by Mel Starr
A plump woman sat behind a desk, her cheeks red and bulging out from her wimple. “I give you good day, Abbot Gerleys,” the abbess said, and he returned the greeting. The abbess was smiling, but her smile seemed contrived, as if she struggled to overcome some other, more natural inclination.
“Who is your companion?” the abbess said.
“Here is Sir Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at Bampton, and recently knighted by Prince Edward for services to the prince. He wishes to speak to you upon an urgent matter.”
The abbess turned to me, the smile yet fixed to her face, as a plaster I might place upon a broken arm. She waited, silent.
“I wish to speak to Lady Philippa Molyns,” I said.
“There is no one at Godstow by that name,” was her calm reply. The smile was yet rigid upon her face.
No, there would not be. Lady Philippa would surely have taken another name. Many monks and nuns do.
“What she is now called is of no consequence to me. But I must speak to the woman who came to Godstow bearing that name when she arrived a few weeks past.”
As I spoke I saw the abbess’s jaw work, her eyes grew wide, she swallowed, and the smile faded. When I had demanded to see Lady Philippa, I was yet unsure she was at Godstow. But the abbess’s reaction to my request told me she was. Unless I am a failure at reading the expressions of women. Which is always possible.
Abbot Gerleys had been silent during this conversation. Now he spoke. “Send your novice to the lady.” He said this softly, but in a tone which told the abbess he would brook no resistance.
The abbess was silent for some moments, then turned to the inner door of her chamber and called out, “Amecia.”
The young woman who had greeted us at the outer door appeared. “Fetch Sister Heloise,” Abbess Agnes said. An appropriate name to choose for one whose love could not be, I thought.
The abbess turned to me, her smile gone. A look of sorrow had replaced it. Not anger. She did not speak, nor did Abbot Gerleys. We waited.
It seemed an hour had passed, but surely not, when I heard light footsteps upon the flags outside the abbess’s chamber. A slender black-clad form swept through the open door and said, “You sent for me?”
Sister Heloise saw me and Abbot Gerleys as she spoke, and her words trailed off to a whisper.
Did she know who I was and why I had come? Perhaps she guessed.
“I am Sir Hugh de Singleton, surgeon, and bailiff to Lord Gilbert at his manor of Bampton. When your wagon was discovered empty there a search was begun. I have been from one place to another, and men have suffered blows while seeking you. One man is dead. Although his death cannot be solely attributed to you, it came about because of our search,” I said.
The woman looked down to her hands, which she was clasping and unclasping.
“I am sorry to have troubled you so,” she whispered.
“And what of your husband? You have troubled him, and cost him two pounds.”
The woman looked up sharply and her demeanor changed. “What of my husband? I have earned his two pounds many times over with his cruelty and his shaming because I did not bear him a son.”
“Will you not return to him? You have taken holy orders, or soon will, without his permission.”
I turned to the abbess. “Will you countenance such a thing?”
The abbess did not reply, which was reply enough.
“You said men suffered blows seeking me. What of the blows I have suffered?” Lady Philippa looked at me steadily. I had no answer.
“I beg of you that you do not tell Sir Aymer where you have found me. Those who aided my escape will suffer, as well as I, if you do.”
“John Cely?”
“Aye. And Brom and Maurice.”
“How much did you pay for their silence?”
“John would accept nothing. I gave a shilling each to Brom and Maurice.”
“What of Milicent Dyer?”
“She is here, with me.”
“She will also join the abbey?”
“Nay. She will continue as my servant for a year or two. Meanwhile we will send a message to Giles that Milicent will be his, but he must wait for her. When he no longer serves my husband, she will be free to join him wherever he might be.”
“When you fled the wagon, who was there with a cart upon the Burford road, awaiting you?”
“Friar Geoffrey and Gospatric.”
In reply to my blank expression the abbess said, “Friar Geoffrey is my confessor, and Gospatric cares for the abbey fishponds.”
“They brought you and Milicent here? Did they then return to Coleshill with the ransom demand, and again to collect the coins?”
“Aye. I could not enter the abbey without payment.”
“Who wrote the ransom note?” I asked.
“I did,” the abbess said. I now understood why the demand was written upon a fragment of a Gospel, and in what we judged to be a woman’s hand. “What do you intend?” the abbess continued.
“Aye,” Abbot Gerleys looked at me. “What now will you do?”
My mind was awhirl. Must I send word to Sir Aymer where his wife was? Should I send word? And what would happen if I did? Lady Philippa must then return to a life of misery and beatings. Because of me. Or might Sir Aymer understand his behavior nearly cost him his wife, and amend his ways? Could I be sure of that when he had already supplied his bed with another woman?
Nay. But if I departed Godstow Abbey leaving Lady Philippa in peace to be forever Sister Heloise, I must return to Bampton a failure in men’s eyes. Are there things worse than being considered a failure? Aye; succeeding in some evil.
What would I say when asked if I had found Lady Philippa? Had I? Or had I found a woman named Sister Heloise? Did Lady Philippa Molyns still exist? I might say, “Nay, she is no more,” but would this be true? The woman who once was Lady Philippa Molyns lives and breathes as before, regardless of any new name. And yet, when anyone is in Christ the old has passed away; there is a new creation.
Would the Lord Christ punish my lie if I said I had failed to find Lady Philippa? Upon one occasion in Holy Writ God rewarded a lie. Pharaoh told the Hebrew midwives to slay all their male infants, but the midwives did not, and told the king that Hebrew women gave birth so quickly that a child was born before the midwife could attend. For this lie, saving male babes, God rewarded the midwives. If I was silent, would the Lord Christ reward me for saving a woman from the wrath of an angry husband, or would He punish me for being false to Sir Aymer, Lord Gilbert, even my Kate? For if I were to keep this secret I must take it to my grave. And what of the sanctity of marriage? Had it been undone by Sir Aymer’s own adulteries?
Nay. I have no secrets from my Kate. I had to tell her of this business, no matter what I decided.
“What of Martyn de Wenlock?” I asked at last.
“You know of Martyn?” Lady Philippa said, and her eyes brightened.
“He walks each day north of Oxford and sits upon a log gazing over the Thames toward the orchard and the abbey beyond. Did you know of this?”
“Nay,” she replied.
“Why does he do so? Does he know you are here?”
“Aye, he does.”
“Then he must hope to catch a glimpse of you from across the river,” I said.
A tear welled up in Lady Philippa’s eye. Was it due to thoughts of Martyn de Wenlock and his devotion, or to a fear that I would tell Sir Aymer where he might find her?
What if I told the knight where his wife had fled and when he arrived at Godstow to claim her she refused to leave the abbey? Would Abbess Agnes support her? Would Abbot Gerleys, as keeper of Godstow Abbey, permit the woman to defy her husband? I was sorely troubled by the decision before me.
Abbot Gerleys had been silent, listening to the discourse between me and Lady Philippa. Now he spoke.
“You said Sir Aymer believes his wife slain. Or he says he believes it so. He wishes to wed another who might provide an h
eir, but cannot do so while yet wed to this lady. He must convince the bishop that she is no more. Does Lady Philippa Molyns yet live? Or is this woman, who stands before us, Sister Heloise? By what name does the Lord Christ now know her?”
“How is a man to know the mind of the Lord Christ?” I asked. “If He stood here, in my place, what would He do?”
“That is what you must ask yourself, and when you find the answer you must have the courage to do the same.”
“As in all things,” I replied.
I looked to Lady Philippa, and my Kate appeared in my mind’s eye. Would I tell her that I had sent Sir Aymer’s wife back to his harsh treatment, or would she hear that Lady Philippa will spend her days in communion with the Lord Christ, not with an earthly husband? At that moment I knew what I must do, for I know my Kate, and I know what her choice would be.
“Sister Heloise, I bid you good day, and you also, Mother Abbess. M’lord abbot, if we leave now we may return to Eynsham in time for your dinner.”
“But will you tell Sir Aymer where you have found me?” Lady Philippa cried.
“I have not found Lady Philippa Molyns,” I said. “I failed.”
We did return to Eynsham Abbey in time for dinner. I was eager to be on my way after the meal, but Abbot Gerleys asked me to wait briefly. He sent a novice to his chamber with a request that the lad return with the glass.
When the youth appeared, the abbot bade me follow to a grassy place near the wall, bent low, and held the glass above the turf. I saw a bright spot centered upon the grass and immediately a wisp of smoke curled above the dry vegetation. A heartbeat later a tiny flame emerged.
Abbot Gerleys stood, gave me a triumphant look, and spoke. “Amazing, is it not? The sun can be so focused as to start a blaze.”
I watched astounded, resolving that upon my next journey to Oxford I would own one of these marvelous instruments.
We entered Bampton before the sun dropped behind the forest to the west of Bampton Castle. As before, I left my palfrey with Arthur and Uctred, telling them to inform Lord Gilbert I would call at the castle in the morning, then I walked the length of Church View Street to Galen House. From Godstow Abbey to Eynsham, and from Eynsham to Bampton, I had said nothing more about the search for Lady Philippa to Arthur or Uctred.
“When I tell Lord Gilbert we’ve returned,” Arthur said, “an’ that you’ll seek ’im tomorrow, ’e’ll likely ask what you learned in Oxford. What’ll I tell ’im?”
“Tell him the search has failed, and I will explain on the morrow.”
Bessie ran to greet me when I opened the door to Galen House, and my Kate was not far behind with John in her arms. Bessie grasped my knees and Kate my shoulders. I was embraced from top to bottom, and for a moment understood Sir Aymer’s sorrow.
“What news?” Kate asked.
“I will tell all after we have eaten and our lass has been put to bed.”
Bessie was old enough that she understood she was to be excluded from her parents’ conversation, and a pout shaped her lips. But the lass does not hold grudges for long and by the time we sat before a pottage of whelks, and barley loaves she had forgotten her pique.
I moved our bench to the toft while Adela took Bessie to bed and Kate gave John his late supper. When Adela had departed for the Weald and our babes were abed, Kate joined me in the toft and I explained all to her. I could not help but remember that the last time we sat in this place we were three. Someday, many years hence, I pray, we three will be gathered together again, awaiting the Lord Christ’s return.
“So, in men’s eyes,” I concluded, “I have failed.”
“But not in mine,” Kate said.
“If you regard me well I am content.”
“What of Lord Gilbert?” Kate said.
“He has already told me I must quit the search for Lady Philippa, as the matter is not of my bailiwick.”
“But did he mean it?”
“I will learn tomorrow.”
He did. I made my way to Bampton Castle at the third hour, stopping only at the bridge over Shill Brook to collect my thoughts whilst gazing into the stream.
I found Lord Gilbert with his chaplain, in the solar, reading from his Book of Hours. He dismissed the priest and spoke.
“Arthur told me your journey to Oxford bore no fruit,” he began.
“Aye. I spent five days following Martyn de Wenlock about the town. Never did he visit any woman. On the fifth day he recognized me as one whom he had seen on previous days and I realized that ’twas no longer possible to catch him out attending upon Lady Philippa.”
“Arthur said that yesterday morn you visited some abbey, along with the abbot of Eynsham.”
“Aye. Many times when I followed de Wenlock he walked north, then sat upon a log by the Thames and would gaze at the orchard of Godstow Abbey, across the river. I thought perhaps Lady Philippa was within the abbey, and that drew his interest.”
“She was not there?”
“The abbess said no one of the name Lady Philippa Molyns was within.”
I waited for Lord Gilbert to ask the question which would require me to lie. He did not. Did the question not occur to him, or did he wish to save me the embarrassment? He did not ask if Lady Philippa Molyns had ever been within Godstow Abbey.
“If Sir Aymer sends a man to ask of his wife I will tell him you have failed to find her and I charged you to be about my business, not his,” Lord Gilbert said. “And that business includes seeing to Peter Alderson, who yesterday fell from a rafter while erecting a barn in his toft. His leg is broken, I am told.”
“He resides on Bushy Row?”
“Aye, he does.”
“I will see to him immediately,” I said, and rose from my bench.
“A broken leg,” Lord Gilbert said with a smile, “is easier to deal with than a missing lady, eh?”
He looked at me and raised an eyebrow as I departed his presence.
A fortnight later I traveled with Arthur to Oxford to purchase more gatherings upon which to complete this tale, and to purchase a glass such as Abbot Gerleys had. While in the town I visited the castle to learn of Gaston Howes’ fate.
“Sentenced to hang,” the sheriff said. “But King Edward has offered clemency to any felon who will join his army. He intends to go to France next year and regain his lost lands in Limousin, and for this he needs more archers. Gaston has been reprieved.”
I never learned if Sir Thomas le Scrope recovered the three pounds’ ransom he paid for his daughter. Some evils are unlikely ever to be righted. In this life.
Afterword
Badbury Hill was an iron-age hill fort located just west of Faringdon. The site now belongs to the National Trust and is popular for nature walks.
Great Coxwell barn was built in about 1292 for the Cistercian Beaulieu Abbey. It is now in the care of the National Trust. The barn is 152 feet long, 43 feet wide, and 48 feet high. A small car park serves visitors, and Badbury Hill is visible from the barn.
Numerous criminal gangs operated in medieval England. They were generally composed of family units. Some of the best known were the Folvilles, the Coterels, and the Bradburns. These criminals were often protected by local authorities – for a price – even including sheriffs and abbots.
Many readers of the chronicles of Hugh de Singleton have asked about medieval remains in the Bampton area. St Mary’s Church is little changed from the fourteenth century. The May Bank Holiday is a good time to visit Bampton. The village is a Morris dancing center, and on that day hosts a day-long Morris dancing festival.
Village scenes in the popular television series Downton Abbey were filmed on Church View Street in Bampton, and St Mary’s Church appeared in several episodes.
Bampton Castle was, in the fourteenth century, one of the largest castles in England in terms of the area enclosed within the curtain wall. Little remains of the castle but for the gatehouse and a small part of the curtain wall, which form a part of Ham Court, a farmhouse in priv
ate hands. The current owners are doing extensive restoration work. Gilbert Talbot was indeed the lord of the manor of Bampton in the late fourteenth century.
Mel Starr
Chapter 1
John was feverish and so was my Kate, so I attended the Maundy Thursday mass with only Bessie to keep me company. The new year had begun but a few days before, and the calendar said that spring was to be in the air. The calendar lied. A low sky spat frozen rain upon my fur coat as Bessie and I hurried to St. Beornwald’s Church.
Father Simon placed the host into the pyx as the service concluded, and Bessie and I scurried home to escape the hard pellets of ice which stung our cheeks. The year of our Lord 1374 had begun badly. It was sure to improve. I have been wrong before.
I returned to the church alone for vespers on Good Friday. Bessie and John regularly pass coughs and dripping noses back and forth. This time ’twas John’s turn to send a flush to Bessie’s cheeks and redness to her nose.
When the mass was completed Father Thomas took the host from the pyx, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and placed it, along with a crucifix, within the Easter Sepulcher where, like the Lord Christ, it would remain buried ’til Easter morn.
The Easter Sepulcher at St. Beornwald’s Church is unlike that of St. Anne’s Church in Little Singleton, where I was born. The church there is small and plain, as is the Easter Sepulcher. ’Tis but a wooden frame which is covered with a linen cloth, as a burial shroud, whereas the Easter Sepulcher at St. Beornwald’s Church is a niche in the north wall of the chancel. Inside the niche is the wooden structure where host and crucifix may be placed, then the whole covered by a cloth cunningly embroidered with scenes of our Lord Christ’s passion.
John Younge, St. Beornwald’s sexton, moved to the chancel as Father Ralph and Father Simon joined Father Thomas at the Easter Sepulcher to light candles. The chancel was soon glowing.
’Twas John Younge’s duty, along with the priests’ clerks, to keep watch over the Easter Sepulcher ’til Easter morn. This was a great honor, he had told me a few days earlier. Alone in the church, the nave and aisles dark but the chancel bathed in candlelight, a man might inspect his soul for the betterment of the days remaining to him. Younge would serve the first watch of the night. I saw him from the porch as I departed the church, standing squarely before the Easter Sepulcher, arms folded across his chest, determined in his duty.