The Pardoner's Crime (12 page)

He followed her through to the room and lay down on the couch while she went and brought all that she needed for the re-dressing.

‘I heard that there will be another court tomorrow,' she said, as she unwound the bandage. ‘Have you found
something
out, Sir Richard?'

Strangely, he wanted to tell her, to confide in her, but he would not permit himself to. ‘I need to go over some things. We shall see how it goes.'

She nodded. ‘Of course, Sir Richard. I did not mean to
presume. It is just that I wondered if you would need to see my husband again.' She pulled back the mouldy leather padding and let out a little exclamation of delight. ‘It is healing very well indeed.' She looked up and found him gazing at her. ‘W … will you need him, sir?'

Richard coloured, conscious of the attraction that was developing. He coughed. ‘It is likely, yes.'

‘I worry about him sometimes. He works so hard and he is not getting any younger.'

Richard looked around the room. ‘But he obviously looks after you very well.'

Emma had applied another piece of mouldy leather and was beginning to wind the bandage back on. She looked up and nodded enigmatically. ‘He does his best, Sir Richard. But one day I would like to have a child.'

Richard nodded sadly. ‘Everyone desires to see their line continue. I lost my wife in childbirth and my son a few days after.'

‘So you are all alone, Sir Richard?'

‘All alone, yes.'

She looked at the floor for a moment then looked up at his face with a nervous smile. ‘Shall I rub your leg again, Sir Richard? To help clear the toxic humour?'

Richard had previously debated with himself how he should answer such a question, should she ask it again.

‘Please,' he replied.

Hubert had jumped at the opportunity to return to the Bucket Inn to try to smooth Beatrice Quigley's ruffled feathers. The particular message that Sir Richard had entrusted him with, however, hardly seemed likely in his mind to further his amorous cause.

‘And just why exactly does your master want us all to attend the court?' Beatrice demanded, as she stood facing him with her hands on her hips in the middle of the crowded inn.

Hubert thought that she looked magnificent when she was
riled. Yet that moment was not, he decided, a suitable time to tell her.

‘He is reviewing the case of the murder – and – er – other matters.'

Beatrice eyed him askance. ‘What matters?'

‘I – er – am not at liberty to tell you,' he replied. ‘But he was emphatic that he wants you, Matilda Oxley, and the young Lillian to be there.'

‘But Lillian is still weak!'

Hubert nodded his head sympathetically. ‘He was clear about it. She must attend even if she has to be carried.' He put on his most beseeching look and added, ‘I will happily come and carry her for you if needs be.'

At this, Beatrice could not help herself and her defences crumbled. ‘You are a merry rogue, I will give you that.' She held out her hand and took his. ‘Come, I will let you buy me a cup of mead.'

A few minutes later they were happily drinking each other's health in the inglenook. Beatrice put her cup down. ‘But on a different note, you had better take care of yourself. You have upset George-a-Green the pinder. He stopped in a while ago in a rare temper.'

Hubert merely grinned. ‘Do I detect a note of concern for me?'

Beatrice pursed her lips. ‘Maybe a little. But seriously, he is a strong lad and not one to cross.'

Hubert took a deep draught of ale. ‘Nor am I, my dear. And I just hate being crossed by bully-boys like him.'

‘George-a-Green isn't a bully, Hubert. He is big and bluff and speaks his mind. Maybe it has to do with the fact that he spends more of his time with cattle than with people. I do know that he hates to see injustice.'

‘Still, he needs to learn some manners. Maybe it will be up to me to teach him.'

Beatrice smiled. She liked Hubert's rugged good looks and his self-assurance. ‘Can you teach many things, Hubert?' she whispered coquettishly.

‘A whole lot, Beatrice,' he returned, his breathing noticeably speeding up. ‘Just give me a willing pupil.'

Beatrice ran her eyes appreciatively over his face. ‘I expect that your master Sir Richard will not need you all night,' she said after a moment. ‘Why don't you call back here at curfew time?'

Hubert tweaked her knee and stole a kiss before draining his ale.

‘At curfew time it will be, Beatrice. I will see you then.' He stood up and winked. ‘But first I must attend to any other business my master may have in store for me.'

Richard seemed to be in a merry humour when Hubert met him as previously arranged in the office of the Moot Hall. Richard was going over some administrative matters with John of Flanshaw, the bailiff.

‘I have another commission for you, Hubert,' Richard said, as he sat back in his chair and tossed a document on the table. ‘I want you to go back to Sandal Castle and tell Sir Thomas all that has happened today. Tell him that I am reopening the Manor Court tomorrow at ten o'clock and will be viewing the body.'

John of Flanshaw coughed politely. ‘Did you say you would be viewing the body, Sir Richard? What body? William Scathelocke?' He wrung his hands at the thought. ‘I was going to ask you about this, Sir Richard. He is already starting to smell.'

‘He will be buried soon enough,' Richard replied. ‘But
actually
, we shall be viewing the body of the Pardoner. Although his crime was going to be tried by a consistory ecclesiastical court, his murder makes this a case for me to investigate.' He looked sternly at the bailiff. ‘But you are to say nothing of this to anyone.'

John of Flanshaw hurriedly nodded his head and studied the documents before him.

‘Are you not returning to Sandal Castle tonight, Sir Richard?' Hubert asked.

Sir Richard shook his head. ‘Not tonight. Father Daniel has offered me his hospitality so I shall stay in Wakefield.'

Hubert wondered whether his master's decision had anything to do with whatever the minstrel Alan-a-Dale had been hinting at in his song that morning. ‘Then I should be back in Wakefield before curfew,' he said, lightly.

‘No Hubert, I want you to stay at the castle tonight.'

‘But, Sir Richard, I—'

‘No buts, Hubert. I also want you to have a chat with that friend of yours, Adam Crigg. Find out how many men are truly reliable and loyal to the King in the castle. That is what I want to know.'

Hubert eyed his master and was about to ask why he wanted to know this, for he had already told him of Adam Crigg's feelings about Sir Thomas Deyville's men. Yet he detected something in Sir Richard's countenance that would not brook questioning. ‘When shall I go, Sir Richard?'

‘Now, good Hubert. This instant. Offer to escort Lady Wilhelmina tomorrow morning if she has a mind to attend the court.'

It was with a sense of frustration and disappointment that Hubert called at the Bucket Inn on his way to Sandal Castle. It was not often that he felt like cursing his master, but this was one of them. He planned what he was going to tell Beatrice as he tied his mount up in front of the Bucket Inn.

But Beatrice was not in.

Then he did curse Sir Richard under his breath. He had been looking forward to being a teacher to Beatrice Quigley. As well as being a willing pupil himself.

Father Daniel's house was a neat three-storeyed building with its own garden enclosed with wicker fencing on top of the hill overlooking the Ings, where the township archery butts were located.

A servant met him and took his horse while a serving girl curtseyed and led him through an anteroom into a cluttered 
study. For some minutes he stood looking out of the window which was not yet shuttered, breathing in the scent of
hollyhocks
, columbine and calendula. Beyond the garden the hill ran down to the village of Thornes, which was in turn
overlooked
by the deserted motte of an early castle erected in the days of King Stephen. In the distance was the New Park and the dense woodland that eventually linked up with the Barnsdale Forest. All in all, it seemed a fine view for Father Daniel to contemplate as he sat and wrote.

Richard turned as the serving girl returned with a tray with a flask of wine and two pewter goblets.

‘The master will be with you soon, my lord. He sent word for us to begin supper preparation at six o'clock.' She curtsied again. ‘My name is Susan, Sir Richard. Anything you need, I am to see to.'

Richard smiled and poured himself some wine once she had gone, then he ambled about the room with the goblet in his hand. It was a comfortable room, and clearly that of a scholar. A large table and chair occupied the area in front of the window. Its surface was covered with piles of manuscripts, an astrolabe, a huge illuminated Bible, ink-pots, quills and all the paraphernalia of the writer. Shelves strained with the weight of tightly wound scrolls, caskets, and yet more piles of fresh vellum and parchment. Maps of the locality and of the manor, of the country of England and even one of the lands beyond the channel were nailed to three walls, while beside the window a large plain cross was pinned to the wall above a small praying stool. The floor was stone-paved and bedecked with lavender, fleabane and yarrow.

Richard picked up a parchment from the desk, admiring the bold handwriting. Yet as he scanned the words he found himself admiring even more the bold sentiments that they contained.

A fine poet indeed, he mused to himself.

He lay the parchment back where it had been and looked at another that lay beside it, clearly written in a different hand.
He began to read it and realized immediately that it was a poem, written by a woman, he presumed. And clearly written to express love for the reader. Realizing that it was a personal piece he dropped it back on the desk. A moment later he heard the door open behind him and the tread of a boot on the rushes.

‘Sir Richard, thrice welcome to my humble abode. You do me a great honour by supping with me and staying the night.'

Richard shook his head abruptly. ‘Indeed, Father Daniel, I assure you that it is you who does me a service in giving me shelter tonight. It is frankly a relief to be away from the castle.'

Father Daniel inclined his head diplomatically. ‘Yet I fear that my conversation will not be up to that which you are used to, Sir Richard. I know little about politics and lofty affairs, such as you might discuss with Sir Thomas Deyville.' He bowed humbly. ‘I am after all a simple scholar and priest.'

Richard gave a short laugh. ‘I have heard a lot about your modesty. You are a man of many parts, it seems. Parish priest, castle chaplain, nun's priest, scholar, guildmaster and—'

‘And playwright,' Father Daniel volunteered. He smiled. ‘And in the last you discover the real me, Sir Richard. The writer is the true Daniel, the one that believes he can make a humble contribution to the world.'

Richard turned to the desk and pointed to the piles of manuscripts. ‘Ah yes, and I am told by Lady Wilhelmina, Sir Thomas Deyville's daughter, that you are already famed as the Wakefield Master.' He accepted the seat that Father Daniel offered and took a sip from his goblet.

Father Daniel poured himself a goblet of wine. ‘I fear that is a kindly title that I do not deserve, Sir Richard. I see myself as a scholarly scribe, little more than that. The words I write come to me from … a higher source.'

‘From divine inspiration?' Richard suggested.

There was a tap at the door and Susan entered to let them know that the meal was prepared in the solar upstairs. Richard let Father Daniel lead the way upstairs to the solar,
which had an even better view of the countryside beyond Wakefield. Yet it was the sumptuous meal that lay before them that most demanded his attention, and he realized that it had been many hours since he had last eaten.

They ate in relatively polite silence, enjoying a capon brewet, and a civet of hare, finished off by a frumenty of figs and nuts.

‘You seem to live well, Father Daniel,' Richard sighed at last, sipping his goblet.

‘I am conscious of my blessings, Sir Richard. But whatever we do not eat shall be received by whatever poor vagabonds and street urchins are already congregating at my gate.'

‘Have you always lived in Wakefield?' Richard asked.

‘No, Sir Richard. I took my orders in York, but I also
travelled
in my youth. To Padua where I studied languages and theology, and to Oxford, where I studied our own great language. But I was born in Wakefield and was happy to get a living and patronage here.'

‘And are there many educated folk of your station here?'

‘Lady Katherine, the Prioress of Kirklees is learned in many things, Sir Richard. She has a firm grasp of literature and an unparalleled knowledge of the scriptures.'

‘And the Mystery Plays, how far on are you with them?'

Father Daniel bent his head. ‘We will be ready, Sir Richard. It is a struggle getting folk to remember their lines, I will not deny, for they have to have them read to them until they remember.'

‘It is a problem that so few people can read and write, I agree,' said Richard. ‘But it is a feather in Wakefield's cap that his majesty is planning to come to watch the performance on Corpus Christi Day. How did that come about?'

Father Daniel sipped his wine then lay the goblet down. ‘A strange matter, that, Sir Richard. To be honest, I have no idea. He has been invited every year, but so far he has never expressed an interest, and I never thought that he would. But this year he sent word himself to Sir Thomas Deyville.'

‘Another Wakefield Mystery, then?' Richard asked with a smile.

As they both laughed at his little joke Richard was mentally chiding himself. There seemed too many mysteries in this town. And he fully intended to find out about them soon.