by Mel Starr
Arthur saw my tension, as he had noted his own beast’s heed of something of which neither he nor I was aware. “What d’you s’pose that’s about?” he said, scanning the fields adjacent to the road. To the west, between road and river, lay a meadow filled with sheep. To the east was a hayfield. Stone walls separated both from the road.
“Draw your dagger,” I said, and withdrew my own from its sheath as I spoke. “Hold it high so if rogues be near they will see and know we are aware of their presence.”
Arthur did so, and together we rode on, appearing to any onlooker obviously alert to whatever peril might overtake us. I saw no man, nor did Arthur, so perhaps ours was but the response of men who knew of many felonies occurring near the place. But perhaps not. Mayhap there were knaves close by who intended us harm, but faded away when they saw us prepared to meet them. So I thought.
We crossed the river into Oxford on Bookbinder’s Bridge and immediately sought some crowd of scholars which might point to Hamo Tanner. He and his troupe were not at the place where I had seen him two days past, so I directed my beast to the Black Boar.
I found the wrestler there before a plate of boiled eels in galantyne sauce, taking an early dinner. He looked up from his meal, saw ’twas me, and his blocky face wrinkled into a grin.
“Master Hugh… another prosperous morning,” he said, glancing at his meal. The other members of his troupe were likewise filling their bellies with eels and loaves and ale.
“Come,” he said. “Sit ’ere. Have you dined? No? Innkeeper!” he called out. “More eels and loaves! And ale!”
I felt guilty eating fare supplied generously from Hamo’s purse, because of the questions I intended to ask him.
“Will you remain long in Oxford?” I asked.
“One more day, perhaps two, then ’tis Banbury for us. After a week or so in any place, men lose confidence in their strength and will no longer challenge me. If none will dare me we can tempt no wagers, and our only reward comes from those who appreciate juggling, knife-throwing, and acrobats.”
“Not enough income from such folk to enjoy dishes of eels in galantyne sauce, eh?” I said.
“Nay. Do you wish to see Will’s arm? There is redness about the wound, but he says there is no pain. Itches, though.”
“Aye. It will do so for a few days. I will have a look at it. But I have questions about the men who wounded him.”
“Oh aye? Ask away.”
“You said they wore black?”
“They did.”
“And they ran from you when they saw that they were outnumbered? Were they fleet? Did they run as young men, or heavily, as older men might?”
“You mean did they run as you might, or as I would?” Hamo grinned. “Not as me, that’s sure. They was swift. ’Course, a man will add speed to ’is heels if ’e thinks a force greater than ’is own may be after ’im.”
I saw Will dining at another table and asked Hamo to call him. The wrestler brought his dish of eels with him, perhaps reasonably fearing his colleagues might help themselves while his back was turned.
The fellow sat beside me on the bench and drew up the sleeve of his cotehardie. I was pleased with the appearance of my handiwork, although Will voiced some worry.
“There is no pus, nor has been since you stitched me together two days past,” he said.
Physicians declare that wounds heal best when a thick, milky pus issues from them. Laudable pus. When thin, watery pus drains from a cut there is cause for worry. But I follow de Mondeville, who taught that no pus at all is best. I was pleased to see Will’s gash dry, and told him so. He seemed unconvinced. ’Tis difficult to overturn accepted error, and occasionally dangerous if ’tis a bishop’s error being upended.
“When you fought the men who slashed you, were you able to see them clearly?” I asked.
Will pursed his lips. “Not so much,” he said. “Too busy watchin’ their daggers to take heed of faces.”
“Hamo believes them to be young. Do you agree?”
“Oh, aye. I saw that much. Garbed as scholars an’ the faces of young men.”
“Would you say any were old enough to apply a razor to their chins?”
Will thought for a moment, then said, “One seemed as ’e might’ve been. Looked to ’ave a stubble upon ’is cheeks. Like ’e’d been shaved a few days past.”
“Did you see any other men abroad near the time and place you were attacked?” I asked, glancing to Will and Hamo both.
I wondered if they would look to each other before replying, thinking that if they did so, such might be an indication they wished to harmonize their answers. They did not. Both men shook their heads, affirming their band was alone on the road that day, but for the brigands. Neither man glanced to the other.
The gentlemen who had sought lodging at Eynsham Abbey did not need to claim they had been attacked along the road between Abingdon and Oxford if they were not. Why do so if such an assault did not happen? Did they know such an event had taken place? How so? Did they invent a tale of being attacked to absolve themselves if interrogated regarding Will’s wound? They wore gentlemen’s garb when they approached the abbey, not the black gowns of scholars or monks or lay brothers.
Men may change their apparel, as Kate reminded me, but would they do so in the day, between Abingdon and Eynsham?
And why travel that road if one intended to journey to Stratford? From Abingdon to Eynsham and on to Stratford a man would be advised to travel through Cumnor and Farmoor, but there would be no need to pass through Eynsham at all, Oxford being upon better, well-traveled roads and on the way from Abingdon to Stratford. Much about this business made no sense.
Whilst I spoke to Hamo and Will, Arthur gobbled his trencher of eels, drank his ale, and belched contentedly. I had told him that, if he continued to do such, Lord Gilbert would never promote him to valet. He replied that he wished for no greater position, was too old to learn new duties, and continued the practice. Hamo seemed not to care.
I could not believe Hamo Tanner guilty of guile – although I have been wrong about such matters before – so asked no further questions of him or Will.
I went to pay the innkeeper for the eels and ale which Arthur and I had consumed, but Hamo would not allow this. I did not wish to fight the man for the honor of paying for my meal so, with Arthur, thanked him for his generosity and bid him safe travel to Banbury.
Arthur and I led our beasts through Oxford’s teeming streets to Holywell Street and Robert Caxton’s shop. When we arrived I was startled to see his shutters closed. There was no indication that he sought custom.
I left the palfreys with Arthur and tried the door. It was barred from within. I rapped firmly upon the door and shouted my name. This brought no reply.
Behind the shop an alley gave access to a small toft, and a little-used door opened into the building from this plot of ground. We led our beasts there and I tried the door. This entry was not so stout as the street door, and rattled against the jamb and hinges as I pounded upon it. This time when I shouted my presence I heard a reply. Shortly after, I heard the bar being lifted. Then the door swung open.
Robert Caxton’s appearance was appalling. His cheeks were sunken, his thinning grey hair askew, his fingers bony and claw-like upon the bar, and the ashen cast of his face was even more pronounced than but four days past.
He did not at first recognize me. “I am unwell,” he whispered, “and not taking custom… Ah, Hugh, ’tis you. Come in, come in. I bid you good day.”
I followed my tottering father-in-law into the dim workroom occupying the back of the house, thence into the shop. The only light therein came from cracks between shutters and the skins of windows, but even so I could see Caxton’s store of parchment, ink, and manuscripts stood the same as I had seen a few days past. So far as I could tell he had sold nothing since my last visit. The shelves we
re unchanged.
“I am sorry I have no loaves or ale to offer,” Caxton said.
My father-in-law was always a hospitable man, even when in years past I appeared at his shop with the obvious intention of stealing away his daughter. If he had nothing to offer guests, that likely meant that he had nothing for himself.
“Arthur and I have already dined,” I said. “What was your meal this day?”
Caxton brushed my question aside with a sweep of his hand.
“Does that mean nothing?”
“My needs are met,” he said.
“Your appearance says not,” I replied.
The stationer was silent. He sat heavily upon a stool behind his desk, as if his legs found it burdensome to support his shriveled frame.
“I forget that I have a surgeon for a son-in-law,” he said. “What else will you tell me of my health?”
“I will speak plainly. This business is too much for you and, to my eyes, is failing. You are not eating well, I think. Look – you’re no more than skin and bone. You must sell this shop and come to Bampton to live with us in Galen House.”
“Nay. I cannot impose myself upon my daughter.”
“You think when she learns of your state, and then of your death, that will be no imposition on her?”
Caxton had no ready reply to this. He surely treasured his freedom to go and do as he would, but also knew that such days were past.
“I cannot sell this shop,” he finally said.
“Why not? Surely, even though such a business as yours is in decline today, at some year in the future scholars will again be numerous in Oxford.”
“’Tis already sold,” Caxton said. “Last year, when I was short of funds with which to purchase more hides, I sold it to the candlemaker next door. Folk still need candles. The nights get as dark now as ever they did – although, to be sure, there are fewer folk needing to see their way.”
“You now rent this house from the candlemaker?” I asked.
“Aye.”
“Then you need only sell these gatherings and books and pots of ink. I will purchase the parchments, and I know a man who can assist with ink and books.”
“Who?”
“Master Wycliffe. Master of Canterbury Hall. He will likely have use for your ink, and his scholars may want some of the supply. What books have you? Let me see.”
Caxton had in his shop but three books: Aristotle’s METAPHYSICS, Boethius’s TOPICS, books one, two, and three, and ALMAGEST, by Ptolemy.
“These set books are always in demand. If no scholars need them now, there will surely be those who will, come Michaelmas Term.”
“You are quick to decide my life,” Caxton complained in a brave show of independence. His protest was justified. I have served as Lord Gilbert’s bailiff for so many years that I have become accustomed to requiring of folk what they must do.
“You wish to remain here, then, with little custom and neither loaves nor flesh to keep you alive? When next I call upon you, I fear I will find you up the stairway in your bed, a corpse, food for worms.”
Perhaps this was harsh. But it was surely also true. Truth is oft unpalatable.
“Arthur,” I said, “here is my purse. Find an inn and buy there a roasted capon and as many loaves as you can carry. And here, take also the ewer upon that cupboard and fill it with ale.”
“’Ow many hands you think I’ve got?” Arthur complained.
“Oh, aye. Well, bring fowl and bread first, then return to the inn for the ale. I will be away when you return. I intend to seek Master Wycliffe and arrange matters with him. See that my father-in-law consumes a goodly portion of the capon and half of a loaf, at least.”
A short walk later I entered the gate to Canterbury Hall. The porter recognized me, tugged a forelock in greeting, and bade me enter. The central court of the hall was deserted and quiet. I assumed that Master Wycliffe led a disputation somewhere, so prowled the college until I heard voices.
I peered around the open door into an occupied chamber and saw Master Wycliffe and a dozen or so black-gowned scholars contending with an obscure remark of Boethius. Of course, most everything of Boethius is obscure. Their words brought to mind days when I also thought such matters of philosophy significant. But now I have a wife and children, my opinion of what may or may not be of consequence is somewhat modified.
Wycliffe saw me through the open door, halted in the midst of his argument, and greeted me.
“Master Hugh, good day. Come in… come in.” Then, to his scholars, some nearly as old as I, he said, “A former scholar of Balliol, who some years past found my stolen books. How may Canterbury Hall serve you?”
“I will wait ’til you are finished here.”
“Bah… we may as well be done. ’Tis as useless to teach Boethius to this lot as to try to pound cheese through a keyhole.”
Why any man would wish to do such a thing with a cheese I did not ask, but the comparison was useful. I remembered that Master John had expressed similar thoughts of me and my fellows when I was at Balliol. I suppose that to a great scholar all other men must seem dolts.
Wycliffe closed the volume lying open before him, placed it under an arm, dismissed the scholars, and bade me follow him. A cold mist began to gather as we approached his chamber and I thought ruefully of the damp journey back to Eynsham which lay ahead of me.
An hour later, less mayhap, Robert Caxton’s goods were accounted for. Master John would take the ink and books, sell for the best price he could get, and hold the funds secure in Canterbury Hall ’til I came for the coins. Six months, I suggested, and the scholar agreed that by Martinmas he should be able to dispose of ink and books.
“But when you return to Oxford you may not find me here,” he said.
“Why?”
“There is much contention in Canterbury Hall. I think it likely I will be replaced.”
No man could replace Master Wycliffe, I thought. Another might be found to take his position, but the fellow would not replace such a scholar.
’Twas the ninth hour before I returned to Holywell Street and my father-in-law’s shop. I reported to him the scheme made with Master John, and noted that more than half the capon and three wheaten loaves lay upon his table – enough to provide for him for a few days. I gave Caxton six pence, to feed himself if I was unable to return for him when planned, and told him Arthur and I would return in two days with a cart to carry him and his meager possessions to Bampton. He sighed, but made no more objections. The prospect of seeing his daughter, and two grandchildren upon whom he had never laid eyes – and likely thought he never would – tempered the misery of losing his livelihood.
Arthur and I could not linger if we expected to reach the hospitality of Eynsham Abbey before nightfall. We prodded our beasts to a quick pace once past Bookbinder’s Bridge. Beyond Osney Abbey we saw no others upon the road. This was unusual. Men are commonly about the roads near to Oxford, at their business, ’til dark. Word of the multiple felonies hereabouts had made travelers wary, I conjectured.
I had nearly forgotten my beast’s odd behavior after splashing through Swinford earlier in the day, but as we came near the ford the palfrey did the same again. Her ears lay back, she snorted with displeasure, and shied to the side of the road. Arthur’s beast did likewise. Something or someone had caused the animals to become agitated.
If ’twas someone who troubled our beasts it would be wise to prepare for whatever danger might lurk beyond the road. But the palfreys were accustomed to the scent of men. Why would they behave so if they detected men nearby? I again drew my dagger and lifted it before me as a sign that I sensed peril. Arthur saw and did the same.
But no hazard appeared. Within moments, as we reached the ford, the palfreys lost their fear and behaved as normal. Here was a puzzle. Had rogues lain in wait for unwary wayfarers both early in the m
orning and late in the day, and yet allowed Arthur and me to pass unmolested? The puzzle remained in my mind for the next mile, ’til we came to Eynsham Abbey.
“You are becoming regular guests,” the hosteller remarked as we dismounted. “You will wish to speak again to Abbot Gerleys while here, I presume?”
“Aye. There are matters taking me regularly to Oxford, the felonies hereabouts among them. Perhaps the abbot has new reports which may bear on the crimes.”
After a meal in the guest chamber I was invited to the ailing abbot’s lodging, and we again discussed all that had passed.
“Do you know Sir Thomas Harcourt?” I asked.
The abbot nodded.
“His son was taken a few days ago. Ten pounds is demanded for his return.”
“The rogues have struck again!” Abbot Gerleys exclaimed. “Ten pounds! A great sum. But if these prove to be the same felons as have done murder hereabouts they will not hesitate to slay the lad if their demands are not met.”
Recalling then the skittishness of our beasts but a mile from the abbey, I warned Abbot Gerleys of it as I was about to leave his lodging.
“Was this near the place where the road is walled upon both sides?” the abbot asked.
“Aye. Meadow upon one side of the road, with sheep there, and a field of hay upon the other, as I remember.”
“I will send some lay brothers to inspect the verge and see what might have troubled your beasts. Perhaps if felons were concealed there they will have left some sign of their presence. A hundred paces beyond the ford, you say?”
“Aye.”
Chapter 8
Arthur and I arrived in Bampton next day before dinner. As before I sent Arthur to the castle with our palfreys and walked from Bridge Street to Galen House. I was expected. Kate had prepared blancmange and maslin loaves with parsley butter. I told her of her father’s condition, and her face fell, but when I announced that he was willing to remove to Bampton she smiled again.