The door opened to a simple interior with a very welcome brazier giving a glow of warmth to the tiny room. Without waiting for invitation, Margery breezed past the porter to lay claim to the brazier’s heat.
“Please forgive my companion, she suffers terribly from the cold.”
“Yes, well… yes. Who do you seek?”
“We seek Magister Librorum.” She extracted the Franciscan token from her pouch, showing it to the porter. “We come at the request of Father Jerome, on urgent duties.”
“You will need access to the scriptorium. This is most…”
“Yes, we know.” interrupted Margery, now suitably warmed
“Which way then, we have little time.”
The porter recoiled in horror. “Oh no, that cannot be entertained. Two women, unaccompanied within the walls.” He shook his head, horrified. “You must wait here, while I summon an attendant.” He exited through the inner door, and a short moment later, they heard it being bolted from the other side.
“He has no trust in us! Is he afraid of women?”
“Hush, Margery, don’t antagonise the young porter, he might hear.”
“Relax, Emma, he is long gone. Come sit with me and dry out your hem, it is soaked with the mud.”
“The wax tablet! Oh no. No, no, no!”
“What ails you, Emma. Sit and stop wailing.”
“The wax tablet, I forgot it with all the hurry and… and anger with father. It is on my writing board.”
Margery casually reached inside her cloak. “Amazing what can be hidden inside a large cloak, do you ever wonder why I am your assistant?”
But Emma was in no mood for chat, chastising herself inwardly.
“Can you hold this for a moment while I see what else I have.” Holding out a folded parchment to her.
Emma took it absently, and then realisation dawned.
“Margery – you devil! But I love you for it.”
“Now give it back, before you lose it.” Margery took back Emma’s own drawing of the inscriptions that were on the wax tablet – made that morning after the argument with Richard.
“Now, I can relax.” Emma sighed.
Soon, the women were enjoying casual chatter as the steam rose from their garments and footwear. They were interrupted by the arrival of the porter with a callow youth in tow.
“Mistresses, please stay at all times with your attendant. He will take you to the scriptorium and back here after.”
If the porter’s room was warm and cosy, the scriptorium was the exact opposite. Monks and brothers sat at high desks, heads bent, quills carefully inscribing texts on various grades of parchment and vellum. There was not a brazier in sight. Very much a place of work, and not of comfort. Margery took an instant dislike to it.
They were taken to the far end of the room, where an elderly friar was peering over a finished text, with a student, most likely, standing nervously in front awaiting judgement. They waited patiently, waited… and waited.
“May we interrupt?” Emma asked their attendant in a loud voice, sufficient to startle all.
The friar looked up, annoyance plain, his authority being questioned… by a woman. Ignoring them, he addressed their attendant.
“Why did you bring them here?”
“The porter instructed me, they have a question for you.”
“For me, really? Do I know them?”
“I… I don’t know, friar. Should I ask?”
“How else can you answer my questions, if you don’t ask?”
A blush of scarlet was already spreading up his young face, as he turned to the mistresses and started to stammer.
Margery moved past him, pulling Emma alongside. “Show him the drawing.”
“Friar, I beg your indulgence. This relates to a young person who was killed only last evening. We are looking to identify him. He had in his possession a wax tablet. This is what was inscribed. Do you recognise any of it?
The old friar took the parchment and studied it carefully. “Hmmm…”
They waited…
“It is not of this office – I would never tolerate such untidy lettering and numbers.” Emma blushed.
“No, definitely not from this office. Take them to the Bursar’s office, they are less careful – less exact.” And he dismissed them without a glance, turning his attention back to the illuminated parchment. Margery nudged Emma before they turned, indicating the red and deep blue, almost black, intricate designs.
Thankfully, for Margery, the Bursar’s room was not far along the corridor. While the scriptorium was a hive of activity, this one was cluttered with only two clerks at their tables and an officiating friar at another table counting coins. Each table had bundles of coins and pouches, similar to the one that Emma found on the deceased, which she thought probably held coins too. Seeing them enter, he walked to greet them, a smile of welcome.
“Come, come. What brings you to our humble room?” Before Emma could respond, he turned to one of the clerks. “Walter. A bench for our visitors, over by the brazier.” Emma was beginning to warm to this friar.
“My name is Friar Jacob, and you are…?” He extended his hand, unsure which of them he ought to address first.
Emma grasped first – “Mistress Emma Fenwick and this is my companion Mistress Margery Chester.”
“Mistresses, sit… sit and relax. Can I get you some sustenance – pottage perhaps?”
“Not for us, thank you.” The look on Margery’s face belied that innocent statement.
They sat. The friar held out both hands, in enquiry.
“We are trying to identify a stranger. His hands were blackened with scribe’s ink, as mine often are. Also, I saw some traces of crimson and an almost black-blue. When speaking with Father Jerome, he suggested that we come here first.”
“The ink stain,” showing his own hands similarly stained, “is a constant here, but also in many other offices throughout the town. As you mentioned yourself, your own hands are similarly stained.”
“Similar but not the same. I don’t use the blues and reds. Father Jerome felt they could be used here.”
“You should inquire at the scriptorium, but warm yourselves first, it can be very cold there.”
“We have come from there. There is another item to be considered. Margery?”
Margery reached inside her cloak producing the parchment and handing it to the friar.
“This is a faithful copy of what was written on a wax tablet that we saw yester-evening. The magister librorum felt it might come from this office. What do you think? Do you recognise the inscriptions?”
After a very cursory glance, he replied.
“Definitely one of ours. No doubt about it. But I don’t understand – where is the original?”
“I neglected to bring the original, thankfully we have a copy. Is there any significance to what is written, we need to identify the person who wrote this.”
“Again, that is easy. One of the clerks here… Walter, come here and examine this drawing.”
The clerk who had previously brought the bench that they were sitting on, arose and came over. He is a handsome young man, a pleasant disarming smile on his lips.
He gave it a mere glance. “It is not mine. I think most likely it is Edmund’s. It has his hand in the symbols.”
“Edmund.” The friar cast a glance around the tables. “Where is young Edmund? Anyone seen him?”
“Friar?”
“Yes Walter.”
“He never arrived this morning.”
“Really? Most unlike him. Any message from his lodgings?”
“No, friar, we are concerned It is getting very late. We pray he is not taken ill with the cough.”
“I must visit with him later, ensure he is of good health.” He turned back to the women. “So that is your answer. The script is Edmund’s. Now tell me, why the questions?”
“It is of a private nature,” she nodded her head slightly towards Walter.
“Of course, you may go back to your duties… Now what is the problem?”
“Late yester-evening, a young man, carrying the wax tablet was slain.”
“No! Heaven have mercy on his soul. Not… not our… Edmund?” he whispered, barely wanting to hear the words himself. “Not Walter?”
“That is what we want to ascertain. We think he was mistakenly identified as a sailor from Gascony. Could you describe him to me, what he wore yesterday, his size. Things like that.”
“Walter, Walter. Sorry to disturb you yet again, come here please and sit.”
Under questioning, Walter gave a very good description of the clothes that Edmund was wearing and how he looked. Especially noting the healed recent gash over his eye. At this detail, both Emma and Margery gasped, exchanging glances.
“Is it he – yes?” the friar asked gently.
“Yes, I am truly sorry. I fear it is. Can you come to All Saints to identify the body? Father Jerome has agreed to delay the funeral rites one more day, to allow time for the naming… and to grant his soul proper rest.”
“Catherine.” Walter blurted out, a stricken look on his face. “Oh my Lord, Catherine doesn’t know.”
Emma spun around. “Did you say Catherine? Who is Catherine?”
“Edmund’s intended. She will be desolate. How can we explain? How? How did he die?”
Friar Jacob grew visibly distressed, and after a moment of prayerful silence… “The how is not important now. Catherine must be told – but gently. She is in our care. This morning in the washroom, as she is every day. A diligent worker, I am told. Her hands never idle.”
Emma nodded, sensing this was her moment. “Friar, I have a personal dying message for her from… Edmund, was it?”
“Yes. Of course. You must deliver that message, it may help console her. You can enter the cloisters as my guests. No one will question it so long as you remain in my company.”
Walter stepped forward quickly.
“Friar… with respect, but… I should come as well. Catherine… Catherine, she trusts me. She will need a friend to stand beside her.”
Jacob studied him, a quizzical look at first, then he nodded slowly, solemnly.
“Very well, Walter. Come. But guard your tongue. The story is not yours to tell.”
Margery got up, brushing dust from her skirts and cloak.
“Then let us go… much as I hate to leave this warmth.”
Jacob gave a faint smile despite the grief in the room.
He motioned for the attendant who had been standing silently throughout. “Lead us to the wash-house. And see that the women walk within the cloister path. The Warden frowns upon wandering feet.”
The group gathered themselves, Emma clutching her wax tablet notes, Margery wrapping her cloak tight.
As they left the bursar’s warm room, Walter hesitated at the doorway, staring at the empty desk where Edmund should have been working.
“Oh Edmund… God forgive whoever did this.”
Emma heard him. She noted the tremor in his voice and obvious sadness and suppressed anger. Something he says rings… what is it?
The four of them stepped into the cold cloister walk. The echo of their footsteps against the stone, accentuated their silent, sombre procession. Ahead, women’s voices drifted from the wash-room – splashing water, quiet laughter.
Emma steeled herself.
Catherine’s life was about to break.
The flapping of sandals echoed along the corridor as the strange procession wended its way towards the washrooms. Curious clerics moved aside to let them pass, curiosity creasing their brows, as Friar Jacob by the merest nod of his head was enough to command silence without question.
As they drew near, the wide arch opened onto the wash area. Many women were deeply engrossed in their tasks – washing, drying, folding habits and linen. Steam rose from vats bubbling on fires sunk deep into pits, clinging to the ceiling. Moisture gathered and ran in thin rivulets along the stone-jointed walls.
Friar Jacob paused, searching for a person of authority, but Walter didn’t miss a step as he continued onward neither looking left nor right, straight to a young woman folding some habits over to the left. She appeared surprised and shocked to see him, drawing him to one side. He leaned in close to her whispering. She nodded a couple of times, straightened her shift and allowed him to lead her to the waiting group.
Once back in the quiet of the corridor, Friar Jacob took charge.
“Catherine… this is a difficult situation.” He looked around for somewhere to sit – but there was none.
“Catherine, is it true that you are… friendly with Edmund, my clerk in the Bursar’s office?”
“Yes, Friar Jacob, we have become friendly of late. Does that cause a problem? I would not like to offend.”
“When did you last see Edmund?”
“At mass last Sunday… I think… yes, that is the last time we met.”
She stood easily, simple curiosity showing.
“I am confused, Friar, is there a problem?” she also cast a glance over at Walter with a questioning look.
“Yes, Catherine. Mistress Emma here has some very sorrowful news regarding Edmund… A man was killed…”
She let out a short gasp, bringing her hand to her mouth.
“Edmund? Edmund was killed? Are you certain?”
“No, we are not certain, but seems likely… I think you should have a private word with Mistress Emma Fenwick here. She can better explain.”
Emma drew Catherine over to one side, while the other stepped further down the corridor. She explained the happenings of the previous night and described the person who died.
“That does sound like my Edmund… Especially that gash, recently received.”
“It was tragic… He also had a message to deliver to you.”
“Really, what was it?”
“He asked me to tell his Catherine that he loved her.”
“Oh…” was it disappointment, just a flicker?
“And… and, anything else?”
“He said that he did it for you.”
“I don’t understand, he did what for me?”
“That is all he said. He was very low. It was but a whisper before… before he expired.”
“Oh… “
If Emma was expecting public grief, she was mistaken. Catherine seemed unnaturally detached.
Friar Jacob approached, face lined with concern.
“Catherine, you must go to All Saints. Father Jerome awaits. Edmund deserves to be named before he is laid to rest.”
Catherine’s hands tightened around the cloth she still held.
“Oh, must I?” She appeared confused at the suggestion, then almost imperceptibly her demeanour started changing.
“I mean, must I go alone? I have never…”
Walter stepped forward before the friar could comment.
“She should not. I will go with her, Friar. For… for Edmund’s sake.”
Friar Jacob studied them both – Catherine flushed and trembling, Walter determined, steady – and nodded.
“Very well. Go together. And go gently. What you must see… will not be easy.”
Catherine whispered a thank you, barely audible, and allowed Walter to guide her away, her steps unsteady.
Emma watched them disappear into the cloister shadows.
When they were gone, Friar Jacob turned to her, voice low.
“You have done a hard thing, Mistress Emma… but a necessary one. God grant the girl strength.”
Emma bowed her head, her thoughts at odds with the Holy Friar’s.
“Margery, I think this is the first time I have ever seen you dressed in black.”
“Please, don’t remind me. How have you managed in such drabness for almost a year. I would scream at the thought.”
It has been a long road. I will visit John,” nodding to some recent graves not far away, “when the burial is over.”
“What is keeping them. I thought they were in procession behind, did they stop for a meal?”
“Margery stop it! I warn you. You will not be so glib-tongued when seeking entry through the gates of heaven.”
“Here they come, finally. My toes are like ice.”
Emma smiled to herself, her friend is forever complaining, but she is a generous faithful friend behind it all. Very few people here, Edmund must have had a quiet life. Just Catherine, Walter and a handful of friends. Probably fellow clerks.
“I’m glad we came. Show support.”
“We should go over and join them, maybe get warmth within the group. This wind is biting.”
Edmund was wrapped in a sewn shroud, atop a bier. As they came to the open grave, the bier was laid down, Father Jerome, waited a short while to allow all to gather in a huddle around the small grave.
“Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine…”
Emma found the Latin soporific, In this cold, her mind wandered. Ned is here. She nodded to him, but his mind and gaze were elsewhere. Who is that woman? Too old to be a companion. Could the murderer be here? She let out an unbidden shiver. Margery looked at her mouthing Feet are frozen.
He looks so small, sewn into that linen shroud. His last thoughts were of Catherine, she remembered.
She could just see Catherine beside Father Jerome. Why does she keep glancing at Walter? What is this? Is there romance, or something sinister? It is all so strange. She wasn’t shocked when I broke the news to her. No wailing, no distraught betrothed. It seemed… cold? Not quite. It seemed unnatural. Was she pretending?
She tried to concentrate, but soon was lost again in her own thoughts. Still looking at Catherine No tears now either. Could she be that cold. Could she be the killer? Could she? I don’t trust her. Yes, lady. Dab your eyes with your linen. Not real tears I wager.
“In memoria aeterna erit justus.”
Emma received a none-too-gentle prod from Margery. “Do you think there is romance afoot between the two?” nodding towards Walter and Catherine.
“No” she whispered. “He is just being kind. But her?”
“You noticed then. She is a cold one, and no mistake.”
“Ne tradas bestiis animam confitentem tibi…”
It was something that Emma had done since, well since forever. Appear attentive but be in a different land altogether. She remembered another burial less than a year ago. Was it cold then? I can’t remember. You were in a styled coffin, father spared nothing that day. Sung hymns. I wonder, did I cry? I don’t know. Maybe Catherine’s tears have dried, she can cry no more? Maybe.
“In paradisum deducant te angeli
Et lux perpetua luceat ei.”
She glanced at the shrouded form. The cloth was clean, but not fresh.
“Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna.”
One took the feet, the other the shoulders. The shroud slipped slightly as they lifted. No ropes. No ceremony. Just hands and linen and the weight of a man who no longer resisted. She flinched as the body tilted, the head lolling towards her.
“Ne tradas bestiis animam confitentem tibi.”
The grave was shallow. She had seen deeper ones dug for plague victims. This looked hurried. They stepped down, knees cracking, and lowered the body with a grunt. One muttered something – she couldn’t tell if it was a prayer or a curse. The shroud caught on a root and had to be tugged free.
Catherine let out a wail, genuine, heartfelt, soul wrenching
“In paradisum deducant te angeli.”
Emma looked away. The wind stirred her veil. She pressed her lips together and watched them climb out, brushing soil from their cloaks.
“Requiescat in pace. Amen.”
“Amen,” she whispered.
And then the final act, remembering her John she was glad he was in a coffin and saved this ignominy. Shovel after shovel of earth was thrown over the body with sickening soft thuds, fading as the earth rose.
Looking across, she saw Catherine wracked with sobs. Walter moved behind Father Jerome and stood beside her, placing a protective arm around her to comfort… she shrugged clear immediately. Stepped aside to put distance between them.
The final shovels of earth were placed on the grave, tapped and cleaned into a well-defined mound. A simple cross placed at the head. Some moved forward and placed bunches of rosemary near the cross. Quills, pieces of his clothing – remembrance of his life.
“Father Jerome.”
“Yes, Emma. A sad and lonely service. The poor, poor man.”
“Yes, Father. You gave a beautiful service, I am sure his friends have been heartened by your words. Here – ” She handed him twelve pence, neatly wrapped in a corner of linen. “For the burial, and for alms. Distribute it as is fitting.”
“I will, you are very generous, you shall have your reward. May God bless you.”
Murmuring her thanks and embarrassed, Emma, turned and almost lost her footing as she collided with Catherine who must have been standing right behind all the time.
“I am truly sorry for your loss. I know it can…” but she was cut short.
“Mistress Emma, if I may be so bold. Were there any effects of Edmund. Anything that may have been… left at your shop after…?”
Somewhat taken aback by the directness, Emma was lost for words and looked confused.
“As his only living heir, I wondered if there were more effects that have not yet been sent to me?”
Emma was still speechless Heir? Surely she is not his heir?
Recovering “Other effects, I don’t understand. Everything was taken with Edmund by the bearers. Have you asked the priest?”
“Yes, yes.” Impatient. “He has nothing of interest.” Then recovering “I mean, he has but a few items. The rosary which was of great value, yes. There were also some personal effects and coins. I had a notion that Edmund also had another pouch and it wasn’t on his… I … his body.”
“No, I am sorry Catherine, are you sure? Did you ask Father Jerome? Maybe he put it safely somewhere.”
“Yes, yes, I asked him.” She was abrupt, and then regained control of her emotions. “He suggested that we pray for the intercession of Saint Anthony of Padua… the Franciscan saint. We prayed, and then he suggested that a small donation might help so I gave him the pouch and contents – what good it did me!”
“Was it a large pouch?”
Catherine thought for a moment, “Yes… Yes, I think it should be large… Did you see…?”
Emma showed some curiosity that Catherine didn’t seem to know what size this important pouch was, but dismissed the thought almost before it formed. “Yes, there was a larger pouch, I didn’t realise that was what you sought.”
Her eyes lit up and just as quickly dulled.
“Now, I understand. I have it at Fenwick Hall. I can bring it to you later today.”
Emma could see a great wave of relief wash over Catherine. “Yes, please Mistress Fenwick. That will be good.” And bade her a good day.
“What was that all about?”
“What did you… oh it’s you Margery. You confused me.”
“I was wondering what Catherine, the grieving widow, had to say?”
“It was quite strange. She seemed very concerned that she had not received Edmund’s tablet and pouch.”
“Really? You can’t be serious.”
“But I am. I promised to deliver it later today and the relief was immediate. She wants that wax tablet and no mistake.”
“I know you don’t agree, but I think she is a schemer. But wait, did you see Ned and the strange lady in the cloak?”
“What do you mean, what strange lady?”
“I was watching him all the time the Father droned on in Latin and Ned was watching the woman in the cloak, like… like he was smitten.”
“Smitten? Ned!”
“Yes, smitten. I think that Ned has tender feelings.”
“Away with you! Not our Ned…no…never…you think?”
“I am just saying what I saw. That is all…”
Margery and Emma linked arms and started to wend their way amongst the graves towards the exit. They stopped at her late husband’s to say a prayer.
“John, you should be proud of your wife – she solved the puzzle.” Margery whispered to the grave.
“I wish he had been here.”
“I know dear.” Giving Emma’s arm a gentle squeeze. “But he was here in spirit.”
“Yes, he was.”
They continued along their way.
“Now that Emma’s quest is over, what will we do for excitement?”
She had no answer – but…
“Mistress Emma, you’re back at last! We thought you were lost. The Master finished noon-meat almost an hour past.” Susan ushered her towards the brazier. “Sit yourself down while I fetch you some broth and a platter of meats.”
After the cold of the funeral, Emma felt the warmth of Fenwick Hall envelop her. Sitting in front of the brazier, steam started to rise from the hem of her kirtle. Relaxing, she felt an inner glow too. Something achieved – that was a good feeling. Being useful.
“Get that inside you now, mistress,” Susan said, handing her a bowl of broth and coarse bread to scoop it up. “The meats are heating now, I will bring them presently.
“Thanks, I need this… Why are cemeteries always so cold?”
“That they are. You enjoy that now.”
“Susan, come sit a while” – she tapped the space beside her. She tore the coarse bread in two and placed the steaming bowl between them to share.
“Master Richard best not see us sup like this. He will think it improper.”
“Then we must keep an ear to the stairs.” Emma laughed softly, letting the strain that had been building up be released.
“Were there many at the burial? Ned said he would attend. Master Richard was not pleased, but allowed him anyway.”
She leaned in to Susan, “I did not see this myself… but Margery did.”
“That gossip, she is always watching and listening, does that one!”
“No, that is unfair. Anyway. She saw Ned pay close attention to a woman. Looking at her all the time. Margery wondered could there be a romance.”
“Ned!” Sorry, then much quieter: “Ned and romance. No, that combination cannot mix. Your Margery is seeing gold where there is but lead.”
“You think? What a shame. A wedding in Fenwick Hall would be nice.”
“Enough of Ned. Who was there?”
“Not very many, just some fellow clerks of Edmund. It was very small, very sad.”
Scooping the last of the broth onto her bread, Emma gazed into the brazier, eating silently.
“The smell…? Is it… The meats!” Susan rushed back to the kitchen to try and save the chunks of meat she was heating for Emma. There was much calling on our Lord God and various saints, before she returned with some tasty, albeit slightly over-roasted titbits of meat.
“There now, I was in time… well almost.”
“Nonsense, Susan – they are just the way I like them, crisp and hot.” She skewered one with her knife and gingerly ate around the crackling edge.
“Emma, You did well. He was received into heaven with his own name, and not buried a stranger. And his betrothed, well she has some peace now as well. You did well.” She patted Emma’s knee.
“I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes you… heavens protect us, the master comes.” Susan cleared the bowl and remnants of bread off the bench and was inside the kitchen by the time Richard entered the hall.
“You are back then?”
“Yes, Father. Just getting some heat into me. I must out again for an hour or so, then I am free.”
“Again? Why again. This nonsense and meddling must stop. What brings you away this time?”
“That is unfair father, I am not meddling. The stranger needed to be named, for his soul. And his betrothed needed to be told for her sanity.”
“Yes, indeed. You named the stranger – what do you think will happen now? Nothing?”
“What is wrong with you, Father? It is over.”
“No, daughter, not over. It is just begun. And all because of some woman feeling. The whole ward will turn against us. That is what will happen.”
“Against us? You cannot be serious. All I did was…”
“All you did was give Coroner Bale an excuse to reopen the inquest. To have an opportunity to uncover the lies.”
“Lies? What lies?”
Richard looked flustered, realising he had said too much.
“Nothing… it is not your concern. Your meddling has caused enough trouble already. There will be a new inquest – I can feel it and so can our neighbours. There is already talk of your interference. Some say that this murder might be referred to the assizes court. The assizes!”
“Father, relax please. You will be ill.”
“I am ill… with worry… … No matter. You must stay away from the inquest, if he calls a new one. The less you are seen the safer it will be for all of us.”
Emma was shocked at this turn of events. And confused. Why was Richard so angry with her? What lies? Those who lied deserve to be called out. And then she understood. Her father had also lied.
“You are right, I acted hastily. I am sorry, I should have talked to you first.”
“Yes you should. If you ran this business, you would understand. There are many costs and they all must be paid.”
She was confused by this sudden turn of subject. “But I do know, I do the account sheets – who we owe money to, who owes us money, the coin tallies the…”
“Enough, Emma. There are many other costs that are hidden. … The guild, that is a cost, and entertaining at the guild. It is expected of me to be generous… This funeral… alms… “
She tried to interrupt, but Richard silenced her with a simple finger gesture.
“You don’t understand, and it is right that you don’t. You concentrate on running Fenwick Hall, and leave the business to the men.”
It was like a slap, that reverberated throughout – a humiliating slap.
It was obvious to her that Richard was scared… she bowed her head and said no more.
Satisfied, Richard turned and headed to the stairs, but slowed and stopped. Turning…
“Where must you go out?”
“The wax tablet from Edmund, the victim, is still here. We need rid of it.”
“Quite right. Good idea. Yes, as soon as possible and put this mess behind. There are many duties needing attention.”
“Yes, Father…” Truth be told, she longed to stay by the fire, to let the warmth seep into her bones and forget the world outside. But the pouch sat heavy in her lap – Edmund’s pouch, with its wax tablet and whatever secrets it held. She wanted rid of it. Wanted this whole sorry business behind her. She wanted nothing of his betrothed, Catherine. She shuddered at the thought of her.
The afternoon light was already fading when Emma hurried across Frome Bridge – best to have this done before Curfew.
“Mistress Fenwick… You return.” Neither a welcome nor a question, merely a statement from the porter at Greyfriars.
“Yes, I have some property to return to Catherine of the washroom, the betrothed of Edmund the clerk recently deceased.”
“Betrothed? I think not. That would be quite improper within these walls.”
“I… I must be mistaken… probably idle gossip at the graveside.”
“It does no good repeating such gossip, Mistress. You should be more careful.”
Suitably brought to task, Emma bowed her head in acknowledgement. “Could you send a message that Mistress Fenwick is here with her possession and does she want me to leave them here under your care?”
“This is most inconvenient. Do you think it will not be safe here under my care?”
“No, I would prefer for her to inspect the contents. To be sure that it is what she seeks and not belonging to someone else.”
“Very well. Wait here while I fetch her.”
Just as during her previous visit with Margery, the porter exited by the internal door, bolting it after him. Emma smiled to herself. It is nice to smile and father is right. The quest is over. Put it all behind me…
The heat from the brazier had its effect and very soon Emma was nodding off on the bench… and it seemed no time that she was roused by Catherine pushing her shoulder.
“Where is it, Mistress Fenwick?”
“Wh… wh… what?”
“The pouch!” with some irritation. I have duties.
Standing, Emma extracted the pouch from inside her cloak. Catherine’s eyes bulged, she brought her hand to her mouth stifling… She composed herself quickly. What is she stifling?
Emma handed it to her and could see her hefting it, as if calculating its contents.
Without as much as a ‘Thank you’ she turned on her heel…
Emma placed a hand on her shoulder.. Not sure why, she sensed something amiss.
Catherine swung around, anger in her eyes. “What do you want… Mistress?”
Emma recoiled slightly, but stood her ground nonetheless.
“Would you please check the contents. I need to be sure that you are ha…”
“Wh… What is this? This is not the pouch? This is a friary pouch. Where is Edmund’s coin pouch?”
“But, I told you Father Jerome has the personal pouch. I apologise that I opened it and checked the contents. A number of coins, rosary…”
“Yes, yes, I know that. I have that pouch. Surely there was another, the same type – did you not find it?”
“I am sorry, Catherine, no. This was the only other pouch. Was it valuable?”
Catherine seemed to baulk at answering, then quickly added.
“No, no, no but it has sentimental value for me.”
Emma did not know how to respond, so she waited.
Finally Catherine added pointedly, “thank you for coming, you should give that pouch to the friary – it does not belong to Edmund… or to you.”
There was a tension that Emma could not understand, beginning to feel thankful that she need never have any further contact with this ungrateful person. Her manner was not excused by Edmund’s death.
“Yes, accept my condolences again, I will send it to Walter.”
“It does not belong to Walter. You need to find Friar Jacob and return his property.”
“Yes, I am sorry. Good day to you.”
As Catherine left the room the Porter stood. “I can arrange for Friar Jacob to receive the pouch and wax tablet.”
“Thank you, that will be best and… sorry for being such a burden on you.”
“Not at all…. “
It appeared that he might have some more to say, but decided not to. He ushered her out into the bright winter’s sunshine. An invigorating cold touched her cheeks. She felt a need to jump and shout, but remained the modest grieving widow on the outside. Internally, she could live in her own world.
Free, it is over! Emma’s quest complete. Despite all those men, I have succeeded. I delivered Edmund’s message and I hope he is in heaven and not disappointed by his betrothed’s reaction. Is there another pouch? I wonder. Stop it, Emma. It is finished. Get yourself home now woman. She smiled a wicked smile. Wouldn’t it be… No, no… it is over! She conversed with herself freely as she hurried home to her normal life.
People passing by may have wondered about this young widow talking to herself and gesticulating quietly. Perhaps they thought her possessed as they hurriedly stepped aside lest she touch them.
Ciaran Leamy - Author 