The Healers by Joyce Lionarons

Author:Joyce Lionarons [Lionarons, Joyce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-08-25T16:00:00+00:00

Jonas Pálsson was a huge man, taller than Cordwainer, broad in the shoulders and going to fat around the waist. His long fair hair was threaded with silver, his braided beard entirely white. Like Cordwainer, he leaned on a stick to walk, but after a few steps his breath ran out. He had been housebound for years.

He glared at Cordwainer from the door to his pottery workshop. “I thought you would be coming when I heard the second witch were dead,” he said. “I am glad she died and the first as well, but I had nowt to do with either death.”

“I did not believe you did.” Cordwainer moved forward to enter the workshop, but Jonas blocked his way. “I am here to speak to your son Jón, Jonas, not to you.”

Jonas reddened and struggled to catch his breath. “Leave my son be! He’s done nowt to concern you.”

“Be that as it may,” said Cordwainer. “I need to speak to him.” He tried again to step forward, but Jonas did not budge. “If I cannot, I will have no choice but to call for the Sheriff’s men to bring him to the Castle.”

The color drained from Jonas’s face, yet still he did not move. “Call for whomever you wish, Master Coroner, they will not go past me, Sheriff’s men or no. Jón has done nowt wrong.”

“Papa,” came a voice from behind Jonas. “Papa, let the Coroner within. Tis better I speak to him here than be forced to answer to the Sheriff and his torturers.”

“Nay,” said Jonas. “Nor the Sheriff nor his men will enter this house, not without killing me first.”

“Let there be no talk of killing, Master Pálsson,” Cordwainer said. “Move aside and allow your son to speak to me.”

Jonas grumbled beneath his breath, and an arm appeared beneath his own to draw him back from the door. Jonas stumbled backwards and a younger man took his place. Jón was clearly Jonas’s son, his height the same or somewhat taller, his shoulders as broad and his hair and beard as long but of a deep yellow color. He wore a linen shirt and wool tunic with a crusader’s cross sewn to the front. Bits of clay clung to his hands and had spattered onto the sleeves of his shirt.

“Ask your questions, Master Coroner,” he said, folding his beefy arms across his chest.

“Where were you yesterevening and yesternight?”

“I was at the Crown tavern until curfew. Then I came home and spent the night in my bed.”

“And this morning?”

“I slept late and have worked here at the potter’s wheel all day.”

Jonas’s voice came from behind him. “You’ve asked your questions. Begone! Tis all you need to know.”

Cordwainer shifted his weight, his hand tightening on his stick. “Do you believe Alice Cotstede killed your mother?”

“Aye, I do,” said Jón. “She mistook dried foxglove leaves for feverfew. And like my father, I am glad she is dead, but I did not kill her.”

“And Mistress Nur?”

“The Saracen healer? She ought ne’er have been allowed in England, but again, I did not kill her.

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