Where to start? Emma remembered discrepancies she had noticed whilst Father Jerome prayed for his immortal soul. She started speaking to herself in the dark night, maybe to convince herself that she was not alone with a corpse in the flickering shadows of the candles
Hmm, First, those shoes, they are distinctive. Those knots… Where have I seen them before? They are not of James from without the walls… No definitely not the same as fathers.
Taking her wax tablet and stylus, she carefully made a drawing of the identifying knots.
Possibly one of them over by the shambles. I will call on them on the morrow.
On a second tablet she wrote – Bristol footwear?
Now, stranger, what else can you tell me?
She blessed herself, exhaling slowly and took a deep breath… Excuse my intrusion, sir. She leaned forward and lifted his right hand, now growing cold. Your soul is departing, but you are still here. Let me see. What is your trade?
She turned it over to examine his palm and fingers. Peering closely, invading his privacy, she felt unease, but steeled herself to continue. Hmmm… Something looked familiar. She turned over her own palm and looked closely, comparing both. Definitely ink… and not lampblack… she murmured. Are you a clerk like myself, a man of quill and ink? Is that your trade?
She looked at his face, curious.
“Emma?”
She whirled around, dropping his hand in one movement. Embarrassed.
“Margery! You near scared the spirits out of me… What brings you at this haunting hour? Although you are very welcome at any hour.”
“I could not sleep, even in Redcliff, we heard your Hue and Cry, and word came that someone died in Fenwicks – I was afraid. I can see now it was not you. Ned or your father, are they in health?”
“Yes, there is no fear on them, come over and view our visiting stranger.” She said, pointing to the corpse still lying on the floor.
“Oh, was he come to rob? What happened?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. He fell against our door and Ned brought him in where he died soon after.”
“A total stranger – not a neighbour then?”
“No, nothing like that. He knocked looking for… I think safety… but died.”
“So you do not know who he is?”
“No… a real mystery this time. Much more interesting than the miraculous wine,” she added mischievously.
“He is a handsome devil,” Margery whispered lest she awaken his ghost, now that she was close to him. She blessed herself quickly and awkwardly trying not to drop the bundle of candles she was carrying.
“Here, take these, for the vigil.” She offered handing them over.
“I was trying to work out who he was when you frightened me… Look at those hands, and look at mine – see the same ink marks. He works with ink – he must be a scribe. Are you one with me?”
But it was not a question that she expected answered. It was a statement.
“Hmm… perhaps,” not entirely agreeing, but not wanting to disagree either.
“No, wait… I think I see something.” She almost ran to her wooden chest of instruments, quickly returning with a crystal reading stone. She placed it close to the corpse’s thumb, magnifying it tenfold – though grossly distorted. But there it was, without doubt. She passed the dome across.
“Here – look closely on the inside of the thumb.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Do you see any colours besides black? Look closely.”
There was not a sound, save for Emma shifting her weight on the rush-covered floor, impatient.
“No… no… there’s just… No, that is all. What did you think was there?”
“Can you not see the hint of blue, inks they use in the friaries?”
Margery bent closer, but was not comfortable holding the corpse’s hand. “You are trying to see what is not there. Emma, for me, all I see is black ink – as you said earlier, most likely he was a merchant’s clerk… and this seems an intrusion.”
Reluctantly Emma agreed.
“We must roll him a bit to see the wounds better.
“No, that I will not do. His body must not be disturbed. His soul is searching for heaven, we should not disturb it,” blessing herself furiously.
“Could he have known his killer?” Emma mused
“What? Oh, I hope not. Imagine, someone you know doing that! It would be horrible.”
But Emma was quiet and thoughtful. Too quiet. Margery looked her in the eye – “This isn’t John. Don’t dwell on him.”
“You are right, but I find it hard. He was killed ‘by persons not known’” she almost spat out the words. “No proper inquest then, no one cared!”
“Please, Emma, let us stop this, relax and don’t be fretting yourself.”
“I can’t. This man must be named and not buried a stranger. You understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do… Wait for the inquest in the morning. The coroner will find his name.”
Emma moved to examine the girdle belt.
“Wait, Emma, this is very personal, a man’s personal pouch. No, that is enough. We should not touch it. It is wrong.”
“That is what you feel?”
Although Margery didn’t answer, her stillness spoke volumes. She was uneasy.
“Maybe you are right. But look at the large pouch. I recognise that, I have many similar myself. It holds a wax tablet.”
“Please… Don’t touch it… please.”
“As you wish.” Emma sat back on her heels, reluctant but unwilling to distress her friend. After a moment, she rose. “Enough of mysteries for one night then. We should ready the shop for the jurors come morning.”
“Yes, there is a need to clear space, set benches… or perhaps some casks?”
“When Ned returns, I’ll have him rearrange the tiered barrels for seating. I’m sure half the ward will come crowding in.”
“Then a few trenchers of bread, cheese, and salted meat?”
“Yes, we’ve plenty of that, but not much ale.”
“Send Ned out at first light to the White Swan. If ale flows well, I’m told, so too does an inquest.”
Emma nodded absently.
“The coroner and Master Richard will dine above, I suppose? More fitting their rank.”
They settled into easy chatter of smaller things – bread, candles, tableware – the ordinary tokens of order and familiarity set against the silent presence of death on the floor.
The hall had been scrubbed, the board laid with cold meats, cheese, bread, and wine – Margery’s neatness standing in for dignity. Downstairs, the shop waited for the jurors the coroner would surely summon.
The body still lay where it had fallen on the rush-strewn floor, blood dried to brown. One arm stretched outward, ink staining the fingers. A faint sourness lingered: iron, dust, old wine.
Measured footsteps sounded in the strete.
Coroner Bale entered with his clerk and beadle. Broad‑shouldered, heavy‑browed, he surveyed the room with the calm of a man long used to death.
Emma curtsied. “Master Bale. You are welcome. My father will be here prese…”
“Coroner Bale,” Richard called from the stair. “My apologies for not greeting you first.” He descended quickly, hand outstretched, voice respectful.
Bale took the hand briefly. “Master Fenwick.”
“This is my daughter, Emma.”
Bale’s eyes flicked to her. “I’ve seen her about town. At the castle, too.” He gestured toward the body. “This is the corpse?”
Emma stiffened. What does he think – we keep a store of them for his choosing?
Richard stepped in. “It was good of you to come at first light. Emma has prepared a light repast upstairs, should you wish to rest before the inquest.”
Bale’s gaze moved between them, cool and weighing. “Master Fenwick – you will not serve as a juror. You are too closely concerned with the death. You understand.”
Bale turned to the beadle. “Fetch twelve men from the ward. None with stake or grudge against this house. And the neighbours on each side. The watch from last night as well.”
The beadle bowed and slipped out.
Bale turned to Emma. “See there is food and ale for the jurors when they attend.”
Emma bit back her retort. The bread, cheese, and ale already laid out were plain enough to see. Do they think women’s hands invisible, or merely taken for granted?
The beadle had been gone near an hour. Emma kept herself busy – straightening the trestle, checking the ale – anything to steady her hands. Above, her Father’s low voice murmured with the coroner. She strained to catch a word, caught nothing.
Margery slipped in through the back. “All quiet?”
“For now.”
At last, voices in the strete. The beadle’s bark. The shuffle of feet.
“The jurors,” Emma murmured.
They came in twos and threes. Emma guided them to the benches she’d set out. Margery moved among them with a pitcher, pouring ale, cutting bread, asking after wives and children as though this were any other gathering.
The men spoke low, eyes flicking toward the shrouded body. A few had climbed half the way up the stairs, trying to hear the voices in the hall above.
“Whisht, lads. The coroner comes.”
Bale emerged, grey eyes sweeping the room. He flicked a finger, and the men parted to give him passage.
Silence spread. Even the neighbours pressed around the corpse fell still as Emma stepped forward and led Bale to the carved seat by the clerk’s table.
Bale sat, heavy and deliberate. His gaze moved over the packed room. “Beadle. Move this crowd back. The jury must have plain sight of the corpse.”
“Stand back! Stand back!” the beadle barked, but the crush only shifted, bodies surging for a better view.
Emma tried to coax their closer friends toward the stairs. “There’s space above – and food in the hall if you’ve a mind.” A few moved; twice as many filled the gap.
She gave up and returned to her place beside the clerk’s table, jaw tight.
“This man,” Bale began, “lies slain within this ward. By law, we must view the wounds, and you, good men of the jury, must speak truth to the best of your conscience.”
He nodded to the clerk, who drew back the stiffened cloak and tunic. The stranger’s single deep wound gaped in the morning light, the jagged tears of the blade still raw. A ripple of uneasy murmurs ran through the watchers until Bale silenced them again with a glare.
Emma, repulsed by the jagged wound, clenched her hands together. Margery, less squeamish, looked with dispassion on the corpse, whispered “It was personal.”
“Why do you say?”
“Close up, face to face. Personal.”
Their quiet conversation was interrupted by the coroner.
“This wound was deliberate – the work of an assassin. Does anyone disagree?”
None dared swallow, let alone speak.
“Good… Clerk, show here.”
The clerk tugged at the pouch fastenings till it came loose. He laid the contents out on the table, itemising each piece – “a wooden rosary… half a lead token… a short knife – sharp, clean… used quill, and some coins… three pennies, a farthing and one, two, three… four quarter-noble coins.”
While the coroner handled each item weighing up the implications, if any, Emma’s mind was racing. Where is the pouch and wax tablet that it held? Did I forget to return it? Surely not? No, I am sure I never removed it, Margery forbade it. She risked a glance at her father. Richard’s face was composed, almost serene, as though nothing were amiss. Glancing at Ned, she noticed that he also sat composed, as was Margery.
Coroner Bale looked down again at the body, grey eyes narrowing. “The possessions of the dead tell their own tale,” he said. “Sometimes a truer one than men’s lips.” He gathered the purse and laid it aside for the clerk to note. “We can see it was not a robbery. Possibly a personal quarrel,” he spoke as much to himself as the jurors. Coming to a decision, – “yes, definitely well known to him. Murdered close up.”
Rousing himself, he addressed the jurors. “Are we in agreement?”
There was a chorus of ‘Yea’.
Moving on, in a loud voice he then asked “Does anyone here know this man, or his business in this ward?”
There was much shuffling of feet on the floor coverings. Silence stretched. Emma held her breath. Someone must know. Someone must speak truth.
Then a voice from the back of the throng – she could not see who spoke.
“He come recent on boat from Gascony… I think…”
Emma’s head snapped towards the sound. What? No. That is not…
“Does anyone confirm this?” The coroner looked about.
“He does look like… what was his name?” Another voice, also from the crowd.
“Jacques,” someone answered.
“Yes, it was! Jacques, from Gascony. Recently arrived.”
Emma felt the blood drain from her face. Lies. All lies. He spoke to me in a Bristol voice, clear as my own. She looked at her father. Richard nodded sagely, as if this confirmed what he already suspected. The jurors exchanged glances of visible relief – a foreign sailor, a foreign quarrel, nothing to touch the ward.
She wanted to cry out, to tell them they were wrong. But she was a woman at a medieval inquest. Her voice had no standing here. She could only watch as the lie took hold.
“Is anything further known of him? Why he came from Gascony? Anything…?” The coroner left the question hanging.
“Not exactly sir, but I know he feared some other who sailed with him. He said as much the evening before.” The same voice from the crowd.
Feeling that the inquest was getting somewhere, the coroner indicated to his clerk to continue note taking.
“Give a description of these men, hurry now man.”
“He never described them to me… Anyway, they sailed on yesternight’s tide. They are half the way back to Gascony by now.”
“Very well… tis a great pity… Nothing to be done now.”
“We will now consider first finders and witnesses. Beadle, who were the first finders? Bring them forward.”
Master Fenwick stood and was sworn in.
Emma looked closely at her father, he seemed calm, with not a care in the world, as if it was a normal every day occurrence, having an inquest in our shop.
“Well now Master Fenwick, Richard, perhaps we can come to the truth without delay. What time…”
“Shortly after the Compline bell tolled. Ned and I were checking tallies from today’s, I mean, yesterday’s consignment that we…”
Emma kept her face still, though she felt the weight of the lie settle on her shoulders. This is what we agreed. This is for my protection. But hearing it spoken aloud, before the coroner, before God – it felt different. Heavier.
“Of course. No need to go into details,” the coroner interrupted. “And what happened…”
“There was a very loud banging against the door. Too loud to ignore. Ned was closest and he went to investigate.”
“Yes, and… ?”
“After that, it was exactly as Ned described… and we lay him as you can see here.”
One of the neighbours interrupted
“Sir Coroner?”
“Yes, you have a question?”
“Yes Sir, I live just next door, but we didn’t hear any noise.”
“No? But that could easily happen, after all it was not your door that…” the Coroner answered somewhat annoyed at this unwarranted interruption to his proceedings.
“Sorry sir, what I mean to say. I didn’t hear a bang but I did hear Ned there shouting help! Very loud it was an’ all. Why was he shouting Help? I don’t understand.”
The silence was absolute, it was as if no one was breathing, including Emma, she had paled as like death itself.
“Master Fenwick? … Is he right? Did he shout out for help?… ” Then in an attempt to assist Master Fenwick he added helpfully “Perhaps this shout came from without, before the banging?”
Master Fenwick, thought for a moment. “Oh, yes, that is correct. I mean no… Let me clarify, Master Coroner, the cry was not from without. As we were bringing him in, we noticed the flow of blood. And his face, it was as white as alabaster, like death itself.”
“Like death itself,” the coroner repeated motioning to his clerk to note it.
“That is when Ned called for help, He shouted to try and rouse my daughter Emma as she is better versed in wounds and healing… She was in her chamber.”
“Thank you, Master Fenwick, That explains it, you have covered all salient points there.”
He addressed the crowded shop. “Are there any witnesses, either to the dastardly act itself or subsequent to when the deceased entered these premises for comfort and protection?”
No one came forward, just murmurs and people looking at each other. Adjusting his surcoat, he sat straight, in command once more. “Men of the jury, let it be noted… No witnesses were recorded. Make that note.”
“Beadle, did you call for the night watch?”
“I did sir, his wife said he was a bed but would be along later.”
“Did she now… Master Fenwick, you are still sworn, I must investigate the ‘Hue and Cry’. Was it in time and appropriate for the ward.”
There was a restlessness from those who had been in attendance since early light – feet shuffling, throats clearing, glances towards the door. Some were trying to force their way out, a reminder of commitments abroad.
“Master Richard, tell the jury, the Hue and Cry, you raised it yourself?”
“That is correct, as soon as we determined that the poor soul, had expired, I sent Ned to inform your good self, sir and I started the hue and cry amongst the neighbours.”
“Very good, very good.”
“Coroner,…sir?” the neighbour interrupted, the same neighbour as earlier.
“Yes, do you have more to add?”
“It was, oh I am not sure, it was a long time after the shout for ‘Help’ by Ned there. There was a very long delay”
Realising that all was not as had been testified to, the coroner looked gravely at Master Fenwick, no friendship evident in his manner.
“Master Fenwick, what do you have to say? Was there an inordinate delay? Is that why the culprit escaped the Hue and Cry? Now sir, think carefully on your answer.”
“Sir, if I…”
“Master Fenwick, stand forward for all to see and hear.”
There was a murmur, some sensing blood, and not of the slain stranger, as Master Fenwick, came out, front and centre – the gaze of all on him.
“Yes Coroner, there was a delay, but… but it was necessary. I should have explained the whole sequence earlier.”
Clutching the front of his surcoat, he gave the sign of a man in control, gathering his thoughts.
“It is true, all that I have testified, and the poor unfortunate dying here on my floor. It was out of respect to my daughter, I did not wish to have her relive that awful experience. Having a man die in her lap as she tried to save his life and comfort him in his dying moments. It was truly heart-breaking.”
He paused to allow those words to be understood by all.
“You need to understand our circumstances. The man still lived, although the blood flowed. Emma did her utmost to staunch the wounds and halt the loss of life’s warm red blood, but, alas, the severity of the wound overwhelmed her – it was more than she could achieve.”
There was not a sound… eyes swivelled to Emma – the heroine. Many blessed themselves murmuring prayers softly for the deceased, almost wishing that the ending would miraculously change in the telling.
“We waited, yes, enthralled by her efforts, praying for a miracle. We daren’t rush to declare a murder lest it should hasten the afterlife by our anticipating it. We waited, hoping in silent prayer.”
“Alas,” pointing to the stone cold corpse, “it was in vain. He breathed his last…”
As Richard stopped, the throng seemed to let out a collective sigh that had been pent up till now. Eyes on the corpse.
“Hmmph… Yes, Master Fenwick. You were right to wait – it was your Christian duty.”
Bale glanced down at his notes. “Beadle? Where are you, man?”
“Here, sir!” the beadle spluttered, nearly choking on a mouthful of coarse cheese.
Bale barely looked up. “Good. We proceed. Where is the watch, where is he?”
The beadle rubbed his sleeve across his mouth as he stood, looking around trying to see through the amassed bodies.
“Over here, I did watch yesternight sir.” A hand shot up, from amongst the throng, to get the coroner’s attention.
“Speak your name sir.”
“Jake the Younger, sir.”
“Now, Jake. You say you were on watch last night?”
“Aye, sir. From curfew bell through till dawn.”
“Then tell us – at the hour of Compline, when this man was struck down, where were you?”
“At Compline? Well… to speak true, I was at The Lamb on Wynchestre Strete. It was not yet watch time.”
“Did you see anything of the attack on that night?”
“No, sir.”
“You are excused, and we thank you for attending.”
“Jury members, there is no blame attached to the night-watch on that night.”
Emma’s legs ached from standing. The sun now hung directly over the strete outside – near midday, and she had grown tired. She longed for the verdict to be declared, the throng cleared so she could have some peace.
Finally, Bale turned to the jurors. “You must decide the outcome as one voice.”
“Decide now, can you identify this unfortunate stranger?
And so, the coroner went through a series of questions on which the jury responded ‘Aye’ to each and every one unanimously.
For some time, the clerk’s quill was heard scratching across the vellum as the coroner dictated. This was interrupted at times by mutterings where some passages were crossed and new ones entered. Finally satisfied with the results, the coroner called for order once more.
“The clerk will now read the official verdict,” he nodded to the clerk, who stood, parchment in hand and read aloud:
“In the year of our Lord 1395, on the 21st day of January, before the coroner of Bristol it was found upon oath that Jacques of Gascony, mariner, lately arrived in the port of Bristol aboard the ship Saint Mary of Bayonne, on the 20th day of January outside Fenwick Hall was feloniously wounded with a knife by a certain fellow mariner, and that same night died of his wounds. The said felon immediately fled from the town and withdrew to Gascony. Therefore it is adjudged that Jacques was thus feloniously slain, against the peace of our lord the King.”
The coroner now addressed the jury. “Jurors, is this your finding that you swear to be true? Say Yea or Nay.”
There was a chorus of ‘Yea’.
Coroner Bale, nodded to his clerk “The verdict is unanimous, let it be recorded.”
Addressing the thronged mass of townsfolk “The inquest is here ended, God save the King.”
“God save the King!” echoed throughout the shop
Emma was in shock – thinking God save us all – liars everyone of you, and me, to my disgrace.
Susan’s noon pottage had finally been eaten, though none had much appetite. The household had retreated upstairs to eat, each lost in their own thoughts. Emma was relieved when her father finally stepped back from the table.
“Margery. Can you assist me in clearing downstairs?”
It felt hollow in the shop, now that the townsfolk had departed. The air still carried the sour tang of sweat and candle smoke. Emma fetched a bucket and began wiping down the trestle with a fury. Margery rearranged the casks and jars that had been shoved aside for the inquest, eyeing her friend with concern. Ned and Richard, went to the rear store, in deep, whispered conversation.
In the shop, neither spoke at first. Only the rasp of cloth on wood, the soft thud of a cask being nudged into place. Then Margery whispered, “Still yourself, woman, the table is innocent enough,” attempting at some levity.
Emma paused, wringing out her cloth. With both hands resting on the tabletop, she breathed deeply, casting a glance over at the back-store. “I can scarce contain myself… Oh! What I want to say.”
“Still yourself woman, you fret too much.”
“It was a mockery. The whole inquest was a sham. How can he.. ” nodding to the deceased, “ever have justice?”
Margery looked at her friend, concern and confusion, in equal measure, showing clearly on her face. “Emma what ails you. What sham do you speak of?”
“Where do I start? The large pouch. Was I in a dream yesternight when we examined…” She couldn’t bring herself to look at the body.
“Yes, I thought that strange as well. I thought you must have put it aside. You did not?”
“No, I did not. The only people watching over…” Emma grabbed her hair, wanting to pull it out.
“Emma! Stop it!” then more gently. “Tell me, honestly, what ails you? Is it truthfully, the pouch that is lost?”
Emma sat on a cask, near tears. “No Margery. It is his name. It tears my heart to constantly refer to ‘him’ without a name.” She took some deep breaths.
Margery rolled another cask beside her, took her hand and soothed her. “When all this is over, we can send word to Gascony and…”
Emma pulled back her hand in horror.
“Gascony? Have you taken leave of your wits? He is not from Gascony.”
“Don’t be angry, not with me… I fail to understand. What is wrong? He was called Jacques of Gascony. Many said so.”
“Of Gascony? Margery, he was not of Gascony, he was of Bristol, like you and me. Bristol!”
“Emma darling, please don’t upset yourself… I agree, when we examined… him… we talked of ink and friaries. I admit freely that I assumed Bristol friaries. But, he could also be a clerk at a friary in Gascony. Could he not?”
She looked Margery in the eye, measuring, thinking. Then she came to a decision. “Stay here, I must… I must speak with Father. He has answers for me.”
Without awaiting a reply, she moved to the back store towards the faint laughter… which evaporated into nothingness when her presence was felt.
Both men slowly stopped work. Both had a questioning and innocent look about them.
“Are you satisfied with the inquest?” Her voice level, tone neutral. Composed.
“Fenwick Hall… and the ward, have been spared. That is most important. No levies against anyone daughter. That is important.”
“Yes, master,” Ned added. “You stood well under questioning. Many asked me to pass on their thanks.”
“Father, what are you talking about? That is of no consequence.” She said with a dismissive gesture. I ask about the lie ‘Jacques of Gascony’. Why did you let that lie become fact?”
Richard shook his head, as if to clear out some confusion. “What are you saying, be clear… please.”
“I spoke to the man … before… before he died. I spoke to him. I told you. You asked me to trust Bale to find the name. Yes, I trusted Bale, but who were they that shouted the lie ‘Jacques of Gascony’. You knew that was a lie, yet stayed mute. Why, Father?”
Ned stepped back a pace, towards the gloom at the rear – to relative safety.
“Emma darling, you speak in riddles.”
“He was of Bristol, the same as you and I are! You knew that!” Her voice had risen considerably with frustration.
“Bristol? Why do you say that?”
“Father, do not trifle with me. He spoke to me, I heard his voice. He is of Bristol and I told you yesternight.”
Richard looked shocked. Silent, still as a holy statue. Ned seemed engrossed in a bung on a cask.
“How? … What do you mean Bristol? You never said before.”
“I told you yesternight, he spoke his dying words to me. His voice was clear from Bristol when he asked…”
“Emma, darling you never said.”
“Yes, I did.” Didn’t I? … I told him… What did I say? … Did I tell him?
Emma was silenced, looking at her father who now looked horrified. He rubbed his face. “Emma, I stood before the coroner as head of this household. I testified to what I knew. How was I to know about his accent if you never spoke of it?”
She felt heat rise to her cheeks. He must be right. In the chaos… maybe I never actually told him.
Emma said nothing.
“How do we explain… this?” Richard’s voice was patient, weary. “That my daughter heard him speak but failed to mention it to me? That I testified without full knowledge of the facts? That we allowed a false verdict to be recorded and only now, after the body is released for burial, do we come forward?”
“Think, daughter. How will that appear? At best, we look like fools. At worst…” He let the sentence hang. “The verdict is written. The matter is closed. Bale will not thank us for reopening it.”
“So we say nothing? Let him be buried under a false name?”
“The name changes nothing for his soul. Father Jerome gave him the last rites. God Himself knows who he truly was, even if the coroner’s record does not.”
Emma felt an embarrassment that she had not felt so keenly in many a year. “Father, forgive me. I was distraught… Memories of John, it clouded my memory. Sorry, Father.”
Emma and her Father they had never been very close. She almost went over to embrace him, but tradition prevented her. He nodded, a slight rigid nod. That was all it took… she was forgiven.
Emma, nodding also, to Ned – who still had his eyes downcast, and to her father, Emma turned to leave. Embarrassed. Her steps faltered, she stopped and turned back.
“Father?”
“Yes.”
“I almost forgot. What of the missing pouch and wax tablet?”
Ned’s eyes shot up immediately, glancing nervously at the Master.
“I fail to understand, what pouch?”
Something is amiss. Ned flinches at every word. What am I pressing upon?
Emma’s voice was steady now, clear and penetrating. “The stranger carried a pouch when he died on our floor. A leather pouch with a wax tablet inside. I saw it myself when I examined him. It was a large pouch.”
His expression remained composed. Ned, by contrast, shifted with unease.
“The coroner made inventory of his effects,” Emma continued. “Rosary. Coins. Half a lead token. Knife. Quill.” She paused. “No wax tablet nor its pouch. Only the man’s personal pouch.”
“Perhaps you were mistaken,” Richard sighed. “The light was poor. I cannot remember all these details.”
“I was not mistaken.” She looked from her father to Ned and back again. “The body was never left unattended. It was always watched over by this household. First by Margery and myself, then by Ned,” she looked closely at him, before continuing, “and yourself. I did not take it, neither did Margery… ” She let the silence stretch. “Where is it, Father? Ned? … Where is it?”
Ned’s eyes flicked involuntarily towards the side wall – just for an instant, but Emma caught it.
“Fetch it, Ned,” she said quietly. “Now. Please.”
Ned looked to Richard for guidance. He remained immobile.
Why does he seek Father’s permission?
“Ned, now, fetch the pouch, or must I go over and tear every item from the back wall?”
Ned was rooted to the spot, a pained look on his face. “Master?”
“Emma, you cannot have it. If you stir…”
“Father, please don’t humiliate us. Margery knows. The pouch. It must be returned. Ned, the pouch, get it. Please.”
He looked again at Richard, pained. “Master?”
Richard nodded, he was tired of the fencing. “Fetch it Ned, give it to her.”
Ned went towards the side wall, moving casks out of his way. Emma tried to calm herself, her eyes never left her father.
“Why? Why steal from a dead man… Why?” She looked pityingly at her father, what had he become? She felt that she no longer knew him.
Ned tried to stay in the shadows, holding the ‘lost’ pouch. Richard took it from him.
“Here, Emma. Bury it alongside him and let that be an end to it. Please.”
As Emma reached across, Richard looked over Emma’s shoulder, he inquired with obvious irritation, “Yes?”
Emma looked around, wondering who had entered, seeing Margery, she relaxed.
“Father Jerome approaches.”
“What?” Confused, she looked dumbly at Margery.
“Father Jerome…” Margery repeated.
“Yes, yes… Father Jerome.”
With a final pitying look at both her father and Ned, she turned and ushered Margery back into the shop.
“Look what Father and Ned were hiding in the back store.”
“The missing… why? That makes no sense. Hiding? Are you certain?”
“I am, taken from a dead man. I think by Ned, but Ned does nothing without Father’s command.”
“I say again… why?”
“It must be important. How, or why, that I don’t know. I will make an honest copy after the corpse goes on its journey.”
Moments later, Father Jerome appeared at the door, his grey cloak spattered with rain, two lay brothers behind him with a narrow bier. At once both women curtsied. The priest raised a hand in blessing, his eyes taking in the tidy room and the still form covered with linen on the floor – waiting.
They bowed their heads, their breath misting in the cold air. The priest’s voice was low as he began the prayers for the dead. Margery answered each line promptly and correctly; Emma stumbled through the Latin, her tongue catching on the unfamiliar syllables. She hoped no one noticed.
When the body was lifted onto the bier, Emma found her voice.
“Father,” she said softly, “what will happen to him now?”
Jerome wiped his hands on the corner of his cloak. “He will be buried this afternoon in consecrated ground, under the name Jacques. The poor are not left to linger.”
“Today?” she said. “So soon?”
“It is best. The body must return to the earth that God made it from.”
Emma hesitated, her heart quickening. “Father, the man’s last words were of someone called Catherine. He begged that she be found. Might it be possible to delay the burial – for a short while – so she may take her leave of him?”
Jerome’s expression hardened. “Mistress, the rites are prescribed for good reason, and timely.”
“I understand,” she said quickly, “but if I were to bear the cost of the funeral rites myself, could the burial not wait until morning? Just a few hours to make enquiry…?”
The priest studied her. “If the coroner could not find kin, how will you succeed where he failed?”
“I may not,” she admitted, “but I must try. His shoes were finely made – local work, I think. And his hands were stained with blue ink.”
“What are you saying?”
“At the inquest, the jurors were set on declaring him from Gascony – but local shoes?”
Father Jerome looked keenly at her, wondering.
Emma continued, now that she had his attention.
“Don’t you see, local shoes, the man is most likely local and not of Gascony. It is our duty to examine that possibility. Our Christian duty.”
Father Jerome was none too keen to go against the civil order, the coroner had already made his decision.
“Mistress, what you suggest is… unusual. But, I agree, it is our Christian duty to give him a proper burial… but… “
Emma tried to interrupt
“Wait Mistress Emma, please. Let me ponder a moment.”
Father Jerome paced back an forth, contemplating.
“Why do you think he must be local? Shoes are not enough. Any mariner could go to a local cordwainer to have new shoes bought – that is normal, not unusual. You need more to convince me.”
“Father,” Emma whispered, drawing closer to him. “The man spoke before he died, and it was a Bristol voice he spoke, not Gascony. Of that I am certain, as God is my witness.” As she blessed herself quickly.
He looked at her shrewdly for a moment that dragged into many more, as if daring Emma to speak again, but she held silent.
“You are right, most likely local, but the cordwainer. He makes so many, will he remember every shoe sold, and to whom? I don’t think so… Go, by all means, but I fear it will be a wasted errand… Tomorrow at None, I will start the service – you have till then.”
He nodded to Emma, Margery and hurried out, before he changed his mind, his habit billowing in his wake.
“Father, wait!”
The priest halted at the threshold, his shoulders slumping. He turned slowly, to face the women. “Yes?”
Emma quickly, moved closer to him. “I have a question, looking for your advice.”
“Go on.”
“When I examined…the man. I saw some dried blue ink on his palm.”
At that, Jerome’s brows lifted. “Blue, you say? Was it indigo or woad?”
“I could not tell. Is it important?” she said.
“Maybe not. They are the two inks that we use in Bristol. Indigo is quite rare and if…”
Margery, who had been pretending to tidy a cask, interrupted.
“I saw none, Father… At the time I thought Mistress Emma was mistaken, but now you mention woad and Indigo… I remember one of the wool dyers mentioned to me that woad dries almost black. Is that right?”
“Oh, I am no expert, but yes, I also hear it can dry almost black, especially if old and poorer quality.”
“Exactly! Maybe that is why I could not see it. It was too dark, too dry for me.”
Jerome nodded thoughtfully. “You have a keen eye… or imagination. I know not which. There are friaries that still grind woad for their scriptoria. If you go to Greyfriars and ask for Magister Librorum, he will know who among them uses blue ink at present. Tell him I sent you… no wait.”
The priest reached inside his cassock and extracted an old, well worn coin pouch. He searched, muttering to himself, and finally extracted a lead coin-like token.
“My memory has not deserted me, yet.” He said to everyone and no one in particular with obvious satisfaction. “This is a Franciscan token. Show that at the entry and you will get immediate audience. Forget the shoes, Go straight to Greyfriars, time is of the essence… if you wish to give the man a proper christian burial surrounded by friends or family.
The priest made the sign of the cross, then turned and left, forgetting momentarily the initial reason for his visit. A short while later, he re-entered, somewhat sheepishly, he made his way over to the corpse, gave a silent blessing over it. He nodded to the those carrying the bier – “Let us take the poor soul to rest.” He then retraced his footsteps to the strete in a more solemn and dignified manner this time, the pall-bearers carrying the deceased on a bier followed across the strete to All Saints Church.
Then her Father’s voice, tight with anger, intruded from behind. “Emma.”
He strode forward, trying to restrain himself. “What are you doing?”
“Father, not now… “
Margery edged towards the door, but Emma stopped her. “Stay, please. I’ll come with you presently.”
Richard’s face was flushed. “You’ve made enough trouble. Paying for stranger’s burial, meddling where you’ve no business – was the inquest not proof enough of your folly?”
Emma stared at him, stunned by his coldness. “You call it folly to show mercy?” she said quietly. “You call it meddling to heed a dying man’s words?”
“You’ll do as you’re told,” he hissed. “There’s work to finish here.”
“No, Father,” she said, straightening. “There’s God’s work to finish first. I will not hide behind your lies any longer. I was never so… Oh!… “
From the back of the shop, she saw Ned glance up, startled. “And you, Ned,” she said, her voice trembling but clear, “should be ashamed to stand by and say nothing.”
Emma looked around, searching with her eyes for something… finally, she saw the missing tablet and pouch on a hogshead. She retrieved it and, clutching it closely, lest it disappear again, she turned to Margery “Come. We have duties to complete before we go, and first is a true copy drawing of this tablet.”
Emma swept up the stair, her skirts brushing the steps like a gathering storm with Margery rushing after but failing to catch up.
Below, Richard stood motionless, his jaw tight, the scent of candle smoke hanging in the air.
Ciaran Leamy - Author 