by Mel Starr
“How many knights and men-at-arms has the prince called for?” I asked.
“Three hundred knights are bid come to France,” Sir Martyn replied. “With a thousand squires, pages, archers, and men-at-arms.”
“We are to assemble at Dover on St. Thomas the Martyr’s Day,” Lord Gilbert added, speaking to me. “Where ships are even now being assembled to carry us to Calais.”
“This being so,” Sir Martyn said, “I must be away to complete my task. You and the others have but a month to prepare and make your way to Dover. I came first to you.”
“Stay for dinner,” Lord Gilbert said. “You can easily travel to East Hanney this afternoon to inform Sir John of Prince Edward’s command.”
Throughout the realm other messengers were informing knights and their men of this requirement for their services. Many, perhaps most, would welcome the summons. Peace can be boring and war may be profitable – if a rich castle can be plundered or a wealthy French knight captured and held for ransom.
Lord Gilbert invited me to stay for dinner that day at the castle. The meal was of five removes, regardless of the king’s requirement that two removes be the limit. If Edward should learn of Lord Gilbert’s violation I suspect he will permit the transgression to pass.
The announcement of my forthcoming journey did not harm my appetite. Very little does. I stuffed myself with parsley bread and honeyed butter, fruit-and-salmon pie, sole in cyve, aloes of lamb, and pomme dorryse. So when I departed the castle I was well sated. Kate knows that upon occasions when I am called to the castle my return to Galen House is uncertain, so had fed herself and our daughters rather than await my return.
Rain had continued, so I shook my cotehardie free of such water as possible, stamped mud from my shoes, and thereby soiled Kate’s clean floor. Here was no way to begin an account of the morning’s tidings which would likely trouble my spouse. But I thought of this too late. ’Tis impossible to unstamp a foot and replace mud upon a shoe.
“What news, husband?” Kate said from the kitchen, then appeared in the doorway. She looked from my sodden cap to the muddied flags and frowned. My announcement did not improve her expression.
“Lord Gilbert is called to France,” I began, “and bids me accompany him. He will have you occupy a chamber in the castle to oversee his son and the lad’s nurse.”
“And leave Galen House? What of Bessie and Sybil?”
“You and they will have Lady Petronilla’s chamber in the castle. It has remained empty since she died. Lord Gilbert promised to have it put right before you move to the castle. The walls of Lady Petronilla’s chamber are hung with many fine tapestries,” I added by way of persuasion.
“When? How long till this is to happen?”
“Not long. A week perhaps. We are to be in Dover to take ship for France by St. Thomas the Martyr’s Day. I think Lord Gilbert will require at least a fortnight for the journey to Dover, or near so.”
Next morn I was busy with my instruments, sharpening blades with an oiled stone I keep for the purpose, when Arthur again thumped my door with his meaty fist.
“Lord Gilbert says we will leave Bampton Tuesday morn,” he said. “I am to help you move Mistress Kate to the castle. I’ll bring a cart an’ runcie Monday at the ninth hour, that bein’ acceptable.”
“The ninth hour will serve. We will make ready.”
We did. Kate packed our largest chest with clothing for herself and our daughters, and I filled a smaller chest with my own garments, and bags of crushed hemp and lettuce seeds, and betony. I also placed a jar of St. John’s Wort ointment in the chest, for I was likely to see wounds aplenty before I returned to Bampton. My instruments chest I keep ready for use so nothing of preparation was necessary but for the sharpening of blades.
On Sunday, after mass, as this was to be our last meal together in Galen House for many months, Kate used her supply of eggs to prepare an egg leech for our dinner. That night, after dark, when the fowl would be roosting, I intended to send pages from the castle to collect Kate’s hens and cockerel from the coop and add them to the castle poultry, till those of us off to restore King Edward’s privileges could return.
Arthur was prompt, and we soon had the cart loaded. I lifted Kate and Bessie and Sybil to the cart, watched as Arthur led the runcie down Church View Street, then turned to Galen House to affix a lock to the door. The rear door I had already barred from within.
This was the second house on the site to bear the name of the great physician of antiquity. My first house, a gift from Lord Gilbert, had been burned to ashes by Sir Simon Trillowe, he being furious that I, a slender surgeon with an equally slender purse and a large nose, had won Kate Caxton for my bride. His father had been, at the time, sheriff of Oxford, and he a handsome young knight who had little experience of failure or denial. When Kate chose my suit over his he was enraged. Fortunately a new sheriff took office, a friend to Lord Gilbert, and when ’twas proven that Sir Simon set my house ablaze he required of the knight ten pounds to rebuild Galen House.
Last week Sir Martyn was to call Sir John, Sir Simon’s father, to join the force summoned to aid Prince Edward in France. The son would surely accompany his father on this expedition.
Sir Simon was no longer so handsome as he had once been. His left ear protruded from the side of his skull in a most unbecoming fashion. A brawl upon the streets of Oxford had left the fellow battered and bleeding and with an ear hanging from his head by but a wisp of flesh. I was in Oxford and nearby at the time and was summoned to stitch the dangling ear back to Sir Simon’s bruised skull. I did so, but such a repair is difficult, an ear being all gristle and nearly impenetrable by even the sharpest needle. And I had no experience at such a reconstruction.
Sir Simon did not lose his ear. My surgery was successful, mostly. When the injured appendage healed it extended from the side of his head. For this asymmetry he blamed me, not understanding how difficult it is to remodel an ear, nor realizing that without my effort he might now have no ear at all. Ungrateful wretch.
To this disfigurement add his choler at losing Kate to me, and his arson is understandable, if wrongheaded.
As I followed the cart down Church View Street to Bridge Street I resolved that for the next few months I would avoid turning my back to Sir Simon Trillowe. As it happened, ’twas Sir Simon who should not have turned his back to another.
Chapter 2
Kate busied herself making Lady Petronilla’s chamber into a home for herself and our daughters whilst I stayed mostly out of her way. I was pleased that leaving Galen House to become temporary mistress of Bampton Castle did not displease Kate so much as I had thought it might. ’Twas not the first time I had mistaken her sentiments and surely would not be the last, I thought, unless I found a grave in France. Death ends all errors, then comes time to repent of them. I am a man, and like other males am often mistaken when attempting to predict female opinions.
Supper that evening at Bampton Castle was more elaborate than usual, at Lord Gilbert’s request, it being his last meal in the castle hall for many months. Perhaps, as we were about to set off to do battle, it might be his last meal in the castle forever. This, however, was a thought no man wished to voice, and so jesting and jollity reigned, with many remarks between removes of the unamiable things we would do to the French king and his knights.
I could not drive from my mind that night, as I took to my bed, that this might also be the last I would see of Kate. Life is tenuous, even for her who would remain in England, safe behind castle walls. More so for me, who was about to cross the sea, eat unpalatable food, live in noisome conditions, and eventually be cast among armed men who wished me ill.
I awoke well before the Angelus Bell, which Lord Gilbert had said would be the signal for all to assemble in the castle yard. I believe most others of our cohort spent as sleepless a night as I, for men were assembled between hall and portcullis while it was yet too dark to recognize a face from more than two or three paces away. Until John
Chamberlain lit a torch.
Lord Gilbert’s cook laid out fresh wheaten loaves, cheese, and ale with which we who would travel this day, and those who remained, might break our fast. Agnes, Arthur’s wife, clung close to him, their infant in her arms. She had lost one husband and feared, I think, the loss of another. Perhaps Kate also dreaded the future, but she did not speak of her concern. Nor did I. “Sufficient to the day is its own evil,” I had read a few weeks past in my Bible. This seemed an appropriate time to obey the injunction to cease worry about days to come.
So between bites of bread and cheese we spoke of my return, and plans for the future, when we would again together shelter under the roof of Galen House.
“Take care, husband,” Kate finally said, “and return to me hale and whole.”
“I intend to stay far away from French swords and arrows,” I said. “I have accumulated enough scars in Lord Gilbert’s service.”
Kate ran her fingers across the pale line crossing my forehead and cheek. This track was the result of being beaten and kicked a year past when men took amiss my investigation into bones found in the St. John’s Day fire in Bampton. And beneath my kirtle and cotehardie was the healed wound where an arrow had pierced my side whilst I searched for the felon who had slain a chapman near to St. Andrew’s Chapel, to the east of Bampton. As I thought of the wound it began to itch. If the future is measured by the past, my return to Kate unmarred seemed dubious. This I did not say.
Bampton Castle yard was crowded with men and women saying their farewells. Eight carts and the runcies to draw them, laden with armor, swords, bows, arrows, and oats for our beasts and food for men, also clogged the enclosure. In addition there were palfreys and amblers and, led by mounted pages, seven dexters for combat should this expedition come to blows with a French force.
I had no responsibility for this host but to accompany it, but this nearly changed before we passed under the castle portcullis. One of the dexters became offended by a page who perhaps yanked too energetically upon the stallion’s lead. The beast signaled his displeasure by lashing out with his forefeet, one of which caught the lad in the ribs and sent him sprawling to the cobbles.
I dismounted and hastened to the youth, who was red-faced with embarrassment. Fortunately that was the extent of his injury. I prodded his ribs, which were tender and would no doubt be purpled before the day was out, but discovered no broken bones. The page regained his feet, took the dexter’s reins from another who had secured the agitated beast, and this time gently led the animal to his own palfrey. I saw the page grimace as he climbed to his saddle.
A farewell kiss for Kate, Bessie, and Sybil, thence to the palfrey’s saddle, and I was off for France. I caught one last glimpse of Kate, waving farewell, as my beast clattered across the castle drawbridge. My mood became somber and I could not help but consider when, if ever, I would again see my family. Perhaps others of the company felt the same, for I noticed that men who moments before had been jesting and shouting farewell fell silent as we passed from the castle forecourt to Mill Street.
Horses and men were fresh and carts were new, so we reached Oxford before the ninth hour. Lord Gilbert and his knights were provided chambers in the castle, whilst we lesser mortals made do with tents in the castle yard.
Shortly after my tent was erected I heard a man call my name. ’Twas a groom in service to the sheriff of Oxford who sought me. He told me that Lord Gilbert wished me to wait upon him in the sheriff’s chamber.
I found my employer with Sir Thomas de la Mere, newly appointed Oxford’s sheriff, and his clerk. The clerk had before him two documents and I soon discovered what they were. Lord Gilbert had not forgotten his promise to me. He had dictated to the clerk the terms he had pledged if I was taken and held for ransom or slain. Lord Gilbert had signed the documents, and Sir Thomas also, as witness.
“Sir Thomas will keep one of these parchments here, at the castle,” Lord Gilbert said. “You may have the other, to safeguard as you wish.”
A few streets from the castle is the stationer’s shop where my father-in-law, Robert Caxton, does business with Oxford scholars. I had intended to call upon him this day and had now another reason to do so. It seemed to me foolish to take Lord Gilbert’s pledge with me to France. Was I to perish there, who would know of its terms?
Oxford’s streets were clogged. Fuzzy-cheeked lads in new gowns laughed and pushed one another as they enjoyed the life of carefree scholars. I remembered when I was such a one.
My father-in-law had injured himself some years past, falling from a ladder, and I had removed a splinter from his back which had caused a festering sore. For this service he had promised me as many gatherings of parchment as I might need, and pots of ink as well. He was also influenced to look favorably upon me when, a few months later, I asked his permission to pay court to his beautiful daughter.
I had not seen Robert Caxton for more than a year. I was surprised at his appearance. His hair had become wispy and white, and he walked bent from the waist, as if it pained him to stand erect.
But there was joy in his face when I told him of Kate and Bessie and Sybil. I saw also longing in his eyes, but thought it unlikely that he would ever again see his daughter in this life. He was become too frail to walk to Bampton, and with two children to care for Kate could not readily come to him. Perhaps, if I returned from France in good time, I might commandeer a cart from the castle marshalsea and bring my family to Oxford.
I produced Lord Gilbert’s pledge and explained the need for the document. Caxton nodded understanding and promised to keep the sheet of parchment in his chest. I also asked of him a pot of ink and two gatherings of parchment. I thought it likely that there might be events in France in weeks to come worthy of recording. So there were.
Next morning we were off for London. We halted for the night at Watlington and before dark Sir John Trillowe, and his knights, squires, pages, and men-at-arms joined our camp. Among his knights I saw Sir Simon. The knight wore his cap and liripipe in such a fashion that it obscured his protruding ear. I saw two pages who wore their liripipes coiled the same. Sir Simon had unwittingly become an influence of style.
We reached London the evening of the third day after departing Oxford. Other of the knights called to France had arrived before us. The city was brimming with swaggering men bragging to all who would listen – especially pretty maids – of what was to befall the French should they contest the restoration of King Edward’s possessions and rights.
We raised our tents in a field near to the abbey of Westminster. Not all of us. Lord Gilbert was a guest of the abbey. King Edward is unwell, although his ailment is not such that a surgeon could deal with it. Nor physicians, either, if tales be true. ’Tis said that the king has grown remote since Queen Philippa died last year, although ’tis also said that he does not lack for female companionship.
Lord Gilbert and the other great barons of the realm who were bound for France would not pass through London without calling upon the king, so the field where we camped became a morass for the tramping of feet and hooves while we more humble folk waited for the audiences to be done. The second day after arriving at Westminster, after mass in the abbey church, we broke camp and set out for London Bridge and Kent.
Two days later we stopped to rest at Leeds Castle. I believe till then Sir Simon had not known of my presence in Lord Gilbert’s cohort. But that evening, just before dark, I met him and another coming about a tent which lay between my own shelter and a well.
The knight did not at first recognize me, I think. The light was failing and his eyes were down, watching for ruts in the path which might trip a man. The field where the tents had been erected was already becoming a muddy bog after but a few hours.
Sir Simon raised his eyes to see who approached, and I saw recognition and then hatred flash across his face. I expected such a glare from the fellow, but did not expect what came next.
Our paths were such that we would pass but an arm’s length from
each other. I was prepared to recognize Sir Simon with a nod of my head and to wish him “Good eve,” but as I was about to do so he turned toward me and in the dim light I caught a glimpse of his right fist appearing on a path toward my chin. The man had nursed a grudge for three years. For the next week I nursed a tender lip.
Sir Simon had not had time to cock his fist for a telling blow, I think. ’Twas a spur-of-the-moment act, so the stroke was not so forceful as might have been. I saw his fist coming and was able to turn away, so did not receive the full force of Sir Simon’s attack. This was a good thing. Sir Simon was not a small man.
But together my twisting to evade the blow and Sir Simon’s fist against my chin caused me to stumble and lose my balance. I fell heavily into the side of a tent, which then collapsed under me. My weight then pulled stakes from the soft soil from the opposite side of the tent and the entire fabric fell in upon itself.
The tent was not empty. My prostrate form fell across a man who had taken to his pallet for the night. The fellow was startled from sleep, found himself enmeshed in the folds of his fallen tent, and roared his displeasure. I was soon snarled in the tent, its ropes, and the struggle of the man beneath me. I heard Sir Simon and his companion laugh.
I managed to free myself soon enough to see Sir Simon making off, no doubt pleased with himself. Half the camp surely heard the cursing and struggle coming from the toppled tent. A man unknown to me hurried to the place and helped me untangle myself from ropes and canvas, then together we freed the hapless fellow I had so rudely awakened.
“What had Sir Simon against you?” my helper asked when we had drawn the sleeper from his canvas prison.
“You saw?” I said whilst gently rubbing my tender lip.
“Aye. Not difficult to cross Sir Simon. Done so myself.”
“’Tis a long story,” I replied.
“Keep your guard up,” the fellow said. “Sir Simon is rarely satisfied with one blow.”