He made his way around to the front of the hut. The door opened before he could knock. “Who are you?” Ambrose demanded. Cordwainer stepped back in alarm. Dark eyebrows beetled over a bruised and scratched face with one half-shut eye blackened and a purple bruise surrounding an oozing cut on one cheekbone. Ambrose’s mouth was bleeding, and a fresh bruise was darkening on his left temple. Both fists were clenched in front of him, ready to strike.
“My name is Matthew,” said Cordwainer, trying to make his voice sound reassuring. “Abbot Simeon sent me to find you to bring you back to Saint Mary’s.” Twas only a white lie.
“You are no monk,” replied Ambrose. “What are you? Are you alone?” He stepped forward and looked past Cordwainer to the empty road. “Tis a wasted errand whoever you are. I have no plans to return to the Abbey.”
“You are hurt and bleeding, and I am cold,” said Cordwainer. “Let me come inside and help you. Let us talk about why you no longer wish to become a monk.”
Ambrose squinted at him through his good eye, then scanned the road again. “You are alone?”
“Aye.”
“And sent by the Abbot?”
“As I said, aye.” Cordwainer waited while Ambrose seemed to struggle within himself. Finally, the novice stepped aside. Cordwainer entered the hut and propped his stick by the door. “Is there clean water?” he asked.
“Only from melted snow,” Ambrose answered, gesturing towards a bucket near the hearth. Cordwainer drew a cloth from his scrip and dipped it in the warm meltwater, then turned. “Sit down,” he said, “and I will tend your cut.”
Ambrose sat on a stool, looking somewhat chastened. Twas as the Prioress said, his face was marked by acne and despite his dark hair only a trace of down had yet appeared on the thin face. Cordwainer dabbed at the cut lip, rinsed the cloth, and dabbed again. “This should heal quickly,” he said, “as long as you don’t touch it. But it needs salve. Why don’t you want to return to Saint Mary’s?”
The lip curled in a sneer, and another drop of blood appeared. “The monks are hypocrites,” Ambrose said bitterly. “Whited sepulchers. I had thought them to be holy, but they wish only to live in leisure, gathering riches for themselves while their souls rot. The Abbot punished me for undertaking penances.”
Cordwainer reached out with his cloth and wiped the blood away. “Will you return to your family, then?”
Ambrose stiffened and for the first time Cordwainer thought he saw a glint of madness in the novice’s eye. “Nay, they are worse than the monks,” he said. His fists clenched, and he peered closely at Cordwainer. “If Simeon truly did not see it when they left me at the Abbey, you may tell him. There is evil at my father’s manor. He has married a blue-eyed demon, a devilish whore, a very succubus. She drowns him in his lust and has sucked out his soul. Had I stayed, she would have had mine as well.”
Cordwainer dropped the bloodstained cloth into the bucket. Aye, he is mad and it all goes back to Lady Elizabeth as I thought. Was it his own lust for her that made him think her a demon? “What will you do?” he asked.
“I will destroy her,” Ambrose hissed. “But the she-devil is strong and moves from soul to soul. She came into the Abbey itself once; there is no safety there. I have seen her four times, driven her twice from her hosts. If I may do so a third time, she will be forced to return to the vixen in my father’s manor and I will return home and destroy her for good. My father shall be free of her forever.”
Molly, Nelly, Prioress Alyse, Lady Elizabeth. It must be the Prioress who went into the Abbey. Where could he have seen Molly or Nelly? Twas no matter, he had killed them. Mother Mary, guide me, Cordwainer prayed. Give me words to compel him to the Abbey. “There is an exorcist in York,” he said, wondering if it were true, “at Saint Leonard’s spitalhouse. Surely twould be better to exorcise the demon with prayer than to destroy its innocent host.”
“Nay,” said Ambrose, pulling away from Cordwainer and rising. He paced the small room in agitation. “Twould not! The hosts are not innocent, else the demon could not enter them. She has appeared three times in York. She must be driven out three times in York. Tis the only way.” He stopped next to Cordwainer’s stool and stared down at him with his mad eyes. “If you are truly a man of God, you will understand.”
Cordwainer gaped up at him. “Let me take you to Saint Mary’s,” he begged.
Ambrose recoiled. “Nay! You are no man of God! You say you come from Saint Mary’s, but you lie.” He stepped closer and raised a fist, looming over Cordwainer on his low stool. “Has she stolen your soul? Aye, you are hers, I see it in your eyes!”
“Nay, I am not,” said Cordwainer, pushing the stool backwards through the dirty rushes. “I wish only to help you. You must believe me.” Where was his stick? Twas his only hope to defend himself if Ambrose attacked. He forced his voice to remain level. “Sit and calm yourself. You are safe here and we can discuss how to proceed calmly, in peace.” Now he remembered, he had left his stick by the door. “Surely Holy Church knows best how to destroy the demon. The exorcist at Saint Leonard’s….”
Cordwainer turned his head as he spoke, looking to see how far away the stick was. Twas too late. With a roar, Ambrose lunged, knocking him from the stool onto the floor. He scrambled towards the door, groping for his stick. Ambrose raised the second stool high above his head and brought it down. A blinding light of pain flared in Cordwainer’s eyes and the world went black.
2
Theo climbed down from the cart and peered again up the path leading north from the gate. Master Cordwainer had said Sext, and twas well past that. Should he go for the Sheriff? And if he did, what chance did he have that Lord de Bury would believe him, a mere butcher’s apprentice? But he could not wait for the old man much longer; he would be beaten if he were late back to Master Wetherby’s again, or worse, he could lose his apprenticeship. He had no time to drive the cart all the way to the Castle and back again to the butcher shop in the Shambles. Master Cordwainer must be on his way back to the gate; perhaps if he drove the cart north, he would find him. The old man couldn’t have walked far on his bad hip. He swung himself up onto the narrow board behind the horse and turned her head north.
He passed Saint Maurice’s, wondering if Cordwainer had stopped there. Nay, he had no time to ask. Clicking his tongue, he urged the horse on. Finally, he glimpsed something dark on the road far ahead, and his heart jumped into his mouth. He slapped the reins and the horse trotted faster, the cartful of early lambs bouncing wildly behind. A few paces away from the dark shape, he pulled the horse up short. Cordwainer was lying face down on the road, a halo of blood around his head. Mother Mary, Theo prayed, let him be alive! He dropped the reins and jumped to the ground, sliding in the snow. Falling to his knees, he shoved his arms beneath Cordwainer’s chest and turned him over. Cordwainer’s lips were blue in his white face, but he groaned. “Thomas?” he murmured. Blood dripped from a deep gash in his forehead, running into his eyes.
“Nay, Master Cordwainer, tis not Thomas, tis me, Theo. I came to find you when you weren’t at the gate. You’re hurt. Did you fall on a rock?”
Cordwainer opened his eyes, flinched, then blinked rapidly, squinting into the light. “Theo? Where is Brother Ambrose? Where am I?”
“You are lying on the road north,” answered Theo. “You’ve hit your head, and I must get you home. Where is your stick?”
“On the road?” Cordwainer struggled to sit up. “God’s bones, my head hurts!” He raised one hand to the wound, pulled it away and stared at the blood. “How did I get to the road?”
Theo looked around, examining the snow. “I think you crawled from that hut, but you’ve left your stick behind. I’ll get it.” He jumped up and ran for the hut.
“Nay!” cried Cordwainer, too late.
Theo ran into the hut through the open door. He saw no one, just a small trestle table, some overturned stools, and a pallet on the floor. And there was Master Cordwainer’s stick fallen to the ground, almos
t in the fire. He picked it up and ran back. Cordwainer sat in the snow, his hand to his head. He glared at Theo. “Twas a dangerous thing to do, lad,” he said. “The man who hit me in the head could have been there.”
“Someone hit you? I thought you’d fallen,” said Theo. “Now you just wait till I get the cart turned around. Twill be easier that way.”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer, “if you can turn the cart. The snow is deep.”
Theo grinned. Master Cordwainer couldn’t be hurt too badly if he was grumbling already. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I can turn her.”
Theo surveyed the snow by the road, nodded, and grasped the reins tightly in front of the horse’s nose. He led the nag slowly off the icy path, turning her head back towards York. Deep ruts caught the wheels and the cart tipped dangerously, then slid as the wheels bumped out of the ruts and onto the packed ice. He held his breath as the cart balanced precariously on one wheel for a long moment, then mercifully crashed back onto two. Three lambs slid off the pile and landed in a snowdrift. He cursed loudly. But the cart remained upright as the straining horse pulled it through the deep snow and back onto the road. Running to the snowdrift, he hoisted the first lamb onto his shoulders and threw it into the back of the cart. “Almost ready, Master Cordwainer,” he called.
There was no answer. Theo realized that Cordwainer had lain back down in the snow. He quickly retrieved the other two lambs, leaving a large patch of reddish-pink snow behind, and threw them one by one on top of the first. Then he ran back to Cordwainer.
“Master Cordwainer?” The old man did not respond. His eyes were closed and his breath was irregular. Theo struggled to lift him, thankful for the butcher’s muscles he had developed in his apprenticeship. He hoisted Cordwainer onto the cart, arranged the lambs around him, and tucked the stick in next to his side. He blinked tears from his eyes. “I’ll get you home, Master Cordwainer. I promise I will.”
3
At Saint Martin’s Lane, Theo pounded on the door, calling for Thomas to help him lift Cordwainer into the house. Together they carried the old man through the front chamber into the kitchen and laid him on a bench near the fire. His wound had opened and blood dripped to the floor. Agytha gasped, then grunted and shooed the young men from the room. “I’ll tend to him,” she announced firmly. “Get me that fur blanket from his bed. Then run fetch Lord Stefan.”
In the front room, Theo quickly told Thomas what had happened, standing miserably as Thomas shouted that his Master could have been killed, could be dying even now. Finally, he could take no more. “I saved your Master’s life, Thomas!” he cried. “I found him in the snow and brought him home safe. Tis the last time I’ll do owt for you -- or for him!” He ran from the house to his cart. Twas so late, Master Wetherby would skin him with the lambs. It just wasn’t fair.
4
Cordwainer awoke with his head pounding and a sense that he was not where he should be. Theo, he thought. I must meet Theo at the postern by Monksgate. He endeavored to sit up, but soft hands pressed him back onto the featherbed. “Matthew, you need to rest,” said Stefan. “You’ve suffered a bad blow to your head.”
“Stefan? Where am I?”
“You are at home in your bed, Matthew, where you will stay for at least a week. This time I insist upon it. Can you remember what happened?”
He raised his hand to his forehead, felt the cloth bandage. The memory came back to him. “Not entirely. I went looking for Brother Ambrose and I found him. He is quite mad, Stefan. He killed Molly and Nelly, thinking them possessed by a demon, and he plans to kill the Prioress and Lady Elizabeth. We must stop him!”
“Someone must,” replied Stefan, “but you shall not. You must rest and let the wound in your head heal. Thomas has told me of your plan to have Rolf and Alf watch the nunnery. They will keep the Prioress safe, and I daresay de Bury will be happy now to send a man or two out to help them.”
“Let me sit up at least,” Cordwainer replied, struggling to push himself up in the bed. “I won’t be able to sleep again for a while.”
Stefan sighed and reached down to help him into a sitting position as Thomas came in carrying a steaming bowl. Cordwainer smelled the comforting aroma of meat broth. He realized that he was both hungry and thirsty.
“You are awake, I see,” said Thomas. “Do you think you could drink this, Master? Twill do you good.”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer. “Is there wine?”
Stefan laughed. “If you are well enough to ask for wine, I believe I can safely leave you here in Thomas’s care. I have another patient to see yet tonight. But, Matthew, I am serious: you must not leave your bed until you are well. Thomas will sit with you.”
“Nay, he shall not,” said Cordwainer. “He must run as fast he as can to the Castle. Tell de Bury that Hywel and Colter ride south in the morning. If he watches the roads, he may catch them.”
Sunday, January 21, 1273
1
Cordwainer awoke to find Thomas standing over him with his small lantern. He struggled to sit up, grateful that the pain in his head had subsided to a dull ache. “What is it?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be at Clementhorpe?”
“Nay, Master, tis dawn. We watched most of the night – and we got a glimpse of him,” Thomas replied. “I thought you would want to know. He ran like the wind.”
“Tis a shame you did not catch him. But he will return, Thomas. His madness will not allow him to stay away.”
“Aye, Master,” said Thomas. “Do you need anything before I go to bed?”
“Nay, go on, lad, I’ll sleep for a while yet as well.”
When he woke again, de Bury was sitting by his bedside, a cup of ale in his hand. God’s blood, he thought. What was Thomas thinking, to allow the Sheriff into his bedchamber? He raised his hands to his head to straighten his night cap, but found the tightly wrapped bandages instead.
“The bandages are clean,” said de Bury, “so your wound is no longer bleeding. That is good. But, you know, Matthew, we have bailiffs for this sort of thing. A man like yourself should not try to bring down a dangerous criminal alone.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Cordwainer, straightening his bedclothes. “Tis good of you to remind me.”
De Bury laughed. “I am here,” he said, “to thank you for warning me about Hywel’s plans. The intelligence was good, and although the Welshman slipped our net, we have Philip Colter in the Castle jail.”
“Good. At least I did not have my head broken for naught. Will you go after Hywel again? Or do you think he will return to York?”
“Nay, he will not return, and I have neither the men nor the jurisdiction to go after him. I will write to the Sheriff of London to let him know, but Hywel will be someone else’s problem now. I only wish we had found the Clementhorpe crucifix for Abbot Simeon.”
Cordwainer felt himself flush. “I’m sure twill be found, my lord.”
“Aye, sometime and somewhere,” said de Bury, standing. “I will let you rest now, Matthew, and I will pray for your speedy recovery.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Cordwainer. “Oh, if I may ask -- are Sir William and his lady still in York?”
“Nay, they have returned to their manor to await the birth. The lady will be quite safe there, surrounded by Sir William’s retainers. I have warned them not to allow John Plankett to enter the grounds. Do you truly believe he plots to kill both her and our lady Prioress?”
“I do, my lord. He said as much.”
De Bury hesitated, then shook his head. “There is naught I can do, Matthew. Clementhorpe lies outside the city walls. My men have no authority in the nunnery itself, and I have not enough of them to watch both within the city and without. I have added a man to the night watch to replace Rolf – aye, I know he’s been watching Clementhorpe for you, leaving the folk of the city to fend for themselves. I will not punish him for it, although I do not believe Plankett will show himself there. If he does, I wish you good luck in catching him.”
He
showed himself last night, thought Cordwainer. But he said only, “Thank you, my lord, and may God go with you.”
Cordwainer listened to the Sheriff go down the stairs and speak softly to someone. When the front door had opened and closed again, he shouted for Thomas and waited. As the lad came into sight, he said, “Do not, ever, allow de Bury into my bedchamber again. Not unless I’m so close to dying I do not know he is there. Now get me up and into my chair, lest I have another visitor!”
2
Paul Ulfsson sat wedged between two men on a low bench by the wall in the common cell of the King’s jail, observing his fellow prisoners. They weren’t a bad lot on the whole, he decided. He had been pleased to see his old friend Jordan among them, caught once again by the bailiffs for cutting a purse on Petergate. The talk was that Jordan would lose a hand this time, having been taken in so often. Ulfsson shivered at the thought. His own hands, he prayed fervently, were safe. If he were lucky, he’d escape with a fine and be back in his chandlery the day of his trial. William Potter sat at the head of the narrow trestle table in the middle of the room drinking a tankard of ale, the foam coating his moustache and dribbling into his fox-red beard. Potter was the acknowledged leader of the prisoners, as had been made clear to him within minutes of his arrival. And Ulfsson had learned he must be careful to stay away from the one they called Mac, a big Scotsman not right in his mind who would kill a man as soon as look at him and who had killed a taverner in a brawl with his bare hands. Even Potter could not always control Mac. Jordan said Mac would hang once the trials started.
The cell had room for seven pallets laid on the floor at night, which the fifteen prisoners shared in a rancid heap of snores and farts. During the day a long trestle table and a few stools took their place. Jordan’s wife Lucie brought in extra food and ale for him in the mornings and was pleased to make a few coppers by bringing in even more for the rest of the men. She’d gone by Ulfsson’s shop for a store of tallow candles to supplement the rushlights the guards provided. He expected a few of his good wax candles would be gone when he returned home, but he couldn’t begrudge her that, not when her man was likely to lose his hand. The candles had raised his standing among the men, made it possible that Potter would try to protect him if Mac lost his head again and attacked him.
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 20
