The Merchant's Tale

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘My thought also.’

  ‘It is unfortunate that your merchant from Bruges was not able to see his attacker.’

  I realised I had not told her this part of the story. ‘Oh, but he did. Just before we parted last night, he remembered that he had a glimpse – no more than a glimpse. Medium height, medium build, swarthy complexion.’

  She sat up suddenly, rattling her plate and knocking her knife to the floor. I bent to pick it up.

  ‘Now that, Nicholas, is an important piece of the puzzle. The man I seek is said to be a Provençal, though he lives in France. That would account for a darker colouring. The people of Provence have little love for the French, but this man is for sale to anyone with a heavy enough purse. It could be. It could be.’

  She looked remarkably pleased, but I was not so sure.

  ‘Master Winchingham had no more than that momentary sight. It was dark in the alley, with nothing but a little light from the open door. He could be mistaken. Most Frenchmen look dark to our English eyes.’

  She brushed this aside. ‘This is no provincial Englishman you are talking about, but an international merchant, accustomed to trading in many countries, with men of many nations. He would not make that mistake. I must speak to him, ask if he remembers anything else. He has a stall at the fair?’

  ‘One of the largest booths.’ I could understand her sudden excitement, and I knew her to be discreet, but I feared for Peter Winchingham’s safety.

  ‘I think it would be best if you were not seen talking to him at the fair. If his assailant recognises him there, he could be in danger. And just as you are watching out for your Frenchman, it is possible he might be watching out for you.’

  ‘It is unlikely that I would be known to him,’ she said, ‘but you have the right of it. We should proceed with caution.’

  ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘Let us go about our normal affairs, you to your stall at the fair, I to the priory, where I was already bound. I am going to warn Canon Aubery about the possibility of an attack on the priory, or an attempt at further thieving. I will also ask him to describe to me the vintner who supplied the wine to the priory, if he had the opportunity to see him. He is not the cellarer. Once I have a description, we will be better informed.’

  ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘sound thinking.’

  ‘And I am sure I can arrange for you to meet Master Winchingham less publicly than at the fair, perhaps in my shop.’

  ‘That would be best.’

  ‘It is good that Prince Edward is no longer here,’ I said. ‘Oxford has already suffered in his eyes, with that fire at the gatehouse. It will do the town no good in the king’s opinion if there is further trouble.’

  ‘Oh, but Prince Edward is still here,’ she said. ‘He had some business with Osney Abbey and spent the day there yesterday, but he is back at St Frideswide’s now.’

  ‘Do you know how long he stays? When does he leave for Wallingford?’

  ‘That I do not know.’

  I was surprised she needed to admit to ignorance on the subject of the prince’s movements. Was his visit to Oxford something decided suddenly, on a whim? Or had Mistress Walsea known of it beforehand? Her purpose in Oxford might be twofold, but I thought it wiser not to ask.

  ‘I must be on my way,’ she said, rising. She wiped her knife on her napkin and restored it to the sheath hanging from her belt. When I had picked it up, I had noticed that it was longer and sharper than those most people carry with them for eating.

  ‘I must see to it that my girl is not neglecting our trade. She is a good girl, but with little talent for selling our goods. She is inclined to drift off into a dream.’

  I could imagine that Alice Walsea, behind the counter of her stall, would prove as excellent a merchant as any whose livelihood it truly is.

  ‘If you will permit,’ I said, ‘I shall make haste to be away before you. Probably best if we are not seen together.’

  She nodded. ‘Aye. In any case, I needs must fetch my cloak from my bedchamber. These late October days may start fine, but they can turn cold before evening. You will let me know anything you discover?’

  ‘Most certainly.’ I bowed, and made my way quietly out into the street again. As far as I could see, no one else at Tackley’s had paid us any mind. I had seen a few known Oxford faces, but from our brisk discussion they would probably assume that Mistress Walsea was purchasing a book from me, or else ordering to have one made to her requirements. Perhaps she would be interested in buying some of Emma’s work?

  Out once more in the High Street, which had become busier while I was in Tackley’s, I turned left, then walked down past Oriel toward the main gate of the priory. I had no wish to approach from the fairground. I was no fair-goer, but a serious local visitor, come to see one of the canons who – in the past, at least – had regularly done business with me and with my father-in-law.

  The porter at the priory, a lay servant who knew me well, simply nodded me through, and I wondered why anyone should find it necessary to use some secret entrance, since people were coming and going all day long between the priory and the town.

  ‘Can you tell me where I may find Canon Aubery?’ I asked.

  It was well past Prime by now, a part of the day when the canons would not be praying in church, but occupied about any duties they might have in the priory. The talk in Oxford was that these duties were few and undemanding enough. Unlike the rural Benedictines and Cistercians, who laboured hard in their fields and orchards, or the various monastic houses in Oxford which were devoted to scholarship, the Augustinian canons of St Frideswide’s Priory had long had a reputation for pleasing themselves, making themselves, indeed, at home in the town like secular folk, in the taverns and – some claimed – in the whorehouses. It was not true of them all, certainly not of Francis Aubery, but a few bad apples, as they say, may cause the rot of others, or at any rate tarnish them with their evil reputation.

  ‘Why, Maister Elyot,’ the porter said, ‘most of the canons, they be mortal busy carrying things into the church, see, for safety. Canon Aubery and Sub-Prior Resham, they reckon as how some valuables has gone missing, and they’re making certain sure that nothing else be taken. Stacking everything precious up behind the high altar, where surely no man durst touch them, not even some misbegotten thief.’

  ‘Is Prior de Hungerford with them?’ I asked.

  The porter rolled his eyes. ‘Not he.’

  He looked as if he would like to spit, but the porter at a religious house must refrain from such vulgar gestures. ‘Prior’s gone into town, on one of them new horses of his.’

  I made my way to the church of St Frideswide, and, crossing myself, paused on the threshold to admire again the sheer beauty of the place. When I had come to the service before the opening of the fair, it had been past dark, the shadowy interior only lit by the candles on the altar and in the choir. Now, in the early morning, it was flooded with light, the great east window beyond the high altar glowing as if with the colours of precious stones – ruby, sapphire, emerald, topaz. The whole soaring space was almost deserted, although I could hear the soft murmur of prayers from the Lady Chapel, where a few pilgrims had come to the tomb of St Frideswide, our own Oxford saint, to leave offerings and light candles.

  As I made my way slowly up the nave toward the choir, I could hear other noises, subdued by the holy nature of the place, but nevertheless busy, even urgent. This part of the church was normally reserved for the canons, and I passed between the choir stalls with a sense of intruding, before hesitating at the steps leading up to the high altar. It was not for me to go any further, but fortunately Canon Aubery emerged at that moment, together with another canon who was unfamiliar to me.

  ‘Nicholas Elyot!’ Aubery’s exclamation was muffled by the atmosphere of sanctity with which we were surrounded. ‘What do you here?’

  ‘I have some information for you.’ I spoke quietly. ‘But I understand you are hard at work. May I help?’

  ‘That w
ould be most kind of you,’ the other canon said. ‘Most of us are far from young, and there is a good deal of heavy lifting yet to do. All of the lay servants are needed to keep order at the fair, lest more trouble break out.’

  ‘I am happy to help you with the heavy lifting,’ I said, ‘but I fear it would be wrong of me to venture into the most holy of places within the church.’

  ‘There is no need for you to be reluctant,’ Canon Aubery said. ‘By lending your aid to the protection of the priory’s valuables, you will be doing God’s work. We have already moved all of the church plate, but have only this moment started to bring in the books from the library.’

  ‘I am very used to carrying books.’ I smiled up at them. They were both dusty, and Canon Aubery’s tonsure was crowned with a garland of cobwebs.

  They led me to the library of the priory, a small separate building which I had visited before, when Canon Aubery was their librarius. It now had a neglected look. This was clearly the source of the dust and cobwebs. I looked around.

  ‘Is there no librarius now?’ I asked.

  Canon Aubery shook his head. ‘Our present prior feels there is no need for the position.’ He glanced about despairingly. ‘That is why there is such a look of neglect.’ He laid his hand on the nearest books, stacked up ready to be moved, and sighed. ‘My poor books. There is so much of my life stored up here, and memories of your father-in-law, and of you, dear Nicholas. I could recall for you every discussion we had over each of these volumes.’

  I smiled sadly at him. It was a fine collection, of several hundred books, which he had built up on earlier acquisitions with loving care. I could understand his grief at seeing them so neglected.

  ‘Well, let us move them to a place of safety, and then, if you will provide me with a cloth and a pot of leather polish, I will rub up those most in need of care. If you have no polish, I can bring some tomorrow.’

  ‘Let us be sure to move them first,’ the other canon said, introduced to me as Canon Fitzrobert. ‘I have the keys for the chained volumes here.’

  While the two ecclesiastics set about unlocking the chains which secured the more valuable volumes, I carried the first heavy pile of books across to the church. I thought it unlikely that the chained books were in danger from thieves, unless they came provided with the means to cut through heavy chains. Which, if they were greedy and determined, they might.

  Behind the altar I found Sub-Prior Resham and several more canons packing the church plate in soft cloths and storing it in three large coffers.

  ‘Where shall I put these?’ I asked.

  ‘For now,’ the sub-prior said, ‘you may lay them on top of the furthest coffer. We have finished with that one. We have yet to bring in chests for the books.’

  Sub-prior Resham was a small, elderly man, devout and scholarly, and it had been the general expectation that he would succeed as prior when the previous incumbent died. Instead Nicholas de Hungerford had come from without and been appointed in his stead. No one seemed to know how it had been brought about. Such appointments are not always made on merit, but may be a reward or a bribe. Someone, somewhere, must have owed de Hungerford a favour. For what, I suspected it was better not to ask.

  I had had little to do with Prior de Hungerford, although I knew him by reputation. A big, coarse man, he would have looked more at ease wielding a cleaver in a butcher’s shop than conducting God’s worship in this beautiful place. The fact that he was frequently seen in secular dress seemed to bear out my impression that the habit of an Augustinian prior sat ill with him. Physically, Sub-Prior Resham was no match for him. Intellectually, he soared far above him. Since de Hungerford’s appointment, the unwelcome prior had done much to undermine the priory’s already fragile finances and – in the opinion of many – to line his own pockets. Resham was said to have made a stand against him. I wondered whether this present move to protect the priory’s treasures would bring matters to a head between them. It would be difficult for de Hungerford to oppose it on any lawful grounds, but the man had not shown himself to be much troubled by what was lawful.

  I spent about an hour moving books into the church, then another polishing the older volumes whose leather covers had begun to dry out with neglect. By the time our tasks were finished, and both church plate and books stowed away in heavy double-locked coffers, I was as festooned with dust and cobwebs as the others.

  ‘Come,’ Canon Aubery said. ‘I will show you to the lavatorium so that we can wash off this grime, and then I hope you will accept a cup of good French wine in thanks for your hard work.’

  ‘I should be glad of that,’ I said, ‘and then I can tell you of this odd news I have heard.’

  Once we were settled in his chamber with a flask of excellent wine, I asked him first whether it was some of the wine supplied for the prince’s dinner.

  ‘It is indeed. There was a good deal left over, so our cellarer told us to help ourselves.’ He gave an ironic smile. ‘He did not wish to see it all consumed by the prior’s rough companions from the town.’

  I raised my eyebrows in query at this.

  ‘Aye, it is true. De Hungerford prefers the company of his secular friends. They are here most evenings, drinking and dicing. He rarely attends Vespers or Compline. Nor does he rise for Matins and Lauds. Or rather, he has not been abed by then. We often see lights at midnight from the prior’s lodgings.’

  This was even worse behaviour than I expected, but I supposed the other canons were not sorry to have the man absent from their religious services.

  ‘This wine the French vintner supplied,’ I said, ‘did you ever see the man himself, the Frenchman?’

  Aubery shook his head. ‘I did not. His business was entirely with the cellarer.’

  I was disappointed, but not surprised. It would not have been Canon Aubery’s affair to deal with the wine supply. I was reluctant to speak to Hamo Belancer, particularly if he was mired in some criminal affair with the Frenchman, but he would be able to tell me the vintner’s name, and perhaps even point him out.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘you have fallen heir to a very fine vintage, Francis. But tell me, did your cellarer not want to reserve the wine for the prince’s use? I have heard that Prince Edward is still here. How long does he remain?’

  ‘He has not said for sure. There was word from Wallingford that some repairs to the castle were not quite complete. He will wait here until he hears that all is ready for him. I suppose he is more comfortable here, even with the noise and crowds of the fair, than surrounded by masons and plasterers.’

  He drank deeply of the wine, and sighed with pleasure. ‘One forgets the simple delights of youth, like a good vintage, foresworn when taking the habit.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Although we would probably allow ourselves such wine were the priory’s monies not in such a perilous state.’

  Of course. I recalled my father-in-law telling me that Canon Aubery was a younger son of the nobility, sprung from some ancient landed family in Worcestershire or Gloucestershire.

  ‘Now, Nicholas, what was this news you were bringing to me.’

  As briefly as I could, I gave him an account of the previous evening’s events – what Peter Winchingham had overheard, and how he had been attacked.

  ‘And this is the man who came to you about the books?’ the canon said. ‘I should say that when I went through our library this morning, before we began to move anything, I found that the little book of hours, and a fine bible given to us by a benefactor about fifty years ago, are both missing. I have not had the time yet to check everything, but, in addition, I could not find a copy of St Augustine’s De Doctrina Chritiana, nor Bede’ History. There may be other books missing. So you think this talk of a secret way into the priory may be something to do with further thefts?’

  ‘Truly, I do not know. It might be so. Or could it be that the townsmen who set fire to the gatehouse are planning to slip into the priory and cause further damage, perhaps by fire? Yet why should that involve the
Frenchman? It would be clearer if we knew that this is the same Frenchman who supplied your wine. He is known to the vintner Hamo Belancer. But I cannot see why either harm to the priory or the theft of your books should be of interest to a Frenchman.’

  ‘The books are valuable. They would fetch good prices.’

  ‘But would a French vintner know how to find buyers in England? Surely he would not risk trying to take them back to France. We may have a temporary peace with France, but I am sure that any Frenchman passing through an English port will have every scrap of his luggage and goods examined down to the last inch by the royal officials at the port.’

  ‘Aye, you are probably right,’ he said, raising the wine flask and looking at me.

  I shook my head. ‘Nay, I thank you, but I have much to do today, and I do not want to find myself falling into the arms of Morpheus.’

  ‘However,’ he said, ‘the Frenchman seems more likely to have an interest in books than in the local youths’ fire-raising, do you not think?’

  ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘And in any case, if this man is the vintner, he has every right to come openly into the priory on business. No need for some clandestine way.’

  We pondered the subject a little longer, but could make no more sense of it.

  ‘One thing I have not asked you,’ I said, as I rose to leave. ‘Do you know what this secret entrance might be, that Belancer and the Frenchman were discussing?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘I never heard of such a thing. We have that small postern gate through the town wall, which opens on to the meadow – or on to the fairground at the moment – but it is hardly secret.’ He made a face. ‘The town fathers are threatening to take control of it, and make it a public right of access to the town. They say we have no jurisdiction over gates through the wall. If they can win their case, it will mean our priory will become as public as Fish Street, with any man, woman, or child cutting through here to use the gate.’