The Pardoner's Crime (2 page)

The knight inclined his head in thanks. ‘And so tell me where I can question this kinswoman of your lady. I am mindful of showing even those outside the law that the law of the land works. I will do what I can.'

‘Ask at the Bucket Inn near Jacob's Well. The mistress there will tell you all.' And stepping backwards he
disappeared
into the greenery.

Five minutes later, as Richard and Hubert made their way onwards, Richard was puzzled to see Hubert grinning to himself. ‘I did not think that you were amused by our little adventure, Hubert.'

‘Oh that! Pah, we could have dealt with the fellow and his rabble if needs be, yet I could see that you planned to talk to the fellow and that you had the matter well in hand without me, my lord. No, I was just pleased to have given you proof.'

‘Proof of what?'

‘Why, of the power of my talisman! It deflected all three of those arrows they fired at us.'

The road from the Outwood that led towards Wakefield was gated but unmanned. It led first across heathland with the Pinder-fields to the left, the undulating pastures where the township kept their cattle. Beyond that it broadened out into the wild heathery land of the Old Park which contained the East Moor, the Park Hills and the Wind Hill, upon which could be seen one of the several windmills that served the locality. To their right they passed cultivated lands, divided up into ridges and furrows, upon which several handfuls of smock-clad peasants could be seen working. And beyond that could be seen the half-wooded Great Park which was famously well stocked with deer, partridges and boar.

Hubert had been ruminating in silence until they were well clear of the wood and the habitations of Wakefield came into view. ‘So tell me, my lord, what do we know of this town of Wakefield?'

Sir Richard wiped his brow again. ‘I was well briefed before we began our journey and read up about it last night. It is an ancient town that the Saxons built on an eminence that slopes down to the River Calder, although they say that some of the townships around it were actually Viking settlements.' He pointed along the length of the rough track they were making their way down. ‘There are four main roads, each with a toll-gate which closes at the eight bell curfew. This is the Northgate, the others being Kirkgate, Westgate and Warrengate. The main three roads meet at the market-place, which is called Birch Hill. It is said to be of a goodly size, with a pond, a market cross and a great circular area that they call the Bull Ring, for obvious reasons. The prison is also there, as is a church and the Moot Hall, where I shall preside over the Manor Court.'

Some distance further they passed a wayside chantry chapel, bearing the markings of St John the Baptist. Its door
was closed, but beside it was a carved trough full of water, presumably blessed, and an offertory box in which some wag had left the body of a drowned rat.

Hubert snorted. ‘It looks as if there are some irreverent dogs around this town, my lord.' He made the sign of the cross as they passed. ‘And what of Sandal Castle? Will the new steward accommodate us?' Hubert asked.

‘He has been ordered by the King's messenger to receive us. Sir Thomas Deyville is thought to be an able enough fellow, but he has no knowledge of law and there is concern that he may have been over-zealous in settling in. His majesty wanted a firm hand, yet he knows that he must not make enemies of his own people. That is why I have been given this roving commission, to introduce fair law into the Manor of Wakefield.'

‘And this Sandal is it far from Wakefield?'

‘A couple of miles on the other side of the river.'

They had reached the gate of the Northgate road, on either side of which were a couple of humble dwellings. The gate itself was a stout timber on great hinges that barred their way. A middle-aged woman with a closed eye appeared from one of the hovels, wiping her hands on a dirty apron.

‘Good day, masters. I am Alice-at-the-Bar and I and my son are charged with letting in those as wants to come and keeping those in that mustn't stray.' She immediately burst into a cackle that sent a shiver through Sir Richard's spine. ‘It is a toll to enter, unless you tickle my fancy.'

Sir Richard eyed Alice-at-the-Bar dispassionately. ‘Know you that I am Sir Richard Lee, the Circuit Judge of the King's Northern Realm and by his warrant I and my man must enter Wakefield immediately. I shall be presiding over the court,' he said meaningfully. ‘I would treat any news that the town
gatekeepers
were taking bribes, or worse, with appropriate severity!'

Alice-at-the-Bar's one good eye shot open wide in fear. ‘I meant nothing, sir. I jest a lot, but I mean nothing.' And with
a manly whistle she called her son, a spindly youth, and together they raised the bar and let the two riders through.

‘Where can I find first the Bucket Inn near the Jacob's Well and then Wilfred Oldthorpe the apothecary?' Richard asked, tossing a farthing, which was caught nimbly and thankfully by Alice-at-the-Bar, despite her one eye.

‘That would be easy, sir. Like as not at this time of the day Master Wilfred Oldthorpe will be drinking ale at the inn. You won't get a finer brew in the whole of Yorkshire than at Mistress Quigley's Bucket Inn.'

And after she had given Sir Richard directions she winked at Hubert, who winced and unconsciously touched the
arrowhead
beneath his surcoat.

Wakefield was a straggling town of gabled wooden houses, most of which had undercrofts on the ground floor for keeping animals or storing supplies, and which were roofed with either thatch or reeds. The main streets were wide and well rutted by ox-carts and pack-horses, with side streets and narrow alleys leading off them. Dung heaps, puddles and refuse of various sorts made walking in a straight line
difficult
, the result being that the streets were full of animals and folk going about their business in an erratic, almost zig-zag manner. As Sir Richard and Hubert rode down the Northgate they passed open doors from whence emanated the odours of wood smoke, baking bread and cooking. All this mingled with the smell from a nearby tannery and of ground corn from the two water-mills and a great windmill visible on the Westgate.

They found their way to the lane on which the Jacob's Well was sited. This provided fresh water to the east end of the town and, as it happened, to the brew-house of the Bucket Inn. The inn itself was the most conspicuous and impressive building on the lane. It was a two storeyed affair, with a thatched roof, two outhouses and a large brew-house. On either side of the door were two half-barrels containing mulberry bushes, while from a joist above the low doorway
hung a bucket from which trailing roses seemed to cascade out.

The smell of beer, cooking meat and onions made Hubert's stomach gurgle. ‘A comely place, this Bucket Inn looks,' he said to Sir Richard. And then hopefully, ‘would we have time for a mug of ale and a bite, my lord? It would mayhap help to wash away the taste of that rogue who robbed us in the Outwood.'

Richard smiled as he dismounted and handed the reins of his mount to an ostler who suddenly appeared from behind the brew-house. ‘We were not robbed, Hubert. We merely chose to pay his toll.'

Hubert frowned. ‘But it was illegal, my lord. Surely you—'

But Richard had stopped listening. He pushed open the door of the inn, bent his head under the lintel and entered the smoky interior.

It was a large noisy room, one end of which was taken up with barrels from which a couple of maids were pouring mugs of ale, while two more girls and a surly looking potman were dispensing them and platters of steaming food among the various heavy wooden trestle tables. A roaring fire, despite the heat of the day, kept a large iron pot above the flames steaming away, filling the inn with a pleasing aroma. This was enhanced by the smell of beef and roast chicken coming out of the open door of a kitchen.

‘A popular place, right enough,' Sir Richard said over his shoulder to Hubert, as the latter closed the door behind them. ‘I think refreshment would be a good idea before we begin work.'

The potman passed them and grunted at an empty table by the fire. They sat and removed their gauntlets. Richard was looking round the inn at the assorted clientele when a pleasant female voice demanded his attention.

‘Good day, gentlemen, welcome to my inn. And what can I get you today?'

Richard had barely looked at a woman since his Eleanor
had died, but this woman immediately struck his attention. She was a large-breasted woman of about twenty-five with a narrow waist, hazel-eyed with wisps of brunette hair escaping from her simple cap. Her skin was too tanned for a lady, yet it suited her pretty and healthy looking face. Her smile revealed strong white teeth with a slight gap between her two front ones.

He noted that although she talked directly to him, yet her glance had by-passed him and fallen upon Hubert, whom she graced with a smile that lit up her face. Richard smiled inwardly, for he had long been aware of Hubert's attraction to women.

‘You are I take it Mistress Quigley, the owner of this inn?'

‘That is me, Beatrice Quigley. You have heard of my inn, sir?'

‘The old woman, Alice-at-the-Bar told us when we came through the Northgate. She said that you would be able to point out a local apothecary by the name of Oldthorpe.'

Beatrice smiled and pointed to a far corner where a portly, middle-aged man wearing a battered liripipe hat was staring into a large pot of beer. Before him were the remains of a meal. ‘Master Wilfred enjoys a hearty lunch,' she replied. ‘But if you need his medical skills I would suggest waiting a couple of hours, until he gets over his – refreshments!'

Both Hubert and Richard smiled. ‘I may do that,' said Richard. ‘But I would also like you to tell me where I might talk with a girl called Lillian.'

‘Who told you that I would know that, my lord?'

‘I heard of it from a man who called himself the Hood.'

He watched and saw the slight widening of her eyes, as if in alarm. Then her face registered suspicion. ‘And why should you want to talk to this girl Lillian, my lord?'

‘I am Sir Richard Lee and I—'

A scream suddenly rang out from somewhere upstairs and a moment later a handsome, bare-headed blonde woman appeared at the top of a flight of stairs. She looked shocked,
her head turning right and left as if searching for someone. Then they fell upon the mistress of the inn. ‘Beatrice!' she cried. ‘Come up. You are needed.' She held up her hands which were covered with blood. ‘And bring that apothecary!'

The inn customers mostly fell silent at this entry, but
no-one
seemed particularly interested. Or rather, no one seemed eager to get involved when blood was apparent.

Richard and Hubert watched Beatrice hitch up her dress and rush through the crowded inn to grab the sleeve of Wilfred Oldthorpe the apothecary and half drag him towards the stairs.

‘Come, Hubert!' Richard said, as they disappeared upstairs. ‘I am always nervous when I meet someone for the first time with blood on their hands.'

Hubert followed his master with alacrity. He was not so much aware of the blood, as the fact that the women of Wakefield seemed uncommonly attractive.

A
lbin of Rouncivale was feeling pleased with himself. Things had been going well for him ever since his venture in Pontefract, following the execution of the Earl of Lancaster. He had spent a highly profitable week in the town and only left when the local priest had actually offered him physical violence for poaching on his territory. The fat, useless fool! He had no idea of how to feed off the wages of sin, unlike himself. He guessed that he had seen and counselled more of the Pontefract folk than ever ventured into his church in a month of Sundays. And at that he had laughed, for he called every day a
sinday
, and Sunday just an extra big day to harvest the crop of sinners, perverts and those who were contemplating sinning.

From there he had meandered around the hamlets and villages of the Honour of Pontefract, setting up a temporary pulpit in each and then retiring to the local inn or hostelry where he was usually able to obtain a back room or an outhouse to receive the sinful. And he grinned at just how many of them there were. Enough to make him a rich man some day, he hoped.

Eventually, he had come to Wakefield, which seemed to be a veritable den of iniquity, incest and just plain ordinary dishonesty. In fact, a place no different from anywhere else in King Edward's realm. Except that it boasted a market, a
regular fair and the prospect of a great deal of trade as the feast of Corpus Christi approached, when the town guilds would be putting on the Mystery Plays that the town prided itself upon. Yes, he reflected, there was much to look forward to.

‘Good day, Master Pardoner,' cried one of a group of five maids who were busily treading laundry in a trough at the back of one of the great timber-framed houses behind the parish church of All Saints. ‘Are you preaching or pardoning this day?'

‘A little of both,' he said with a smile, turning in his saddle and waving the cross that he had balanced against his shoulder, like a pikestaff. ‘But you already bought a pardon from me yesterday, didn't you?'

‘I did. But I think I might need another after what me and my man got up to last night.'

She was a comely, buxom girl, as indeed were the others. They worked away, showing off their legs and arms as they trod the linen of the great house in the trough of urine and lavender, giggling merrily among themselves.

‘Perhaps I shall be seeing you later then,' he said over his shoulder. ‘I shall be preaching near the Bull Ring this
afternoon
.'

‘We might all be there, Pardoner,' cried the forthright one again, and they all trilled with suggestive ribald laughter.

Albin of Rouncivale grinned and stroked his smooth
beardless
chin. Yes, the wenches of Wakefield seemed to be a healthy bunch with good appetites in matters pleasurable.

He coaxed his donkey towards the Bull Ring, where the bull-baiting was held every fair's day, but which now was packed with temporary market-stalls. He threaded his way through the throng then passed the all but deserted square by the Tolbooth, which served as the town goal, and the nearby Moot Hall. The town stocks and pillory were in the middle of the square. A miserable, unkempt-looking fellow plastered with rotten vegetables and dung was sitting there, with his
feet ensnared by the great hinged boards. Beside him was a flask of water and a crust of bread. He looked up beseechingly at the sound of the donkey's feet.

‘Bless me, Father?' he asked.

Albin of Rouncivale stared at him then slowly shook his head. A cruel smile passed over his thin lips. The fool had committed a crime and he was being punished. That was only right. After all, if he was stupid enough to get caught, that was his problem. The Pardoner made a point of never being seen doing wrong. He had no intention of ever getting caught and suffering the humiliation of the stocks or the pillory – or worse.

For all of Wilfred the apothecary's portly, middle-aged build, and the fact that he had been dragged up the stairs by Beatrice when he was actually faced with a situation requiring his skills in medicine, he responded with admirable swiftness. Although Richard and Hubert were only mere moments behind them, yet already the apothecary had assessed the situation and pitched in.

It was a spectacle that Hubert of Loxley had not been prepared for. Despite all of his battle experience, when he had seen men's bodies hacked, maimed and dismembered, the sight of a young girl bleeding profusely on a pallet bed from knife cuts to her own wrists made him feel weak at the knees. Richard noticed and steadied him until he regained his strength and straightened himself with a combined look of gratitude and embarrassment.

‘What has happened here?' Richard asked. ‘Why has this girl taken a knife to herself?'

Beatrice had been standing with her arm about the
shoulders
of the woman who had called her upstairs, while the apothecary was applying tourniquets that he had taken out of the shoulder bag that he had discarded on the floor. At the sound of Richard's voice she turned, her face grim and
challenging
.

‘And exactly what business is it of yours?' Beatrice demanded. She had disengaged her arm from the other's shoulder and now stood with her hands on her hips,
effectively
barring the entrance to the room. ‘Who might you be anyway?'  

‘I am Sir Richard Lee, the Circuit Judge of the King's Northern Realm and this is my assistant Hubert of Loxley. And since taking one's own life is a crime against the King's Law and against the Church, it is very much my business.'  

The girl was about seventeen years old and a blonde beauty by anyone's standards. She was unconscious, her face almost alabaster pale, and her breathing fast becoming laboured. A glance at her and the woman with corn-blonde hair who stood wringing her bloodstained hands told Richard that they were not distantly related.  

‘The girl is not yet dead, my lord,' said Wilfred the
apothecary
. ‘And she will not die this time, if I have anything to do about it.'  

‘Well said, Master Apothecary,' returned Richard. ‘How can we aid you?'

‘By helping me get her to my premises on Westgate. I have need of my wife, who will help me cauterize these wounds. Then I will prepare a restorative.'  

‘Has … has she lost much blood?' Beatrice asked, anxiously.  

Wilfred pointed to the blood-soaked blankets on the pallet bed. ‘A few minutes longer and she might have lost a mortal amount.' He clicked his tongue. ‘But I think that she will recover well. By bleeding herself she has probably removed much of the black melancholic humour that had made her feel so wretched.'  

Beatrice shook her head. ‘It is not a disease humour that made her do this, Master Apothecary. It was the crime committed on her person, as we all know.' Then before he could reply she turned to the other woman. ‘There, Matilda, you can rest easy again. She will live and grow old.'  

The woman called Matilda heaved a sigh of relief and bent
to stroke the younger woman's brow. ‘May the Lord be praised,' she said. ‘I will not let you out of my sight after this.'

The apothecary heaved himself to his feet and looked at Richard and Hubert. ‘Then if one of you gentlemen would carry her I will lead the way.'

Richard was about to move forward, but Hubert stayed him with a hand on his arm. ‘I will take her, my lord.' And, bending, he gently scooped her up as if she weighed nothing at all, then he followed the apothecary down the stairs.

‘This girl is called Lillian, is she not?' Richard asked of the two women.

They both exchanged looks of amazement.

‘How … how do you know this, my lord?' Matilda asked.

‘I talked with a man in the Outwood. He is your man, I believe.'

Matilda gasped and covered her face with her hands. ‘My Robin? You … you saw my Robin?'

Beatrice quickly interjected. ‘Robert Hood is a good man. You have not harmed him, have you, sir?'

Richard shook his head. ‘He was well and was looking at me from the other side of a longbow when we talked. He told me that your kinswoman had been raped, and I said that I, as the Circuit Judge of the King's Northern Realm would
investigate
. I am a man of my word.' He turned to the stairs. ‘My man and I shall take Lillian to the apothecary's and I will call back later. There are certain things that I must know about here.'

They rode up to the Birch Hill, passed the busy market with its many stalls and booths of timber and plaster, the superior ones having dwelling quarters above them. As they made their way through the noisy throng of people, pigs and sheep, they caught the characteristic smell of blood and offal from the shambles, where the butchers plied their trade and the odour of fish and the noise of poultry as they neared the market cross. Finally escaping the crowd they arrived some
moments later at Wilfred Oldthorpe's establishment on the Westgate. All the while Hubert had ridden with Lillian in his arms. He kept looking at her concernedly, as if worried that the journey could cause fresh haemorrhaging.

There were trays of fruit and vegetables and bundles of herbs on a wooden table outside the premises, and above the open door there was a signboard with a painting of a flask of wine beside a pestle and mortar. Through the large open-
shuttered
window a young woman could be seen measuring a quantity of some sort of powder and pouring it into a jug which was being stirred by a man in his mid-twenties who was bent almost double and who had the hump of a
hunchback
over his right shoulder. His open mouth dribbled saliva and he seemed to move slowly as if his wits were impaired.

‘Emma!' the apothecary called through the window. ‘I have a patient. Get the cautery irons.'

Richard stood aside to let the apothecary inside, and then Hubert followed carrying the girl in his arms.

‘Is your daughter used to treating wounds, Master Apothecary?' Richard asked, as the woman responded
immediately
and moved quickly through into a back room.

‘Emma is my wife,' the apothecary replied drily. ‘And yes, she assists me in many things. She is also skilled in midwifery, the preparation of herbs and the spicing of wines.' He spread a hand out to indicate the shelves that reached to the ceiling of the room. They were laden with labelled jars of herbs and spices, bundles of liquorice roots and sticks of rhubarb. Against the counter were open sacks of various grains and cereals and against another wall were hogsheads of wine and shelves full of a variety of flasks. The floor was covered with reeds, lavender and fleabane stalks.

‘And this is our grocery business,' he went on, with a note of pride in his voice. ‘Bring the lady through here if you would, sirs.' Then, to the simple-looking servant, ‘Look after any customers, Gilbert.' But seeing the flustered look on the man's face, he snorted, then said, ‘Just call out if anyone comes in.'

They went along a narrow corridor and entered a room with a desk, shelves with more bottles and flasks of medicines and heaps of scrolls. A small fire was burning and Emma, the apothecary's wife was bending in front of it, prodding some instruments with a gloved hand. Wilfred Oldthorpe pointed to a couch beside a shuttered window. ‘Lay her down gently, sir.'  

Hubert laid her down and stroked a wisp of corn-coloured hair from in front of her eyes. ‘I would feel better if the girl would wake up,' he said, anxiety written across his face.  

‘She will wake as soon as I cauterize her wounds,' said the apothecary. ‘You see if she doesn't.'  

‘Good, for I mean to talk to her,' said Richard.  

Emma turned from the fire to face them. ‘I have the instruments all ready, Husband. They just need a moment longer.'

Richard found himself studying her, for she was a
singularly
attractive woman of about twenty-eight. Perhaps half the apothecary's age, he guessed. She was dressed in a green gown with an apron covered in flour and some sort of paste. Her long raven hair was braided and looped twice about her brow. Her skin was pleasingly pale with just a hint of colour in her cheeks. Her features were fine and her lips were full. Her eyes settled upon him and she smiled.  

The apothecary immediately set to work and unbandaged Lillian's wrists. As soon as he released the tourniquets blood started flowing again. ‘Hmm, I had hoped that I would have got away without doing this, but the blood will not stop unless I seal the wounds with heat.' He redid the tourniquets and then took the glove that his wife proffered him. ‘Hold her, Emma,' he instructed.  

Emma did as she had been bidden without question. Clearly, she knew what was needed and he had little doubt that she realized that Lillian had just a short time before attempted to take her own life.  

Wilfred Oldthorpe took one of the cautery irons from the fire in his gloved hand, then removed the temporary dressing
and moved closer with the red hot metal. ‘Hold her hand will you, sir,' he asked Hubert, who winced, but immediately grasped Lillian's hand.

As soon as the cautery iron touched and seared her flesh, Lillian's eyelids flickered. And as the apothecary worked the instrument to seal the wound the air was filled with the stench of burning flesh. Then Lillian's eyes opened wide with a start, her mouth gaped and she screamed. It was but a short scream, for her body bucked most violently, only to be restrained by the surprisingly strong hands of Emma Oldthorpe and Hubert. Then she swooned and lapsed into unconsciousness again.

The apothecary had kept working through all this. ‘Now take her other hand and I will seal the other wound.' His eyes rose to meet those of the horrified Hubert. ‘I told you she would wake,' he said, with a smug professional grin.

Richard had been watching Lillian closely. Now he was all too aware that his leg was beginning to pain him quite badly again, and he could feel perspiration dripping down his face. He looked up to see Emma Oldthorpe appraising him with interest. Immediately she tapped the apothecary on the shoulder.