The Pardoner's Crime (11 page)

Hubert bowed and withdrew, although there was
something
about his master's manner that had stirred his curiosity and he would rather have hovered about nearby.  

‘I am at your service, Sir Thomas,' Richard said, with a bow. Despite his apparent calm, he was inwardly dreading this meeting with the Deputy Steward.  

But to his surprise, when Sir Thomas reached him, his bearded face broke into a grin. ‘I think that it will be me who is doing you a service this day, Sir Richard. I am expecting before long to have apprehended that wolfshead, Robert Hood and his snivelling band of fellow outlaws. I had my men leave in the hours before cockcrow, to set a trap.'  

They had started walking towards his private quarters when one of the sentries on the battlements called out, and a series of yells culminated in the bell in the gatehouse block being rung.

‘A rider approaches, Sir Thomas!' the gatekeeper called.

Sir Thomas momentarily grinned triumphantly at Richard, and then he turned as the gatekeeper appeared from his post. ‘Well let him in, man! Let him in!'

A few moments later the drawbridge was lowered and the portcullis clanked upwards. A rider galloped across the wooden bridge, entered the castle and reined to a halt in front of the two knights.

It was Ned Burkin, the Warrengate Constable. He looked to be a worried man.

‘Your pardon, Sir Richard and Sir Thomas. I … I … bring news.'

‘Out with it then!' barked Sir Thomas.

Ned Burkin dismounted and swallowed several times, as if he was having difficulty getting his tongue to articulate words. He directed his reply to Sir Richard.

‘It is the Pardoner, sir. He was murdered last night. By a hidden archer.'

Both Sir Thomas and Sir Richard were taken aback at the news. As the Deputy Steward opened his mouth to bark a command, Richard put a restraining hand on his arm.

‘I think it would be best if we were to listen to the constable's tale in the privacy of your chamber.'

And so, a few minutes later, in the office of Sir Thomas's chambers Ned Burkin recounted the death of Albin of Rouncivale.

‘So we did not dare return to Wakefield last night,' he explained. ‘The killer could have picked us all off at his leisure. We went on and stayed the night at Kirklees Priory as had already been arranged. This morning at first light I
travelled
here.'

Sir Thomas had been prowling the room like a caged animal. He stopped and abruptly thumped the table with a fist, scattering maps, bells and an empty mug. ‘That
wolfshead
Hood! My men should have snared him by now. By thunder we shall have him hanged by sundown!'

Richard eyed him dispassionately. ‘
If
he committed a murder, and if it can be proven, then he will certainly be sentenced to death – but definitely not by sundown today. The law will move appropriately and not with undue haste.'

The Deputy Steward grunted, picked up one of his
handbells
and vigorously shook it. It was answered almost instantly by the serving boy Richard had seen when he arrived at the castle, who came in bearing a jug of ale.

‘Where is the body?' Richard asked.

‘Still at the priory, Sir Richard,' Ned Burkin replied
nervously
. ‘I thought it best to obtain your instructions before I moved it to Wakefield.'

‘Good thinking, Constable,' Richard replied. ‘And are the prioress and the nun's priest still there?'

‘They are awaiting your visit, Sir Richard.'

‘Excellent. Then my man Hubert and I shall ride back with you straight away.' He turned to Sir Thomas. ‘Will you come too, to see the body?'

Sir Thomas gulped a mouthful of ale and shook his head. ‘I have no need to see the wretch. Besides, I have a live fish to catch. I will wait to see my men bring in the outlaw and his rabble.'

Ten minutes later, Sir Richard and Hubert were preparing to follow Constable Burkin across the drawbridge on their way to Kirklees, some ten miles west of the castle. But before they had actually mounted their horses the gatehouse bell rang out again, followed by a yell from the sentry on the battlements above.

‘The men are back, Sir Thomas,' he hailed. ‘But they … they….'

‘They what?' bellowed Sir Thomas.

In answer a motley line of men on foot appeared as they crossed the drawbridge. They were not only horseless, but weaponless and devoid of their chain-mail and their helmets.

‘What in the name of hell?' Sir Thomas cried, his face suffused with fury. ‘Where? How? What? Explain yourselves!'

‘We … we were ambushed my lord. There must have been a hundred or more of them,' the sergeant muttered, hanging his head in shame and quaking with fear, as he saw the Deputy Steward's knuckles whiten on the wood flail in his hands. ‘They took – everything. They said it was all part of their toll.'

‘Toll?' Sir Tomas spluttered, his face almost apoplectic.

‘Their toll for using their forest, sir.'

While Sir Thomas cursed and shook with rage, Richard mounted and signalled for Constable Burkin and Hubert to do likewise.

‘I shall leave you to this, Sir Thomas,' he said. ‘We shall go to investigate this murder.'

Lady Alecia and Lady Wilhelmina came out of the Deputy Steward's chambers as they were passing. Richard touched his forehead as he passed.

Hubert did not fail to notice the sparkle in Lady Wilhelmina's eyes and the instantaneous colour that appeared on her cheeks as they passed.

The journey to Kirklees Priory was uneventful and they did not meet anyone on the road except for a couple of drovers and a meagre herd of cattle, and a group of what seemed to be professional beggars. They were able to travel quickly on their fresh mounts, yet warily in case of outlaws.

Eventually they came to a small valley. It was a fair sized Priory of the Benedictine order, consisting of the usual buildings; a chapterhouse, church and bell tower, dormitory, hospital and cloisters. They were met at the gatehouse by a young novice, who immediately arranged for an ostler to take their horses while she scuttled ahead to take them to Lady Katherine's office, where she and Father Daniel were waiting.

‘This is an evil business, Sir Richard,' the prioress said, wringing her hands, from which her rosary dangled. ‘Can I offer you refreshments after your journey?'

Richard declined for all three of them. ‘Murder is always 
evil, Lady Katherine. Pray let me see the body in the first instance, then we shall talk.'

Without further ado Father Daniel led the way out along the cloister towards the far end of the quadrangle where the hospital block was sited. He opened the door of an outhouse and stood aside for Richard to enter.

The body of Albin of Rouncivale had been laid on the floor and covered with a blanket. Richard knelt and gingerly lifted the blanket to reveal the corpse, lying on its side with a
bloodstained
arrow through the throat.

‘We left the arrow in him,' Constable Burkin explained, as he took the blanket from Richard. ‘I thought you might want to see how he had been killed.'

Richard nodded approval. Ned Burkin had seemed to him a hard-drinking sot, yet he felt that he showed potential. He returned his attention to the body.

Hubert leaned closer and scrutinized the dead man's purple-mottled face. ‘He almost seems to be smiling,' he observed drily.

‘But the poor fellow hardly had anything to be happy about, did he?' Father Daniel queried.

‘The
sardonic smile of death
is common enough,' Richard commented. ‘The muscles go rigid after death and pull the mouth into this leering grin.'

‘You don't think that he could have been smiling at the moment of death, do you, Sir Richard?' Hubert asked. ‘Could he have recognized his killer?'

Richard shook his head and straightened up. He turned to Father Daniel.

‘Why did you just say that he had nothing to be happy about?'

The nun's priest shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘I … I merely meant that he was in a quandary. He was accused of rape and on his way to an ecclesiastical court. And now look at him. Murdered like that.'

‘The constable here says that he claimed that he was
innocent
just moments before he was shot. He said that he called out to you and that he was explaining what the Pardoner had told him when it happened. Is that correct?'

‘Just so. But I never heard him, for the killer struck at that moment.'

Hubert clicked his tongue. ‘But surely it is not unexpected that he would claim to be innocent before the trial?'

‘Except that he had already confessed to the crime when he surrendered himself to Constable Burkin,' Richard replied.

Constable Burkin held the blanket out, as if ready to
recover
the body. ‘Have you seen enough, Sir Richard?'

Richard shook his head. ‘I need to see the body unclothed.' He turned his head to Hubert, who bent down to help.

‘Wait!' Richard said, as Hubert started to tug at the Pardoner's tunic. ‘We shall cut the clothes off.' And, drawing a double-edged hunting knife, he inserted the blade under the neck of the garment and, while Hubert exerted traction, he cut all the way down. Then they peeled the clothing aside. Once the body was unclad, he ran his hands over the stone cold torso with its corrugated rib cage and over the limbs, testing for muscle rigidity and for any other abnormal signs.

‘He looks a pitiful sight,' Father Daniel said. ‘Not too well fed. And there is a vulnerable look about him. Something almost virginal, I think.'

Richard chewed his lip pensively. ‘Indeed, I think that you are right, Father Daniel.' He ran his fingers over the dead man's face and jowls. ‘No beard at all. I fancy that he has never shaved in his life, although he must be in his thirties.'

‘And no hair on his body, except for that lank yellow stuff that hangs down over his shoulders like a girl's,' said Hubert.

Richard still had his knife in his hand. He pointed the tip at the Pardoner's small exposed penis. ‘And this is like a young boy's member.' He slipped the blade under the penis and lifted it up so that he could feel the shrivelled scrotum. ‘And there are no balls in his sac.'

‘So what?' Hubert asked.

Richard stood up and sheathed his knife, before wiping his hands on his breaches. ‘It makes it highly likely that he was telling the truth about one thing.'

‘I am afraid that I do not follow you, Sir Richard,' said the nun's priest.

‘It is simple enough,' Richard replied. ‘This man is like a gelded horse, or like a mare. It is unlikely that he would have been able to rape a woman. Or that he would even have the desire to.'

Hubert snapped his fingers. ‘Of course!' Then he frowned. ‘But why did he confess to the crime?' He shook his head. ‘And so the poor sod was murdered because the killer thought he was guilty.'

Richard frowned. ‘If I had not given him the benefit of clergy then he would still be alive.'

The others could see by Richard's expression that he was troubled by this, as if he felt in some way responsible. But then he exhaled deeply and turned his attention again to the body.

‘Which brings us to this arrow. Unless I am much mistaken it is the twin of the one that killed William Scathelocke.'

The bells tolled, calling the nuns to
Sext
, the fourth of the six services of the day. While Lady Katherine and Father Daniel went to take the service Richard and Hubert sat and ate bread and cheese and drank some of the watered-down ale that Lady Katherine permitted the fourteen nuns under her care to consume. Constable Ned Burkin and his two
assistants
had already started back with the Pardoner's body in a cart, with a message for the bailiff John of Flanshaw to alert the townsfolk about a special session of the court that Sir Richard intended to hold on the following morning. He impressed upon them that they were to tell only the bailiff about the murder of the Pardoner and that he was not to give anyone the reason for the court session. Further, they were to take the body directly to the Tolbooth and keep it concealed as they did so.

‘Forgive me if I speak out of turn, Sir Richard,' Hubert said, as he munched a crust of bread, ‘but do I detect a closeness between the prioress and the nun's priest? A closeness that is not quite—'

Richard nodded. ‘I suspect so, too. Which is dangerous for them, since in 1315 the King's archbishop censured Kirklees Priory because the nuns were said to have been consorting with men. They had the threat of excommunication put upon them.'

‘So I am guessing that if they have got a relationship they would do anything to keep it from the King's ears or that of the archbishop?' Hubert asked. He swigged some ale. ‘Will they be coming back to Wakefield to attend the court tomorrow?'

Richard nodded. ‘Aye, Father Daniel has to return to meet with the guildmasters, and the prioress will be following with some of her nuns after dealing with some priory matters. We will go with Father Daniel after he has finished this service and he can show us where the Pardoner was killed.' He frowned. ‘I have to say that there is much that bothers me about this Pardoner's death, Hubert. It bothers me a great deal.'

F
ather Daniel, riding the Pardoner's donkey, led Sir Richard and Hubert along the trail towards Wakefield. He stopped at the spot where the murder had taken place.

Richard dismounted and tethered his reins to a nearby branch.

‘The exact spot, Father Daniel – show me the exact spot where it happened.'

The nun's priest ran a hand through his mane of red hair and looked about to get his bearings. After a few moments' consideration he urged the donkey forward to a point in the middle of the dusty trail.

‘It was here,' he said, pointing to a dark area on the ground. ‘That is where he fell. You can still see where the blood soaked into the ground.'

‘But the donkey would have been facing the other way,' Richard pointed out. ‘Please turn the animal round, Father Daniel.'

As the nun's priest turned the donkey around, Richard looked up and down the trail and then scanned the bramble and bracken-dense woodland on either side. It was clearly an excellent place for an ambush.

‘Where were you and the prioress?'

‘Just ahead of us now. The constable had called to us and ridden up to us with the Pardoner.' He ran a soothing hand
along the animal's neck as it began to fidget, as if it recalled the violent death of its master and recognized and smelled the spot where it all happened.

‘The constable began telling us that the Pardoner wanted to speak to us, then we heard the whistle and the call.'

‘And what was called?'

‘I am not sure of the exact words, but it was something like “Pardoner, die for your crime!”'

‘And where did the call come from?'

‘From behind us. We all looked round, including the Pardoner, and the arrow caught him in the throat.'

Richard nodded. ‘And he must have fallen backwards into the dirt there.' He bent down and closely examined the ground. And then as Father Daniel described the position of the body he drew a rough outline in the dirt of how the Pardoner had lain.

‘Remember what this looks like, Hubert,' he directed. ‘We shall make a drawing of this later for the court.'

He drew a line from the neck of the outlined figure and added an arrow pointing towards the woodland to the left. ‘Wait here,' he said, straightening up and walking steadily in the direction of the line.

‘He is tracing the place where the arrow was fired,' Hubert explained.

They watched as Richard disappeared into the
undergrowth
. For several minutes he moved hither and hither, bending, moving on hands and knees, sniffing trees and minutely examining the ground. Then they heard him move off further into the woods, only to reappear after about another ten minutes a hundred yards or so distant.

‘What have you learned, Sir Richard?' Father Daniel asked as he finally approached.

‘Interesting things,' was all that Sir Richard would
volunteer
as he untied his horse and mounted. ‘Let us proceed. After you, Father Daniel.'

They rode in silence for some time. Hubert knew his master 
only too well and was aware that he would be piecing things together in his mind and reconstructing the events leading up to the murder.

At length Richard seemed to come out of his reverie. ‘Father Daniel, tell me more about these Wakefield Mystery plays.'

For about the first time the nun's priest seemed to smile, as if thinking about the thing close to his heart had cast a light into the dark mood that the murder of the Pardoner had plunged him.

‘It is a cycle of miniature plays which the guilds perform to tell the story of the world from
The Creation
until
The Final Judgement.
We have many of the great stories of the Bible, such as
Noah and the Flood, The Flight into Egypt
and
The Hanging of Judas.
'

‘So it is rather like the plays performed at York? I saw them once,' said Richard.

Father Daniel considered his answer. ‘They are similar, but yet I – or rather
we
– have written several which are unique to our town. We have twenty-nine plays in all and since all of the guilds are involved in some way there will be almost three hundred people taking part as players, singers or involved in making costumes and so forth. There are parts for two hundred and forty-three players. All of them have to be guildsmen.'

‘And how will they be performed? Have you a stage?'

‘No stage, Sir Richard. Or rather, we will perform it with several pageants, or movable stages, each specially constructed by the guild of carpenters, then decorated by the guilds responsible for their plays.'

Hubert swatted at a fly. ‘And where will this take place?'

‘In the Bull Ring on Corpus Christi Day. We will start at nine bells in the morning and it will take several hours. First we will have a processional pageant from the Church of All Saints through the streets of the town, then the stages on the great wagons will be arranged around the Bull Ring and the plays will be performed in rotation.'

‘How many guilds are there?' Richard asked. ‘I learned from Mistress Oldthorpe, the apothecary's wife, that there is a Grocer's Guild, and I imagine that you represent a Religious Guild.'

‘I do, Sir Richard. I and Lady Katherine represent the Guild of St Oswald and we are the directors. Then there are the trade guilds like the grocers, the butchers, the haberdashers, the glovers. The craft guilds like the carpenters, the fletchers, the barkers, the thatchers, the tanners, the dyers, the
wheelwrights
, the millers and the pinders. You probably know that in York they perform over fifty plays, so they are fortunate in having almost sixty guilds. In comparison we have seventeen guilds, so all but a few guilds have responsibility for two plays.'

Richard ducked a low hanging branch. ‘William Scathelocke, the man who was murdered in the town stocks, must have belonged to the Guild of Pinders, is that correct?'

‘He was, Sir Richard.'

‘And he was also a good slaughterman? I take it that he would have been known to the Guild of Butchers as well?'

‘Indeed he would sir. I could introduce you to George-a-Green, the master of the Wakefield Guild of Pinders if you wish?'

‘I would appreciate that. And can you also introduce me to the master of the Butcher's Guild?'

Father Daniel nodded. ‘Without doubt. I am going to a meeting at the Guildhall this very afternoon. It would be an honour if you would come with me.'

Richard smiled, almost distractedly. Then he seemed to drift into another of his contemplative reveries and conversed no more until they at last came within sight of Wakefield and began the slow climb to the town.

The Guildhall was a rather grand name for a building on one of the side-streets behind the Westgate. It had in the past been a tavern called the Fighting Cocks, for the single reason that 
its central feature was a cock-pit sunk into the ground, surrounded by a circular wooden wall. As such, when the
original
town guild fragmented into several craft guilds, then into a combination of trade and craft guilds, it seemed admirably suited for the badinage that was inevitable between the masters of the respective guilds. In other towns the guilds met in the Moot Hall, but in Wakefield such was the pride in the fact that there were so many freemen and burghers, all of whom were eligible to become guildsmen and thereby
guildmasters
, that they decided that they needed a separate guildhall. And since the Fighting Cocks Tavern had a ready made ring which could be partitioned off into small cubicles for each guild, no guild could claim dominance in status by virtue of position. Hence it was bought by common purchase and duly commissioned as the Guildhall. It was there that the town burghers held their Burghers' Court to deal with all matters appertaining to the burghers of the town, and where the guilds came together to decide on matters that affected all of the guilds, including the production of the Corpus Christi plays.

One of the first by-laws passed by the burghers was the continuation of the license of the Fighting Cocks as a private premise, so that meetings of the guilds could be held with suitable refreshments, yet without the encumbrance of having to deal with non-guildsmen.

Hubert immediately appreciated the hostelry-like
atmosphere
of the Guildhall when they entered. There was a satisfying smell of ale, stale sweat and the distinctive odour of working men and a hub-bub from conversations around the central ring, where a mix of characters seemed to be
socializing
and gossiping rather than settling the affairs of the guilds. There were neat haberdashers and their assistants, nimble-fingered tailors and cobblers, flour-dust-covered millers and rustic fullers and cordwainers. Mugs clinked, men spat on the rush covered dirt floor and, as expected, there were some raised voices and a bit of pushing and shoving as points were made.

An apprentice appeared bearing mugs of ale and offered them to Father Daniel, Richard and Hubert.

‘There is usually some social exchange like this before the business is brokered,' Father Daniel explained.

Richard nodded non-committally. He felt that allowing alcohol was potentially hazardous and he sensed that Father Daniel felt likewise.

‘A little ale helps to calm folk,' Father Daniel went on. ‘But a lot makes most men disagreeable.' He gave one of his rare smiles. ‘That is why I always try to get my business done early on in the proceedings.'

Richard laughed and sipped his mug of ale, noticing that Hubert had taken two mugs and seemed to be finishing off the first already.

‘Ah, there is George-a-Green,' said Father Daniel. ‘He is the Master of the Guild of Pinders.' He edged between a couple of men in aprons who smelled strongly of a tannery works and tapped a big fellow in a horsehair mantle on the shoulder. He said a few words then returned with him.

Hubert was wiping ale from his lips and immediately
recognized
the pinder as one of three men who had been prepared to eject him from the Bucket Inn the day before.

George-a-Green nodded peremptorily to Richard and ignored Hubert. ‘Father Daniel says you wanted to talk to me, Judge?' he asked, with less than enthusiasm. ‘What do you want?'

Hubert squared up to the large pinder. ‘Some manners first, or perhaps you need to be shown some?'

Anger flashed in the pinder's eyes, to be replaced by a disdainful smile. ‘And do you think that you are the man to show me, Master Jackanapes.'

Richard put a restraining hand upon Hubert's arm. ‘Enough!' he commanded. ‘There will be no brawling. I have his majesty's authority and the town has a vacant pillory which can be filled if needs.'

The pinder eyed Richard with a look of ill-concealed 
contempt. ‘Aye, Judge. An empty pillory and an empty stocks. William Scathelocke was murdered in them, didn't you know.'

‘Take care with that brusque attitude of yours, Master George-a-Green,' Richard warned. ‘It is precisely about William Scathelocke that I wanted to talk to you.'

The pinder's eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Why me?'

‘You are the Master of the Guild of Pinders, are you not?'

‘Aye.'

‘And William Scathelocke was a member of your guild?'

‘He was. And he was a decent pinder. He knew all about his animals and he didn't deserve to be in the stocks in the first place.' He spat on the floor by Hubert's foot. ‘If he hadn't been put there, he wouldn't have been shot dead.'

‘How do you know that?' Richard queried. ‘Whoever shot him might have had many other opportunities to kill him.'

The pinder scowled. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.'

‘I hear he was also a good slaughterman.'

‘He was, but why don't you ask one of the butchers?'

‘I will. Where are they?'

‘Father Daniel will show you. That all, Judge?'

Hubert gritted his teeth. ‘I told you—'

But again Richard stayed his hand. ‘That is all for now, George-a-Green. But tomorrow be prepared to answer
questions
in the Manor Court.'

The pinder had been on the verge of going, but at this he eyed Richard with narrowed eyes again. ‘We all heard about another court, but why is it being held so soon?'

‘Because there has been another murder.'

The effect of this news was spectacular. The room had been filled with conversation, yet it suddenly went quiet. Clearly, everyone had been eavesdropping on Richard's conversation. That was as he had suspected, and he smiled inwardly at the effect.

‘You may go now, Master Pinder,' he said. Then, turning to Father Daniel, he said, ‘Now please, take me to the Butcher's Guild.'

Hubert caught George-a-Green's eye and smiled. ‘Didn't you hear my master, pinder? You may go. Be a good fellow and run along now.'

He grinned as the pinder clenched and unclenched his fists then flounced off.

After talking with Rufus Radstick the Butchers' Guild-master Richard had sent Hubert on a mission to the Bucket Inn while he made his way to the apothecary's to have his leg
redressed
.

‘My husband is out visiting patients, Sir Richard,' Emma Oldthorpe told him, her eyes darting hither and thither as if fearful of making contact with his.

‘Ah, I had wondered why he was not at the meeting of the guilds,' Richard returned.

Emma put a hand to her mouth and gave a small gasp. ‘Oh, he will be so disappointed. He hates being late or missing appointments. He must be held up with a difficult case. He said he thought that one of his charges was on the point of death.'

‘Shall I return another time, then?' Richard suggested. He was all too aware that she was embarrassed by his arousal when she last changed his wound.

Emma shook her head emphatically. ‘Why no, Sir Richard. I can re-dress your wound.' Then she looked directly at him and smiled. ‘I would like to if you would permit me.'