by Mel Starr
With the fish Kate also prepared sops in douce. The sun was well down toward Lord Gilbert’s forest to the west of the castle when we finished our meal. Bessie was delighted to discover sops in douce and would have consumed the entire platter had her parents and grandfather not devoured their share before she could do so.
During the meal I told Kate how the green wool fragment had gone missing. I shared with her my thoughts about its origin and loss, wondering if the wisp might have aught to do with the death of Hubert Shillside. I will not share these speculations here, as most were far from the mark. One, however, was not. ’Tis a pity I considered that conjecture least likely of the possibilities before me, so did not act upon it until all other likely explanations were found unsatisfactory.
It is our custom, Kate and I, to move a bench to the toft as the sun is setting, there to enjoy the last of its warmth as we converse upon sundry matters. When my father-in-law joined the household we continued the practice, including him. The bench is long enough for three.
Caxton and I sat placidly upon the bench whilst Kate put Bessie to bed and fed John. She joined us as the western sky was turning from a golden hue to pale pink.
“Is the Stanton Harcourt bailiff so inept that he would misplace evidence that might help untangle a felony?” Kate asked.
“Sir Thomas said he had threatened to dismiss the man many times for his incompetence.”
“Think you the wool might have fallen from the chest when the bailiff fell and the chest flew from his hand?”
“We searched the rushes carefully and found nothing. Surprisingly, they had been recently renewed and were quite clean. We would have seen anything uncommon to a floor, I think.”
“What of the lad?”
“Edmund? What of him?”
“You said he helped the bailiff to his feet,” Kate said. “Might he have seen the wool and gathered it up before anyone knew ’twas gone from the chest?”
“Why would he do so? Besides, Oswald could not find the wool when he first opened the chest. It seems likely that the wisp was already missing.”
“But if ’twas not, and his stumble was but a pretext – what then?”
“’Twould mean that Edmund and the bailiff are conspiring together to keep me from having the wool.”
“But why would they do so?” Caxton said.
“Because,” Kate said with a tone of resolution in her voice, “they do not wish the older brother’s murderers to be found, and will put any obstacle they may in the path of the man who seems most likely to find the felons.”
I had considered many reasons why Henry Harcourt might have been slain, but an envious younger brother had not been part of my conjecture.
“Has Sir Thomas any other sons?” Kate asked.
“Nay. Two daughters, I believe. One already wed, the other but a lass.”
“But if Edmund was involved with men who took and slew his brother, why would the bailiff be party to his felony?”
“Bailiffs can be bribed,” Kate said. “You have said so, many times.”
“Any man may be bribed,” Caxton said, “if he cares more for this world than the next, and many do, I think.”
I could not argue the point. Bailiffs do have an unsavory reputation, and if Oswald was as grasping as most, then he might participate in, or ignore, a murder if ’twas in his interest to do so.
But the man had lost his position, or was soon to do so, for failing to discover the felons who had taken and slain Henry Harcourt. How, then, could he be involved in this murder and the disappearance of a woolen fragment if the business would cost him his post? Might a current loss become a future gain? If so, I could see no way to prove it.
Henry Harcourt’s death was distracting me from seeking those who slew Hubert Shillside, and I must not allow this. Sir Thomas must govern his own manor, and if Oswald was unable or unwilling to serve Sir Thomas as the knight required, he could seek another, more competent bailiff. No doubt he was already doing so.
The sky faded from pink and yellow to grey and black. Our conversation faded with the sunlight as we considered the sinful nature of man. Such contemplations are not, for me, conducive to slumber but apparently the thought of evil does not affect my father-in-law as it does me. Or perhaps he had begun to consider more pleasant matters. He snorted, twitched, and nearly fell from his end of the bench as sleep overcame him.
“I am for bed,” Kate said in response to her father’s awakening start.
Caxton and I stood, stretched in agreement with Kate, and followed her through the door. I carried the bench to its accustomed place in the kitchen, then bolted the door before following my Kate up the stairs.
I tried to make ready for bed in silence but John must have the ears of an elephant. He awoke, evidently decided to turn his wakefulness to some useful purpose, and demanded to be fed. ’Twas too dark to see Kate roll her eyes, but I am sure she did so. I know my wife nearly as well as she knows me.
John awoke again some time well past midnight and when the lad awakens desiring nourishment, we all do. Not only does the babe possess a pair of sensitive ears, but he also can make himself heard from one end of Church View Street to the other when he wishes.
While John nursed I thought on our evening conversation. In the few times I had met Edmund Harcourt I had discerned no guile in him. The bailiff, on the other hand, I would not trust with a farthing. No doubt I am as predisposed to mistrust bailiffs as other folk, even though I am one.
When a man commits a felony its purpose is naturally to bring him some benefit. Why else would he do it? Unless to benefit a close friend or kinsman. Who will gain from Henry Harcourt’s death? Edmund, surely. But what if Henry’s death was inadvertent? Then the felons who seized him would have had the same purpose as those who slew Hubert Shillside and did hamsoken in so many places hereabouts. The love of money is the root of all evil, as the apostle teaches. Of course, not all who love money will resort to felony to obtain more of it. I, for one, do not disdain a few more shillings in my purse, but would not rob or slay another to get them.
Yet what if my fortunes turned and I saw Kate and Bessie and John facing want and starvation? Would I then hold fast to the Lord Christ’s teachings? I pray that I will never be brought to such a pass, but if I am, that I will hold fast, be found true.
Kate arose early next morn, the first day of May. For two days she had gathered spring flowers, yellow broom and bluebell and meadow buttercup, which she now wove into garlands to dress the doors and lower windows of Galen House.
By the time I deserted our bed men were busy erecting the maypole where Broad Street and Bridge Street meet at the center of the village. Neither I nor my father-in-law was quick to devour our loaf and ale so as to observe the festivities. Pretty maids with blossoms woven through their tresses, dancing about the maypole, did not interest us as such an exhibition might have in years past. Why should it? I am wed to the most beauteous wife in the shire, and Caxton is at an age where he is become more interested in the next life than the charms of the present.
So by the time Kate, Bessie, John, I, and Kate’s father made our way to the maypole a piper had already begun a tune and maids were dancing about, attracting the attention of young men – and some not so young. Courting season had begun.
Every resident of Bampton and the Weald joined the Mayday throng to encourage the dancers and welcome in the summer. Who, on such a morning, concerns himself with thoughts of thieves and murderers? I did not, but watched Bessie’s eyes flash with delight as she sat upon my shoulders and observed the maidens swirl about the maypole in ever decreasing spirals.
Kate had once joined in the maypole dancing, but had now more mature responsibilities. Our dinner this day was one of these. So whilst I and her father remained with Bessie as the spellbound child watched the last of the dancers complete their circles, Kate took John and set out
for Galen House. She had prepared a capon for roasting for our dinner, and wished to set the fowl to the flames.
Folk began to drift away to their dinners when the last dance was done, Robert Caxton and I among them. We had just turned from Rosemary Lane to Church View Street when I saw Kate, John cradled in her arms, running toward us. She would be unlikely to do so if she had glad tidings for me. I was, therefore, somewhat prepared for her report.
“Hamsoken,” Kate gasped when she was but a few paces from us.
“Where?” I said. “Who?”
“Galen House – whilst we were watching the May dancers! My silver spoons are gone!” She looked distraught. “I don’t know what else is taken. I came for you just as soon as I saw what had happened.”
Galen House is of two stories, with glass windows upon the ground floor and walls there of bricks between posts and beams. The upper story walls are of wattle and daub, and the windows there of oiled skins. It is the house of a prosperous man, and its construction would proclaim it so, even to a passing stranger. If felons wished to rob a house while the village gave attention to the maypole, a glance would show any man Galen House offered greater gain than most in Bampton.
I hurried my pace in response to the unwelcome news, Bessie bouncing upon my shoulders and giggling as if my haste was great sport.
Kate had hurried to seek me without thinking to close our front door behind her. It stood open as I approached, Kate and her father hurrying in my wake. I lifted Bessie from my shoulders, gave her over to Kate, and plunged into my house.
I saw nothing amiss in the hall, but the kitchen was another matter. Broken glass littered the flags below the window, and the door to the toft was open. Some man had broken the window, climbed through, ransacked my home, then departed through the rear door, unseen. Or men. The breaking glass had not been heard, for the adjacent houses were empty, their occupants watching the dancers, and the laughter and shouts of those who encouraged the maids would have covered the sound.
Kate, standing in her kitchen and peering about at our loss, began to weep. I came near to doing so as well. I asked Caxton to comfort his daughter, then ran from Galen House to raise the hue and cry. I knocked on every door between Galen House and John Prudhomme’s home, bidding those I roused to meet at Galen House. When they had assembled I divided those present into four groups to follow roads leading from Bampton. I held out little hope the thieves could be found, but if we made no effort it was sure they would not be.
Why I thought several felons were involved in my loss I could not at the time have said. But later, after taking inventory of what was missing, I became sure the theft had been the work of more than one man.
Six silver spoons were taken, two pots of bronze, a brass basin and ewer, and five pewter plates. Three knives were missing, and the chest in which I keep my instruments and physics. This is not a large chest, but one man could not carry it away and all the other goods as well. A ham which Kate had hanging from an overhead beam was gone also. The thieves would eat well this day.
And Aristotle’s RHETORIC was nowhere to be found.
I hurried to the stairs to learn what might have gone from the upper floor. Perhaps the felons had been frightened away before they could seek more booty, for I could discover nothing missing there. Even my fur coat, and my Bible, kept in an unlocked chest, were unmolested.
I tallied our loss; it would cost thirty-three shillings and four pence to replace all that was taken. The scalpels in my instruments chest were of finest steel, from Milan. Where I could find new to replace the stolen blades, I knew not. Likely not in Oxford. Perhaps in London the scalpels might be replaced. ’Twould be easier to find the felons and recover the loot.
What would thieves do with scalpels and needles and silken thread, a trephine, and a book? Probably sell them, after smashing open the locked chest to discover what within it might be so valuable that the goods were secured in such a box. Felons may attack their victims with blades of various sorts, but my scalpels would not suit for such villainy. No help for it, I must go back, yet again, to Oxford, there to search out as many surgeons as I could find. Should my instruments be offered for their purchase, they would be alerted to identify the seller and send word to me. Not only that, but I needed to seek out the stationers and booksellers as well.
I must go immediately, forestalling the danger of my instruments finding buyers before the surgeons of Oxford heard of the stolen goods. I wondered if they would care, even if they knew. Would a surgeon rather see justice done, or bag the chance of a fine Milanese scalpel for but a few pence?
“What are we to do, husband?” Kate sobbed when I came in from raising the alarm.
“We will do as other folk, until I find the felons and see our goods returned. We will eat from wooden trenchers and you will cook our pottage in a clay pot. For now, you must set the capon to roasting whilst I visit the castle.”
“The castle?” Kate said. “Why so?”
I explained that my instruments, and the herbs and physics which were also in the chest, would be of but small value to felons of themselves, but the money they could raise selling the implements would interest them mightily.
“Ah,” she said. “And Oxford is where the villains will find surgeons and physicians to purchase your scalpels and such.”
“Just so. And I cannot tarry. Arthur and Uctred must make ready to travel with me tomorrow. The rogues may already be on the way to Oxford to sell their wares.”
How many times had I traveled to Oxford since spring dried the roads? I had no desire to count. Too many hours spent on a palfrey’s back, and to no useful purpose. Would this new journey to Oxford prove any more profitable than the others? Only if I made haste, for the thieves would not tarry over their unlawful trade, but would exchange their loot for coins with all dispatch.
While the capon roasted upon the spit I set off for the castle. There I found Arthur in the hall at his dinner, licking his fingers in appreciation of roasted pork and maslin loaves. Lord Gilbert at the head table glanced my way, but paid me no more attention; his guest, Sir Bogo Loring, was speaking in his ear.
“We are robbed,” I said to Arthur.
“Who?” He looked up at me in astonished indignation.
“Kate and I – Galen House. This morn, while we all attended the maypole, men broke in.”
Arthur kicked back the bench, upsetting Uctred and Kendrick, his companions at dinner. The racket caused Lord Gilbert to break off his conversation and glare at the cause of the uproar.
“Are the villains flown?” Arthur asked. “We must saddle some beasts and be after them. What has been taken?”
“Sit you down and finish your dinner,” I said. “I have raised the hue and cry, but no man has seen strangers about Bampton, or men carrying away loot. The felons have got away, but tomorrow we will seek them in Oxford.”
“Oxford? You think the rogues hail from there? What of Walter Mapes? Folk do say he stole from Alain Gower.”
“Besides our platters and spoons and such, the thieves made off with my instruments chest and a book. They will have little use for the instruments but to sell them, and where might they sell a book but Oxford?”
“Oh, aye. They won’t find buyers of stuff like that hereabouts.”
“Have two palfreys ready tomorrow at first light. We may catch the felons if we can get to Oxford’s physicians and surgeons and stationers before they can dispose of their loot.”
“Three palfreys,” Arthur said. “Uctred will want to see this business concluded, an’ if there be three or four culprits about, an extra dagger will be useful.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “You think the villains who robbed Galen House might be the same who stole from Alain Gower an’ slew Hubert Shillside an’ Henry Harcourt? Otherwise there’s an awful lot of wickedness about all of a sudden. Seems odd to me that, out of a clear blue sky, folk between here an�
� Oxford would find the shire swarming with thieves an’ murderers.”
“I take your point. As for Walter Mapes, I will enquire among the folk from the Weald if he was seen this morning watching at the maypole.”
He was, and with his sons.
The kitchen window, its glass panes mostly smashed, lay open to any who might wish to crawl through. I would not leave my Kate alone in such a circumstance for fear the felons might decide to return and resume their plunder of Galen House. For some reason they had neglected to pillage the upper story. If, when they broke open my locked chest, they understood the worth of what I owned, they might reappear to complete their thievery, hoping for yet more goods of value to glean.
I went first to Simon Carpenter and procured from him three sawn boards, each long enough to attach across the window frame. Then from Edmund, Bampton’s malodorous smith, I purchased twelve iron nails and borrowed a hammer. I nailed the boards across the broken panes, each a hand’s width from another so that some light could enter through the boarded window, but yet close enough that no man, nor even a child, could pass between them and gain entry.
A man with an iron bar could pry the nails loose, of course, but not silently. I made plain to Kate that, while I was away in Oxford, if she heard anything amiss in the night she should push open an upper window and shriek out a cry for help. Neighbors would hear and come to her aid. Even if they did not, any rogues trying to prize the oaken boards from the window would surely be frightened away by the screeching.
The capon was roasted and our meal ready when I finished securing the window. We ate in silence, apart from the occasional forlorn sniff from Kate. Even Bessie, who is usually voluble at table, was mute. The boarded window brooded over us, extinguishing conversation.
When nothing remained on our table but capon bones and the crumbs of the maslin loaves we had used as trenchers, my father-in-law rose from his bench and left the kitchen. I heard him stirring about in his chamber and a few moments later he reappeared dragging his straw pallet, wrested from his bed.