Deeds of Darkness

by Mel Starr

  Caxton hauled the pallet to the boarded window and laid it out beneath the opening. He then turned to the hearth and took from its place our iron poker. This he laid beside the pallet.

  “If any man comes through that window in the night he must pass by me,” Caxton said. “My ears be not so good as in past days, nor my arm so strong, but if any man awakens me in the night he will find me yet stout enough to deliver him a blow.”

  I believed him. My father-in-law was no longer the frail creature we brought home from Oxford. Kate’s cookery was adding to his flesh and color daily, and the man I had thought ready for St. Beornwald’s churchyard now seemed likely to pass through the lych gate on his feet for many more years before he needed a bier to bear him.

  Chapter 13

  Arthur is a reliable assistant. He and Uctred appeared before Galen House as the morning sun first illuminated the spire of

  St. Beornwald’s Church and the saints adorning its buttresses.

  We hurried the castle palfreys, which they likely did not appreciate, and entered Oxford shortly after the third hour of the day. I knew the location of several of Oxford’s surgeons, and from them learned of two surgeons new to the city.

  In passing from one surgeon’s establishment to another we passed the Black Boar, where we took our dinner, a stew of pilchards, the day being a fast day.

  By the ninth hour we had visited all the surgeons of Oxford. None had yet been offered my instruments, but I was confident some of them soon would be. I promised each two shillings if they would send a lad to Bampton with news if scalpels and forceps and cannulae and such were offered to them at bargain prices. All agreed to do so. Some may have meant it.

  The last surgeon we visited was found on Fish Street near St. Michael at the Southgate, so ’twas but a short way to Canterbury Hall and Master Wycliffe. He had not yet sold any of my father-in-law’s set books, and was incensed to learn that RHETORIC had been stolen again.

  “’Tis as evil to steal a man’s book as to steal his wife,” the scholar said. This was a sentiment I had heard him express on a previous occasion. As Wycliffe had no wife he can be forgiven his error.

  “A book can comfort a man as well as any wife,” he explained.

  “Not upon a cold winter eve,” I said.

  Wycliffe was silent for a moment. “Well, you would know more of that than I,” he said softly.

  “From Kate I learned the comfort of a loving wife. From you I learned the pleasure and comfort which a book may provide. I have discovered the best of two worlds.

  “When I last visited you, you told me you had purchased two gatherings from a poor scholar,” I said.

  “Aye. Wore a ragged gown.”

  “Was the lad scrawny from lack of food? Do you remember any features to identify him? Had he a mole upon his face?”

  “Hmmm. For all his tatters he seemed healthy enough. Had a mole above his cheek, as I remember.”

  “The same lad sold RHETORIC to the monks of Eynsham Abbey some weeks past,” I said. “The mole confirms it!”

  On our way to Bookbinder’s Bridge, and the road to Osney Abbey and home, we passed two stationers and a bookseller whose shops I had not previously visited. I halted briefly at each establishment, begging the proprietors to be on the lookout for any man trying to sell a copy of RHETORIC with ale-stained pages. These burghers all knew Robert Caxton and, although they had been competitors, frowned to learn of his loss and mine, agreeing to send word to Bampton if the book was offered to them. I believed they would do so.

  I had done all that I could in Oxford this day to recover my stolen goods. As so many times in the past weeks, we three hastened to Eynsham to once again seek shelter and a meal at the abbey guest house.

  Fifty paces or so beyond the Swinford river crossing, with the spire of the abbey church in view, I happened to glance toward the verge and caught from the corner of my eye a gleam, as of the rays of the setting sun reflecting from some polished thing. A flash only, then the glint was gone.

  I was eager to reach the abbey, but curious as to what might have caught my eye. I drew my palfrey to a halt, dismounted, and passed the reins to Uctred. He and Arthur looked on as I approached the place where I had seen the brief gleam.

  This discovery was fortunate. Had I turned my head another way, or had we passed the place a few minutes earlier or later so that the sun reflected differently, I would never have seen the object which now lay at my feet. Was this coincidence, or did the Lord Christ direct my gaze? Who can know? I will put the puzzle in my mystery bag, and ask the Savior when I meet Him in the next life.

  The polished blade of a scalpel lay in the grass. Was this one of my stolen instruments? If it was not, why else would such a blade be discarded along a road?

  The scalpel was of excellent quality, possibly Milanese, as were mine. I held the blade before me, the better to examine it in the fading light.

  “That yours?” Arthur asked when he saw what I held.

  “I can’t be entirely sure. ’Tis much like one of mine. I had four in my chest: one small, one large, and two of middling sort. This is the right size to be one of my middle blades.”

  Arthur dismounted, handing the reins of his beast to Uctred, and strode across for a closer look. After examining the blade he glanced to the grassy verge where it had lain.

  “Ho… what is there?” he said, and bent to pick up an object which had caught his eye. I did not at first see the thing, as Arthur’s broad back was between me and the item which had drawn his attention.

  Arthur turned and held before me a splinter of dark-stained oak. This fragment was slightly longer than my hand, and at one end was broken. At this fracture there were indications of two holes bored through the wood, at which place the oak had snapped due to the weakness there.

  “What d’you suppose this is?” Arthur said.

  I knew what it was. “’Tis a piece of my instruments chest. And this,” I said, lifting the scalpel, “has fallen from the broken chest. See there, where rivets once pierced the oak and fastened hinges to the top.”

  Arthur examined the find, then spoke. “If them rogues smashed your chest ’ere, where’s the rest of it?”

  The answer to that came quickly enough. We found what remained of my chest in a tangle of primroses growing wild beside the road, their flowers now nearly gone as spring was well begun.

  A rock, the size of both Arthur’s fists placed together, lay near the shattered remains of my instruments chest. Here was the tool used to smash open the box. Were the felons disappointed when they learned its contents?

  We found no more of my instruments, but scattered about the verge and the patch of primroses were my pouches of herbs and physics. None of these remedies were missing, although Arthur and I searched diligently through the primroses before we found all.

  “Why d’you think them knaves chose this place to smash open your chest?” Arthur asked.

  I looked to the river, high and flowing fast from spring rains, and replied.

  “The men who did this felony were on foot, and did not wish to carry a chest across the ford, so they broke it open here to learn what of value they had. Had they been mounted, the river would have presented no great obstacle, I think.”

  The hinges, hasp, and lock had suffered only small damage. I collected them and placed them in the bag I had attached to my saddle that morning in hope of this day retrieving my instruments. Simon Carpenter could use the metal to construct a new chest.

  When our searching produced nothing more, we mounted the beasts Uctred had been patiently minding, and proceeded the half-mile to Eynsham Abbey.

  We had approached the abbey gatehouse so often in the past fortnight that the porter seemed to expect us, and bid us enter with a wave of his hand. His assistant glanced our way and set off for the guest master and some lay brothers to care for our beasts. A
ll this happened with scarcely a word spoken.

  I took the bag from my palfrey’s saddle before the animal was led to the abbey stables. As I did so Brother Watkin appeared, and he spoke when he drew near.

  “Ah, Master Hugh. Abbot Gerleys will be glad to know that you are back with us again. He has news.”

  I wondered what this news could be. It did not take long to learn.

  Now the days were longer as the year drew near its height, the monks of Eynsham Abbey were permitted a second meal before darkness drew them to their beds after Compline. I heard the prior strike the tabula, calling the monks to the refectory for what would likely be a light supper of barley loaves, with perhaps some cheese, and ale.

  Abbot Gerleys appeared at the door of the guest house as the thumping upon the tabula ceased. Behind him two lay brothers appeared with our supper: a basket of smoked herring, wheaten loaves, and a ewer of ale.

  We stood when the abbot entered, but he gestured us to resume our seats and bade us begin our meal. “You will remember that I spoke of a man gone missing from Wytham a fortnight and more past?” he began, sitting down at the table with us as we broke the bread.

  “Aye. Taking a cartload of barley to Abingdon, was he not?”

  “He was. Did so often. He supplied some of the ale wives of the town, so I’m told. He has been found.”

  The abbot’s tone caused me to think the worst. “Dead?” I asked.

  “Aye. Corpse found along the road near to Botley.”

  “The cart and horse and barley?” I said.

  “Nothing found but the corpse. He was set upon, slain, and his chattels taken.”

  “How was he found?”

  “A traveler saw carrion crows rise from the brushy verge of the road as he approached and thought to seek the reason for their interest.”

  “No doubt others, less inquisitive, had passed by and seen the same birds,” I said, “but were not curious enough as to the cause to investigate. Is it sure the corpse was the man from Wytham?”

  “It is. His wife knew his garb.”

  “His garb? Not his face?”

  “The man had lain there dead for some weeks. Crows and worms had left little but his bones.”

  “And no man saw the felons at this evil deed?”

  “Nay. The corpse was found half a mile north of the town, where the road passes through a copse.”

  “No men tending their fields near to such a place,” I said, “and the felons could lie in wait for a prosperous traveler, unseen by their victim until they were upon him.”

  “Just so. Will you have more herrings and ale?”

  Arthur took that moment to belch approval of the meal and I took this to mean we had eaten our fill. Perhaps I was mistaken. Arthur glanced reprovingly at me as I told Abbot Gerleys we were sated.

  “But what brings you to Eynsham Abbey this time?” the abbot asked. “Do you yet seek those who slew your coroner?”

  “I do, but this journey is because of my own loss.”

  I explained the Mayday thefts at Galen House, my search through Oxford for surgeons who might be approached to purchase my instruments, and the discovery an hour earlier of my shattered chest and overlooked scalpel. When I concluded the account – during which the abbot had assumed a thoughtful expression – he spoke.

  “Did you have within your chest a trephine?”

  “Aye, I did.” The question puzzled me.

  “Yesterday, shortly before vespers, a man appeared at the gate and showed the porter an instrument which he wished to sell to our infirmarer.”

  “This was a trephine?”

  “It was. Brother Guibert declined. Said he had no skill to use such a thing, and the fellow went on his way. Odd that the abbey would be offered a stolen book and later a stolen surgical tool… if stolen it was.”

  “Did the fellow say why he had a trephine he wished to sell?”

  “We must ask Brother Guibert. Maurice!” Abbot Gerleys called for the monk attending him who had remained outside the door to the guest chamber. The man’s head immediately appeared.

  “Fetch Brother Guibert. Quickly now.”

  The face disappeared and the sound of hurrying footsteps followed, then faded.

  I asked if there were more reports of hamsoken in the neighboring villages.

  “Nay. None have been reported to us. If any abbey possessions had been plundered I would surely have heard of it, although of course other holdings might suffer attack and we here at the abbey not know of it.”

  Brother Guibert must have been found at his supper. As he entered the guest chamber I saw his cheeks flex as his tongue sought fragments of his meal caught betwixt cheeks and jaw.

  “Ah,” Abbot Gerleys said, speaking to his infirmarer. “You will remember Master Hugh.”

  Brother Guibert surely would, as our last encounter was not altogether pleasant. The infirmarer nodded agreement and bowed to me.

  “Yesterday a man appeared just before vespers with an instrument he wished to sell,” the abbot said. “What can you tell Master Hugh of the man and the tool?”

  “The man? Young, he was. And did not know what he possessed.”

  “The instrument he wished to sell? He did not know what it was?” Abbot Gerleys said.

  “Knew it was for surgery of some sort, and as it was circular, the fellow had a notion of what he had, but didn’t know of a certainty.”

  “What did he wear?” I asked. “Was he garbed in a scholar’s gown, or did he wear layman’s clothes?”

  “Wore a green cotehardie, a blue cap with long liripipe, and particolored chauces. He was no pauper, nor scholar either.”

  “Did the fellow say how he came by the trephine, and why he offered it for a price?”

  “Said as how he found it along the road near to Eynsham, had no use for such a thing, and thought the abbey infirmarer – meaning me – might wish to have it. So he said.

  “But I have no skill in surgery, and told the man I had no use for the instrument. I am an infirmarer and herbalist. I am no surgeon. I have no desire to open a man’s head, nor any other part of his anatomy.”

  “Did the fellow seem disappointed that you refused his offer?” I asked.

  “Nay. Shrugged his shoulders and went his way.”

  “Which way was that? Toward Oxford, or to the west?”

  “To Oxford. I watched him go. Traveled alone, and I thought as he set off that he’d best step lively or he’d be caught on the road when darkness came and be well short of his destination, if Oxford was his goal. Of course, he could seek lodging at Osney Abbey. Might get there before nightfall.”

  A man from someplace far from Oxford might not know of the felonies done upon the roads hereabouts, and so travel alone without understanding his peril. But even without the recent attacks near to Oxford most men prefer to travel with others for mutual protection. Did this traveler know that he had no need to fear villains upon the road? Did companions in treachery wait for him a few hundred paces from the abbey gate?

  “What of the green cotehardie? Did it have a yellowish tint, or was it of forest green?” I asked Brother Guibert.

  The infirmarer rubbed his chin, then answered. “Yellowish green, it was. Much weld with the woad.”

  Was this the same cotehardie which had left wisps of wool upon the rough bark of an oak at Stanton Harcourt? Or was it coincidence that a man wearing such a garment had found my trephine, if mine it was? Did the thieves who made off with my chest, then smashed it along the road, overlook two of my instruments after they broke apart the chest? A trephine is larger than a scalpel, but if my instruments were scattered when the chest burst open, men, especially were they hurried, might not see the tool.

  Conversely, a traveler along the road might easily overlook a scalpel, small as it is. But for the reflection of the setting sun
I would likely not have noticed the blade. A trephine is larger, more easily seen if abandoned along a road.

  These thoughts echoed through my mind as my head rested upon a guest chamber pillow that night. I must seek the lost wisp of green wool which the Stanton Harcourt bailiff had mislaid. If I could find it, and if Brother Guibert could identify the strands as similar in tint to the garment worn by the man who had offered the trephine, such congruence might mean the same man was involved in the death of Henry Harcourt and the theft from Galen House. Did he also slay Hubert Shillside?

  Chapter 14

  Tiny bits of green wool suffused my dreams that night. And also my thoughts next morning as we broke our fast with loaves from the abbey oven. Kate’s suggestion that Henry Harcourt’s death would profit his younger brother, and that Oswald’s tumble might have allowed the transfer of the green woolen fragment from the bailiff’s chest to Edmund, seemed less far-fetched the more I considered it. But how might I discover if such an exchange had occurred?

  If this did happen before my eyes, and before Sir Thomas’s, it would mean Edmund and Oswald were both determined no one could identify him who had leaned against an oak and sent a ransom demand to Sir Thomas.

  I shared these thoughts with Arthur and Uctred as our beasts carried us from Eynsham toward Stanton Harcourt.

  “How badly does Sir Thomas want to discover them as slew ’is lad?” Arthur asked pensively. “Bad enough to maybe see ’is younger son hang for doin’ away with the older? He’d have no heir remainin’ but for daughters.”

  Here was a new thought. If Edmund had to do with Henry’s seizure and death, would Sir Thomas prefer not to know? Ignorance might sometimes be a comfort to those who must act upon knowledge.

  Plowing and planting was nearly concluded, so men found other occupations this day. We passed folk at work repairing fences, cleaning ditches, and mending houses and barns from winter’s ravages. Some of these took the opportunity of our passage to rest from their labor and lean on mattocks and spades to examine us as we passed.