“It is in God’s hands,” replied Simeon with a shrug. “We will pray that God is merciful. But I forget myself. You have been injured; are you healing well?”
“Aye, Father, thank you.” He reached up and touched the bandage on his forehead. “My head aches at times, but the dizziness has passed. My ribs are but bruised, not broken. Stefan tells me I have taken no permanent harm.”
Simeon nodded. “I am happy to hear it. My lord de Vale is a fine physician.”
Cordwainer sipped his wine. He reached into his scrip and drew out the golden crucifix. “I believe this belongs in your treasury, Father,” he said.
Simeon’s eyes widened. He crossed himself. “Thanks be to God and all the saints,” he said. “Wherever did you find it?”
“Ambrose had it,” replied Cordwainer, averting his eyes. “I found it in the snow where he dropped it.”
“We shall keep it safe, I assure you,” said Simeon, taking it into his hands. He placed it gently on the table and looked at it for a long time. When he raised his head, he said, “There is but one thing I do not understand, and that is the death of the bawd Agnes. She does not seem to have been a part of Brother Ambrose’s obsession.”
“Nay,” said Cordwainer, “she was not. Tis a puzzle.” He stared into his wine, wondering if he should say more. Finally, he stood. “I thank you for the wine, Father,” he said. “But I am expected at the Castle. I came only to return the crucifix to you.”
“I will walk out with you,” said Simeon, rising from his seat and picking up the crucifix. “I must return this to the treasury lest in my weakness I forget again.”
Cordwainer chuckled softly. “I do not think you will forget ever again, Father.”
2
Cordwainer walked slowly back to Bootham Bar and into the city, thinking about the death of Mistress Agnes. He moved with the flow of pedestrians, not paying conscious attention to where he was going until he found himself in front of tiny Saint Andrew’s church. He stood for a moment, then entered and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. He walked the few paces to Agnes’s grave, knelt on the hard-packed ground, crossed himself, and bowed his head. He pondered what the woman’s life could have been like, what had turned her into first a maudlyn, then a bawd. Her eyes had been so hard, without a shred of compassion. How long, he wondered, would it be before Gylfa’s eyes were the same? Still, Agnes had not deserved to die at the hands of a killer. No one did. And a murderer must hang, aye, that was the law. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Yet had not that same voice said, “But I say to you…?” May God help him, he could not bear to see the lad hang so young! He prayed until his knees were numb from the cold and he was forced to call for Father Damien to help him stand.
“Mourning for the bawd, are you?” asked the priest.
“Nay,” said Cordwainer. “I cannot.”
He stumbled from the church and sat heavily on a bench by the street. He lowered his head into his hands, wincing as his bruised ribs protested. Perhaps, he thought, he was too old to be Coroner after all. They looked like children to him, victims and killers alike. When he felt able, he stood and braced himself for the long walk to the Castle.
3
“Are you certain you don’t want me to come with you, Master?” asked Thomas. “It could be dangerous, and you’re already hurt.”
“Nay,” replied Cordwainer. “Tis something I must do myself.”
“I don’t understand why you cannot simply let de Bury take care of it,” Thomas objected.
“Because I cannot!” Cordwainer banged his cup of ale onto the table, then grabbed for his ribs. “Leave me be!”
“Aye, Master,” said Thomas with a sigh, knowing there would be no reasoning with him. “But I shall walk with you over Ouse Bridge. I’m going to Stonegate to see Emma.”
As Cordwainer stood and took his cloak and scrip from their peg, Thomas hurried to find his own cloak and hat. He followed Cordwainer out the door and took his accustomed place beside him as they walked down Saint Martin’s Lane. Neither spoke until they had passed over Ouse Bridge and stood at the turning to Coney Street. Then Thomas said, “May God go with you and keep you safe, Master. Are you certain you do not need me?”
“Aye, I’m certain,” Cordwainer replied. “Twill not take long.”
Thomas watched him as he trudged up Ousegate, then went left on Coney Street towards Stonegate. There was nothing he could do if his Master did not want him there, he knew, yet he felt guilty for leaving him to carry out his errand alone. But when the lane to Emma’s house came into view, he forgot his guilt as he entered the narrow alley behind the house and came to the stone wall that fenced the garden. He pulled on the gate and found it locked. Three paces on, he bent to find the loose stone Emma had shown him, pulled it from the wall, and placed his foot in the hole. In a moment he was up and over the wall and standing in the garden. He made his way quickly to the kitchen door and knocked.
Cate threw the door open with a smile and drew him into the house. “Mistress Emma was worried you wouldn’t come back,” she said. “Tis been days since you were here.”
“Aye,” said Thomas. “Twas a killer we had to catch.” He drew himself up and smiled back at her. “I’m here now.”
Cate looked suitably impressed and ran to find Emma. When they returned, Emma embraced him. “Cate says you found the killer you were searching for. I hope you were not in danger.”
Thomas shrugged and tried to speak casually. “Tis always dangerous when a killer is apprehended. He knocked me to the ground once, aye, and Master Cordwainer as well, but I overcame him in the end. He was tied and helpless by the time the bailiffs came.”
Cate gasped, but Emma’s eyes were shining. She took his hands in hers. “Thomas,” she said, “Papa has gone to the country for two days. We need not worry about being discovered.” They walked together into the front room, but when Thomas turned towards the chairs by the fireplace, Emma stopped and shook her head. She cast her eyes to the floor and blushed, then looked at the staircase. Thomas drew her close to his side.
“You are certain?” he asked.
“Aye. I think.” Emma giggled nervously. “Aye.”
“Twill be up to you,” said Thomas. He led her to the stairs and kissed her. As they climbed slowly up the steps, he prayed they would be forgiven their sin.
4
Cordwainer watched Thomas trot away down Coney Street, then began his walk towards Fossgate. He was not certain why it was so important that he do this alone; he only knew that he must. Tis too late to change your mind, he reminded himself. Tis a Coroner’s duty to uphold the law. At last he stood in front of Jasper Ludgate’s shop catching his breath and listening to the steady thud of Bartholomew’s loom. He opened the door and went in.
An apprentice stood behind the counter, busy arranging an assortment of linen cloths. Ned or Hob, remembered Cordwainer, grateful that Jasper was not in the shop. “Is Bartholomew here?” he asked. “I need to speak with him.”
Ned-or-Hob bobbed his head and pushed back the curtain. “Bart,” he called. “Tis the Coroner again.”
The loom stopped, and Bartholomew rushed smiling into the room. The bruises on his face had yellowed and his cut lip had closed. “Master Cordwainer!” he exclaimed. “Tis said you caught the man that killed my sister. Will he hang?”
“Aye,” said Cordwainer, “we did, and nay, he won’t. Tis up to the Archbishop what happens to him now, but the Church doesn’t execute ecclesiastical criminals. Still, I doubt he shall see the light of day again.”
Bartholomew’s face fell and his hands clenched. “He deserves hanging.”
Cordwainer regarded him solemnly. “We should talk, you and I. Do you think your Master would mind if we stepped out for a while?”
“Master Ludgate is in the country today,” replied Bartholomew. “He will neither know nor care. Let me fetch my cloak.”
Cordwainer waited until Bartholomew had belted the russet cloak around
his waist, then the two left the shop. They walked a short way down Fossgate and sat on a low bench facing the sun. Cordwainer described the capture of Brother Ambrose at the nunnery. “He is in Abbot Simeon’s hands now at Saint Mary’s Abbey,” he ended, “awaiting trial by the Archbishop’s court.”
“But he will not hang,” said Bartholomew, scowling. “He deserves to die.”
“We shall all die in the end,” said Cordwainer. “Do all killers deserve hanging? Brother Ambrose is mad. He believed he was destroying an evil demon that had possessed Molly when he killed her. Should a man hang for his madness? Or for killing someone evil? Someone, perhaps, who has done him a grave injustice?”
Bartholomew was silent.
“Or perhaps,” Cordwainer continued, “someone has done a grave injury to a close member of a man’s family. Should he hang for avenging that injury?” He glanced at Bartholomew. The young weaver’s face was red and his eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “That is why you killed Agnes, is it not?”
“She were going to have the law on me for Molly’s debt,” Bartholomew sobbed. “Were I to become Master Weaver, I would still be paying her for years. Molly were a good girl, she’d never ha’ turned to whoring had Agnes not forced her. She were a good girl.”
Cordwainer sat silently, letting Bartholomew cry. When the sobs diminished, he said, “Our mortal life is so short, Bartholomew, and eternal life so long. But Our Lord is merciful and can forgive the worst of sins. Remember that. May it bring you strength.”
He stood and nodded once. Two bailiffs emerged from the alleyway. Bartholomew gave a strangled cry, but did not run. He rose and allowed the bailiffs to take him by the arms. “Molly’s killer will not hang,” he said, “but I will. Tis not fair, Master Cordwainer. Tis not fair.”
Cordwainer watched the bailiffs lead Bartholomew away. “Nay,” he whispered, “tis not.”
Tuesday, January 23, 1273
Paul Ulfsson swayed on his feet as the room tilted and swam around him. Twas not happening, nay, he had heard wrong. Twas Jordan was to lose his hand, not him. But the bailiffs had seized his arms and were dragging him from the court. A crowd of spectators followed them out, some grinning, some solemn, but all anxious to watch his blood spill on the frozen ground. He struggled, but the bailiffs were strong. One, a red-faced man with a large nose and an untrimmed beard, looked at him and said, “Enough of that. Calm yourself. Tis easier that way, in the end.”
Ulfsson stared at him. Nay, he’d not calm himself. Who could be calm in such straits? Hanging his head, he watched the stone floor pass beneath him. He stumbled when they reached the steps down to the prisoner’s yard at the back of the Castle. Patches of icy snow lay between the rocks and a few trees that were twisted and bent from the wind. At the far end sat a block of stone, stained dark. Next to it stood a priest, his black cassock fluttering as he bent his head in prayer. A taller, more muscular man stripped to his shirt stood beside the priest, facing Ulfsson with an impassive expression. Behind him was a stone table holding a large brazier with a thick metal rod stuck into the coals, a tankard, and an axe.
Ulfsson whimpered and tried to dig his feet into the frozen ground, but the bailiffs dragged him implacably on. The tall man picked up the tankard and offered it, saying, “Drink it all. Twill make it easier.” Ulfsson grasped the tankard with both hands, the bailiffs loosening their grip so he could drink. Twas wine, not ale, he realized, strong wine. He gulped down a swallow, then another, and took a deep breath. Lifting the tankard, he wondered how long he might make it last. He could already feel the wine loosening his limbs and clouding his thoughts.
“Drink up, and twill be over,” said the red-faced bailiff, jostling his arm. Ulfsson looked at him, blinking away tears. Gulping the wine, he stared at the hand holding the tankard, the veins running through the back and up into the fingers. Twas the hand he used to dip his candles, the hand he ate with, the hand he used for everything. He lifted the tankard and drained it.
Immediately a bailiff snatched the empty tankard and dropped it on the ground. The priest raised his hand in blessing and muttered in Latin. The bailiffs pulled Ulfsson forward and lay his arm upon the block, one holding Ulfsson, the other pressing down on the arm with both hands. The axe fell.
Ulfsson watched the blood spurt from where his hand had been, wondering why he felt no pain. The axman lifted the bleeding arm roughly from the block and pressed the stump against the cauterizing iron. The pain came, and Ulfsson screamed.
The Golden Crucifix: A Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mystery (Matthew Cordwainer Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Page 22
