Deeds of Darkness

by Mel Starr

  The laceration was more serious than Hamo had led me to believe. It extended nearly from elbow to wrist, and was deep enough that I thought, but for the blood, I might see bone.

  “Can you stitch me up?” Will said. “Or am I to meet the Lord Christ with but one good arm?”

  “We will all meet the Lord Christ,” I said. “But not necessarily soon. I can deal with this cut.”

  “Will I wrestle again?”

  The man was no doubt concerned for his livelihood. Hamo would not keep him on if he could not contribute to his keep.

  “Not for many weeks. Perhaps by Midsummer’s Day.”

  I saw the man’s countenance fall. I guessed he feared that, even if his infirmity proved temporary, Hamo would replace him. The tanner was silent, which did nothing to reassure Will.

  “There is a haberdasher on Fish Street who’ll have the needle and silk thread I need. ’Tis not far. Meanwhile, whilst I am away, get a cup of wine from the innkeeper.”

  Hamo raised his eyebrows at this request. Evidently his prosperity did not encompass paying for wine at midday. Or perhaps at any time.

  “To cleanse the wound,” I said, and with Arthur thumping down the stairs behind me I descended to the yard and thence to the street.

  Martyn Hendy took one glance in our direction as we entered his shop and before I could speak said, “Ain’t seen Hubert since you was ’ere seekin’ ’im. He ever return to Bampton?”

  “Aye,” I said. “He now resides in the churchyard.”

  “Dead?” Hendy gasped, and crossed himself.

  “Aye. Slain for his purse.”

  “’Tis why he never arrived, then.”

  “That would be the right of it. His son, I believe, will continue the business. Bampton needs a haberdasher and no man is so well suited to continue the trade as Will. You will see him soon, I think, as he must replenish his father’s reduced store.”

  “Best he not travel alone. I’d not like to lose another customer.”

  “Indeed,” I said, and nodding in agreement I came to my business. “I need a needle – the finest you have – and a spool of silken thread.”

  “Ah,” Hendy grinned. “Some man has been at the wrong end of a blade.”

  “Just so.”

  The haberdasher went to a shelf and lifted down a tiny wooden box. “Here are three of my finest. From Milan, where the craft is best. Will you have all three, or but one? Five pence for one, a shilling for all.”

  The needles were narrow indeed, so much so that I first asked for the spool of silk to be sure I could thread the eye of such a needle. I could, just.

  “I’ll have all three,” I replied. “And the spool.”

  I paid Hendy a shilling and four pence and hastened back to the Black Boar.

  “You’ll lose money at this,” Arthur said between breaths as we hurried to the inn. For all his strength, Arthur is no longer young.

  “The needles will serve many years,” I replied, “and Hamo will not begrudge my fee if I am able to restore his man.”

  I was, and he did not.

  At the upper chamber of the inn I bathed the gash with wine, stood in the sunlight of an open window – even then peering close – to thread the needle, then went to work stitching up the wounded wrestler. He did not quail at the pricks. As I did so I asked of the injury – how it had happened.

  “We spent two days in Abingdon,” Hamo began, “then set out for Oxford. We always gather plenty of coin in Oxford.”

  I believed that. Young scholars, even those with a thin purse, do not always exhibit good judgment when a wager is presented to them. Greed has been the downfall of many, be they commoners or kings.

  “We was perhaps halfway ’ere when we was set upon. Mayhap wouldn’t have been, had we stuck together.”

  “You traveled divided, in two parties?”

  “Aye. One of our beasts has a sore hoof – you know anything about such matters?”

  I shook my head.

  “Nay. You’d likely not. So we who rode on the carts traveled slow, while Will, Roger, an’ Giles walked on ahead. They disappeared beyond a bend in the road, when we with the carts was a hundred paces or more behind. I heard a tumult ahead, which upon the road can mean no good thing, so cracked the whip an’ hurried on to see what was the trouble. Met Will an’ Roger an’ Giles runnin’ to us, with three men close behind. When the scoundrels saw us with the carts they turned on their heels an’ ran across a meadow to a greenwood.”

  “Three men attacked? Not four?”

  “Nay, only three. Wanted nothin’ to do with us when they saw we outnumbered them.”

  “What did they wear?”

  “Odd you should ask. Wore black, like the scholars hereabouts, or monks’ habits.”

  I spoke to Will. “You saw them close. Were the assailants young men, or older?”

  “Young, they was. But old enough to parry a blade an’ give me a thrust when I fought ’em.”

  “They demanded your purses?” I asked.

  “They did. Hid themselves in bushes beside the road. Whoso owns the fields there should be fined for not keepin’ the verge clear. The sheriff must hear of this.”

  Indeed, the Statute of Winchester requires manorial lords to clear brush and undergrowth back from roads to a distance of seventy-five or so paces, excepting only great oaks and greenwoods, exactly so felons may not conceal themselves and surprise unwary travelers.

  “The slash is to your right arm,” I said to Will. “Was the man who delivered the wound left-handed?”

  “Aye, so he was.”

  I made fourteen stitches in Will’s lacerated right forearm, then bathed the cut again with wine and pronounced the work complete.

  “Is there no salve?” Will asked.

  I explained that I favor the practice of Henri de Mondeville, father of French surgery. Treating wounded soldiers of the king of France, he discovered that cuts left open to the air, wrapped but lightly and washed only with wine, healed better than slashes covered over with ointments.

  “If your travels take you near Bampton about Rogation Sunday, seek me and I will remove the stitches. But if you are elsewhere, a sharp blade will slice through the silk, and the cut threads may be pulled free. On no account, even after the stitches are removed, must you wrestle again, or do any other heavy toil with that arm, ’til St. John’s Day, else the wound may open and be more troublesome to close than at the first.”

  Neither Will nor Hamo seemed troubled by my admonition. I believe they expected the warning. Arthur and I bid the tanner farewell and led our beasts through Oxford’s crowded streets to Holywell Street and Robert Caxton’s stationery shop.

  Chapter 6

  When I last saw my father-in-law I had been surprised at how much he had aged. In the intervening months the process had accelerated. He greeted me with a smile upon his face but his countenance was grey, and deeply lined. He walked bent at the waist, as if the splinter I had drawn from his back remained and vexed him.

  Caxton was eager to learn of his new grandson, yet still saddened to think of Sybil. He would take joy in Bessie, I felt sure, if he could lay eyes upon her.

  “I am in need of more parchment,” I said. “Three gatherings, I think. But this time I shall pay. You have more than discharged the cost of the surgery I performed upon your back. How much do you receive for a gathering?”

  “Not so much as years past. Three pence only. There are fewer scholars since plague has returned, so fewer masters and doctors to write their thoughts. Near as many sheep, though, so a hide is worth half what it brought twenty years ago. What brings you to Oxford? What will you write?”

  I told my father-in-law of Hubert Shillside’s death, and of the felonies in villages and upon the roads near Eynsham and Abingdon.

  Caxton listened carefully to my tale.
“’Tis an evil world,” he said when I had done. “’Tis a wonder the Lord Christ does not return and put an end to all the wickedness.”

  “Perhaps He is more patient than we,” I replied.

  “Patient, you think? How so?”

  “When He returns ’twill be too late for malefactors to repent of their sins. So long as He delays, transgressors have yet opportunity to mend their ways.”

  “But then a new generation of wicked men will replace the one we already have,” Caxton said. “Will the Lord Christ’s patience never wear thin?”

  “Aye, surely. But we must not dally,” I said.

  “You return to Bampton this day?”

  “Nay. Only so far as Eynsham. We will stay the night at the abbey, and I will seek news of the abbot, lest any more felonies have occurred.”

  It was near dark, and the porter about to close the abbey gate, when we reached Eynsham Abbey. The guest master again showed us to the guest chamber, sent for lay brothers to care for our beasts, and promised a supper would soon be on the table. I asked the monk if I might speak to Abbot Gerleys following the meal, and he promised to arrange it.

  He made good his promise of supper, and by the light of three cressets Arthur and I ate our fill of pease pottage and broiled stockfish, barley loaves, and fresh ale.

  Arthur was not yet finished with his loaf and ale when the guest master reappeared, instructing me to follow. Abbot Gerleys, he said, was unwell, but would be pleased to speak to me. Arthur seemed pleased to remain at his unfinished task.

  I found the abbot sitting at his desk, but clearly in much discomfort. I asked of his symptoms. His ailment was not such as a surgeon could cure.

  “Ah… I burn with fever, yet must cover myself in blankets for the chill. Every part of my body aches – head, neck, back. I cough, especially when I lie upon my bed, and my throat is sore so that I can swallow little but ale. ’Tis the ague, I think.”

  “Have others of the abbey complained of the same afflictions?”

  “Aye, several.”

  “’Tis surely the ague,” I agreed.

  “And nothing to be done,” the abbot said, “but to mend or die. Have you advice to promote the first and avoid the second?”

  “When ague afflicts the lungs it can be troublesome,” I said.

  “Troublesome? You mean deadly?”

  “Mayhap. To avoid the lungs filling with fluid ’tis best to stay upright so much as possible. Sleep with several blankets folded under your shoulders, so that you are propped as near to vertical as can be.”

  “I will do so. Now, to other matters. Have you found the felon who slew your friend?”

  “Nay. I’ve learned of more felonies hereabouts, and a tenant of the Bishop of Exeter was robbed in the night near to Bampton.”

  “What other felonies?” the abbot asked, roused to apprehension despite his own health concerns.

  “A troupe of entertainers traveled yesterday from Abingdon to Oxford and was waylaid upon the road.”

  “Were any injured or slain? Did the brigands make off with much loot?”

  “One man received a slash on his forearm. I stitched him whole this day. The company had got separated upon the road. Three of their men walked ahead, three others and a lass following behind with two carts. When the thieves realized the three they had attacked had companions, they ran off.”

  “How many assailants?”

  “Three, and wearing black robes, as scholars or lay brothers.”

  Abbot Gerleys listened thoughtfully to my tale. “And one of the three who were set upon received a wound, you say?”

  “Aye.”

  “Here is a puzzle to add to your others, then. Last eve three men came here, requiring lodging for the night. They told Brother Watkin of being attacked upon the road. He thought I should know of it, so brought them to me.”

  “They traveled from Abingdon?” I guessed.

  “Aye. To Stratford, they said.”

  “A long journey.”

  “Aye, and they had no horses, but walked. Mayhap they were accosted by the same fellows who wounded the man you aided. But here is the odd thing. One of the three said that the felons ran off when he drew his dagger and wounded one of them.”

  “Where was this injury? Did your guest say?”

  “Aye. Said he pierced the rogue’s arm.”

  Here was disquieting news. Was Hamo Tanner’s prosperity due to thieving as well as wrestling and knife-throwing and juggling and the like? ’Twould be a great coincidence if two men received cuts to their arms along the same road, and upon the same day.

  “What was their business in Stratford?” I asked.

  “They did not say, and I did not ask.”

  “Were one or two of the men servants to the other?”

  “Didn’t seem so. They spoke as gentlemen, none taking precedence over the others.”

  “Odd that gentlemen would travel so far with no pages or grooms to assist, nor any beasts.”

  “Aye.”

  “Perhaps they said more to Brother Watkin before or after they spoke to you?”

  “I will call for him. ’Tis nearly time for Compline, but he will be free ’til then.”

  Abbot Gerleys called out to the youthful monk who served him and sent the lad in search of the hosteller. Brother Watkin appeared soon after and Abbot Gerleys bade him sit upon a bench drawn against the wall.

  “Master Hugh seeks knowledge of the men who occupied the guest chamber last night,” the abbot said.

  “What can I tell you?” Brother Watkin said to me.

  “Were the men old, or young?”

  “Young. Beardless – although one of them seemed recently to have been shaved, as stubble grew about his chin.”

  “Abbot Gerleys said they spoke as gentlemen.”

  “Aye. They were not of the commons. Educated fellows, I’d guess.”

  “And none seemed servant to another?”

  “Nay.”

  “Did they dress well?” I asked.

  “Aye. ’Tis no wonder they were set upon. Fine wool cotehardies, and one wore particolored chauces and a bright blue cap with liripipe long enough to wind thrice about his head. Men garbed in such a fashion will likely possess heavy purses and attract miscreants.”

  “If so, why walk all that way?” I wondered aloud. “’Tis forty miles, near enough, from here to Stratford. Men who dress well should be able to hire beasts for such a journey, even if they have none of their own – which seems unlikely.”

  Brother Watkin looked at me and shrugged in reply. He had no answer, nor did Abbot Gerleys. The abbot then spoke.

  “The Rule decrees we must offer hospitality to all, regardless of their state, or reason for travel. As there is no point therefore in asking a man’s business upon the road, we avoid doing so. You think the fellows did not speak true? That they were not attacked upon the road? That, perhaps, they do not travel so far as Stratford?”

  “Someone was waylaid near to Abingdon,” I said. “Perhaps the felons attacked twice, with different victims. In the first attempt the culprits wounded one of the troupe of entertainers – the man whose arm I patched – and wore black gowns. At their second try they wore gentlemen’s garb and one of the felons received a wound from the travelers who sought refuge here last night.”

  “You believe it may so have happened?” Abbot Gerleys said.

  “Nay… but perchance ’twas so.”

  Arthur lay wakeful upon his bed when I returned to the guest chamber. He wished to hear of any new thing I had learned of Abbot Gerleys, and it did my own understanding some good to relate to him what the abbot had said.

  “Odd business, two men slashed upon the arm, same road, same day,” Arthur concluded.

  Odd the matter may have been, but not so that considering the matter pre
vented Arthur falling quickly to sleep once the last cresset was extinguished. Such is always a trial, for if, when we share a chamber, Arthur falls first to sleep his snoring prevents Morpheus from finding me.

  I lay upon my bed and considered the felonies I had learned of in the past fortnight. Two men slain, another missing. A lass taken and abused. Hamsoken in many places, even in the Weald, and two men slashed upon the road north from Abingdon. Or perhaps only one man cut. But if only one, who was speaking true? Hamo Tanner and his wrestler, or three traveling gentlemen?

  Brother Watkin brought loaves and ale to the guest chamber next morn, and shortly after we set off for Bampton. ’Twas no trouble to return through Stanton Harcourt to learn how Sir Thomas fared without his rotten tooth, so less than an hour after leaving the abbey we drew up before the manor house.

  Before I could dismount I saw from the corner of my eye a black-clad form hasten toward me, coming from the church near Sir Thomas Harcourt’s manor house and barns. The village priest, no doubt, I thought, and the disagreeable notion occurred to me that since my dealing with the knight’s tooth something might have happened to the man requiring the attention of the village priest. This, as it happened, was so, but not in the manner I had feared.

  I waited before the manor house hitching rail while Arthur secured our palfreys. It was clear the priest was intent on approaching the dwelling. He did not take his eyes from the place and his path was unswerving.

  He paid us no attention as he strode to the door, his face set in a thin-lipped grimace. In his left hand he carried a small sheet of parchment which I could see – for he passed close by me – was written upon.

  From around the corner of the church, as the priest hurried past me, another figure appeared. This was a lad of twelve or so years, bare of foot for the day was mild, wearing what seemed to be a father’s cast off cotehardie which reached to his ankles. The youth glanced to the manor house, then turned away and sauntered toward a field some distance away where a plow team was at work. A small figure followed the plow, a lad breaking clods with his bare feet, at work alone. Perhaps the lad from the church was to join him. If so, he was in no hurry.