back and sides ached from the bumpy ride, but his hip was indeed better this morning and hurt no more than it normally did. He could walk for a mile or two.
The winter sun shone pale behind thin clouds. He passed the church of Saint Maurice on his left and kept walking, ever farther from the city walls. As he trudged down the icy path, his footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the unaccustomed stillness. God’s bones, how did country folk ever sleep in such silence? An acorn dropping on the roof would wake you. He looked around at the wintry landscape. After the close streets of the city, the sky seemed too large, the space overwhelming. He began to feel naked and vulnerable and found himself repeatedly glancing backwards over his shoulder. He could not remember the last time he had been so far outside the city walls alone. It was unnerving. Settling his scrip more firmly on his shoulder, he walked on. The sun rose higher, burning off the clouds, and the day brightened. He judged that he had walked for almost an hour when he saw what he was looking for. Although the road was free to anyone, there should be no one in the forest itself between Saint Maurice’s and the village that lay north and west of the city. Today, however, there was a faint curl of smoke rising from a makeshift hut perhaps a quarter mile from the road in a stand of birch trees. Cordwainer stopped and squinted, shading his eyes from the sun. There were no windows at the front or side, and the door was shut. He ought to be able to approach unseen, if he were careful.
Unseen did not mean following the trampled path that led from the cart road through the trees to the hut’s front door lest his footsteps be heard. He examined the depth of the rut he was walking in, then thrust his stick into the snow at the side of the path. He judged the snow to be about a foot deep. Stepping carefully and using his stick to avoid unseen holes or ditches, he began to make a wide circuit towards the hut, intending to approach it through the trees from the side he could see. He made good progress for a time, but as he reached the halfway point, he found himself floundering in snow well past his knees, using both his stick and the tree trunks around him to stay upright and move forward. He stopped and brushed stray hair away from his face, settling his hood firmly down over his brow. He could go back, he thought, and tell the Sheriff what he had seen. And then what? De Bury already thought he was mad. What if the Sheriff found only vagrants trespassing on his lordship’s land, taking shelter for the winter? He snorted grimly and struggled on. After a while he rested again. His heart was beating far too fast and he was both chilled and sweating. He waited for what seemed a long time for his heartbeat to slow. Not much farther now, the hut was but a few yards ahead and the snow not as deep. With a last burst of energy, Cordwainer scrambled through the snow to the side of the hut.
Here the ground had been sheltered from the worst of the blowing snow by the hut, and a few dead grasses stuck up through the icy crust. He smelled horses, and as he stood silent he heard a faint snuffle and whicker, then the sounds of a horse’s hoof pawing in the snow. He leaned carefully to place his ear against the wattle and daub side of the hut, but could hear nothing from within. Gripping his stick with his right hand, he moved cautiously to the rear of the tiny structure and peered around the side. The rump and tail of a grey horse were visible at the opposite corner, and Cordwainer thanked God that not only were the horses on the other side of the hut, but as he had hoped there was a single window set into the back wall, a shutter drawn down over it. He crept closer, trusting that his movements would not disturb the horses sufficiently to alert those within to his presence. If he could, he wanted to look in through the cracks in the shutter. As he neared the window, he heard voices and froze.
“Nay,” a familiar voice was saying. “You shall not ride south with us. What use are you to us if you have not the crucifix? I should slit your throat now for the trouble you’ve caused.” The Welsh lilt was unmistakable. Owen Hywel.
“You must not kill him,” said a second voice in a York city accent. “If the body be found here, we cannot ever use this place again. We have no other so close to the city.”
“Do not tell me what I must and must not do. I should slit both your throats and sink your whore-poxed bodies in the river,” answered Hywel. “You could not find him when I needed him and now you bring him here for nothing. I was tortured for that damned crucifix, Philip, and you helped them. Ware lest I put your hand in the fire, aye, and his. Tis only right.”
A third, younger voice spoke, “Master, I beg you --.”
“Quiet!” snapped Hywel. The sharp crack of a slap sounded and the young voice whimpered. “You will speak when I say you will, and you will do as I tell you.”
“Calm yourself, Owen. Perhaps the lad can still be of use,” said the York voice. “Send him back to Saint Mary’s, have him grovel for the Abbot. Simeon won’t let him fall into the hands of the secular authorities; he guards his liberty rights too closely for that. Eventually the crucifix will be found and returned, and we shall have another chance. If not, there are other riches in the Abbey treasury.”
“You would trust this, this boy?” The voice dripped contempt. “He bungled the theft the first time, then lost the crucifix once he had it. Nay, slit his throat.”
“He will have learned from his mistakes. Remember that he did manage to steal the jewels. Let him be an asset that we leave in place. Perhaps we can profit from him, if not now, then later. In the meantime, he can try to save his soul. Tis what monks do, I am told.”
“Aye, we will profit from him,” said Hywel, “or his soul will go to God sooner than he wishes. Do you hear that, my little monk? Go back to the Abbey, say your prayers and do whatever penance the Abbot assigns to you. Stay safe until we return. We ride south in the morning, but we will need you again.”
There was an unintelligible sound, then a cry of pain. “Answer so I can hear you!” snapped Hywel.
“Aye, Master,” said the young voice.
“Do not let yourself be seen leaving this place, and do not leave until we are well gone. Do you understand?”
“Aye.”
Cordwainer’s heart skipped a beat as he realized the danger he was in. He had not expected to encounter Hywel or his fellow, who must be de Bury’s disloyal assistant Philip Colter. Twould be a miracle if Hywel and Colter did not see the tracks he had left in the snow and follow them straight to him. He looked wildly around. There was nowhere to hide. He glanced up to find the sun; twas hours before Sext. He heard the two men shutting the hut door as they left, heard the soft nicker of horses from the far side of the structure. Moving silently away from the window, he concealed himself as best he could among the trees. Twould do no good; his tracks were there for all to see. With his blood pounding in his ears, Cordwainer tried to pray. He heard Hywel and Colter mounting their horses, muffled hoofbeats in the snow. At any mo
ment the shout would come and he would be hunted down.
After a time he realized that the hoofbeats, faster now, were moving away from him. Of course! Hywel would not dare to enter the city again, not if he had a hiding place outside the walls. He and Colter had ridden north on the cart road, away from the spot well south of the hut where Cordwainer had left the road, and they had not noticed his tracks. They would not go south again until their proposed journey tomorrow morning, and this would not be their road. He had been granted his miracle. Falling to his knees in the snow, Cordwainer gave heartfelt thanks to God and vowed never to complain about his hip or lose his temper again.
The immediate danger over, Cordwainer pondered what he should do. He had hoped to find Brother Ambrose, to persuade the novice to return to York and give himself up to the mercy of Abbot Simeon and the Archbishop. As a novice of Saint Mary’s, Ambrose could not be charged with and punished for the maudlyns’ murders, nay, nor Agnes’s, by any secular authority. Cordwainer had planned to tell all he knew to Abbot Simeon and let the Church try him in the Archbishop’s court as was their right. If Ambrose now obeyed Hywel and returned to the Abbey of his own accord, he need do nothing save speak to Simeon. Perhaps he should slip quietly away and return to York. But the novice might not go back today, and if he were indeed Molly’s killer and the intruder in the nunnery, would the Prioress be safe? Maybe he should return to the city and find de Bury, let the Sheriff and his men capture Ambrose and take him to the Abbot. And if the lad were gone when the Sheriff arrived? He crept slowly back to the window and peered through a crack in the shutter. Ambrose was on his knees, praying by the light of a small lantern. He wore his black novice’s habit, somewhat tattered from his days in hiding, and his feet were encased in new leather boots. He did not look dangerous. A pallet was made up on the floor beside him; two three-legged stools sat by a small table with a coin pouch lying on it. Thrown across the pallet was his long brown cloak. A low fire burned in a hearth at the center of the room, its smoke rising to a hole in the ceiling. No harm in trying to talk to him, Cordwainer decided. With God’s help, all would be well.
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 19
