The Huntsman's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 3)

by Ann Swinfen

  I glanced about. The little girl Maysant was playing with some carved wooden animals on the floor, but there was no sign of Emma.

  ‘My family and I are leaving tomorrow to help with the harvest on my cousin’s farm, near Leighton-under-Wychwood. We shall be away for two weeks, or perhaps three. Margaret will come this afternoon with some food we cannot take with us, in the hope you may make use of it. Jordain goes with us as well. I came to ask if you need aught, or if I may do aught for you before we leave.’

  ‘As always you are so kind, Nicholas,’ Mistress Farringdon said, ‘but we shall do very well. I have my work at Mistress Coomber’s dairy, while Juliana is learning to keep house and minding Maysant for me.’

  I turned to her daughter. ‘I have not forgotten that I promised you more books to read, Juliana. I have a collection of French tales of Robin and Marian which you may borrow. I will give it to Margaret to bring with the food.’

  No one had made any mention of Emma, so I thought she must indeed have left for her grandfather’s manor.

  ‘May God be with you, then,’ I said, ‘until we return. Should you need to reach me, Geoffrey Carter will always carry a letter for you.’

  I turned away to take my leave, but as I did so I heard a light step on the stairs leading up from the kitchen to the bedchambers. Emma had not left, after all.

  Chapter Two

  She stood for a moment in the open doorway, an indistinct silhouette, a shadow against the bright sunlight flooding in from the east-facing garden, through the open door behind her. Then she stepped forward and became real and tangible, holding out her hands to me, her face radiant.

  ‘Nicholas! Why have you stayed away from us?’

  She did not wait for an answer but came closer, taking both my hands in hers. I could not, without insult, snatch them away, but I felt a tremor like fear pass through me, and felt sure she must have known that my hands trembled.

  I had seen her swathed and bundled in her mourning-black death-black novice’s habit, only the white wimple and novice’s veil relieving that grim hue, while nothing of her showed but her face in its tight frame, and her slender hands, ink stained. I had seen her moving as free as a boy in cotte and hose, sitting astride Rufus within the circle of my arms. And – shocked into my right senses – I had seen her slowly descending the stairs of my home in a fine gown which had once been Margaret’s best, looking what she was in truth, a gentlewoman.

  Now I saw her changed yet again. She wore what must surely be one of Maud Farringdon’s simple brown homespun gowns, meant for daily work about the kitchen. After Mass, she must have gone to her bedchamber to change out of her Sunday wear. The gown was too large for her, so she had belted it in with a girdle of dark brown cord, but unlike her religious habit, it was not designed to conceal her figure, and the neckline was cut low, revealing an under tunic of fine white linen.

  Like all unmarried girls, she had left her hair uncovered. In the time since she had left Godstow Abbey, her shorn hair had begun to grow again and now clustered close to her head in soft fair curls, which reminded me of her boyish disguise. Having discarded the fine gown, she was less intimidating, but nevertheless I gently withdrew my hands.

  ‘My lady,’ I said, ‘I had thought you would have left for Sir Anthony’s manor by this.’

  A slight spasm passed over her face, though whether at my withdrawing of my hands from hers, or my chosen mode of address, I could not be sure.

  ‘Nay, Master Elyot,’ she said crisply. ‘My grandfather has not yet sent my escort. When he does, of course I shall go to pay my respects to him.’

  ‘And you will then take up your position as his heir,’ I said, stating, not questioning, ‘and remain on the manor.’

  ‘That is not yet decided,’ she said, having stepped back a pace.

  I noticed that Juliana was watching us closely, while Mistress Farringdon looked troubled. ‘Emma has some thought of remaining in Oxford,’ she said. ‘And we would be most happy for her to live with us, but she owes a duty to Sir Anthony.’

  ‘Should I stay in Oxford,’ Emma said, speaking to Mistress Farringdon, but keeping her eyes fixed on my face, ‘I will not be a burden to you. I shall find some way to earn my keep.’

  There was a shade of defiance in her voice.

  ‘It must be difficult, I know,’ I said slowly, ‘after all that has happened, to go back to the manor, but I believe you were happy there as a child.’

  She inclined her head. ‘I was. But I am no longer a child. Perhaps my grandfather will not take kindly to me.’

  ‘I liked him, and I am sure you will also. He cares very much for you.’

  I said it spontaneously, without thinking that by urging her to leave I was adding to the pain which I tried to suppress at the thought of her gone.

  ‘I remember him with fondness,’ she said, ‘with love. Though I saw little of him after my mother married Falkes Malaliver.’

  ‘Then you must come to know him better,’ I said, fully aware now that I was driving a knife into my own heart. Nay, what was I thinking of? I had decided that Emma Thorgold was not for me. Let her leave Oxford and be done with it!

  ‘Did I hear you say that you leave Oxford tomorrow?’ she said.

  I nodded. The cottage was so small that it was no wonder, had she been at the top of the stairs, if she had heard everything that I said to Mistress Farringdon and Juliana.

  ‘Then perhaps I shall go to Long Wittenham while you are gone. That will be best. I shall send to my grandfather tomorrow, to say I am ready to come.’

  She reached out and touched my arm.

  ‘Afterwards, Nicholas, we shall see.’

  Somehow I made my way home, more confused than ever about my feelings for Emma Thorgold. Perhaps these next weeks, separated by many miles, we might both come to our senses. For now, I must turn my mind to conveying my family and friends to Leighton-under-Wychwood and helping Edmond gather all of his harvest safely in. It was almost Lammastide. Time we were on our way.

  Precisely as the bells of St-Peter-in-the-East rang out for Vespers at six o’ the clock, there was a soft rapping on the door of the shop. Although the shutters were closed for Sunday, I was at work, writing up my accounts and parcelling up two books which Walter would deliver the next day after we left. He would then lock up house and shop, leaving the key with Mary Coomber, who had promised to feed the hens and to use any of the garden produce that would otherwise go to waste.

  ‘Mistress Medford,’ I said, as I opened the door. ‘Come away in. And Stephen.’

  I looked beyond her, but the street was empty.

  ‘Philip is not with you?’

  ‘We thought it best that we should not walk through the town together,’ she said, colouring. ‘He will come soon, directly from Merton.’

  I showed them into the shop, relieving her of a modest bundle, while the boy kept a firm hold on his own. I could see that he was fierce in his independence.

  She looked about her curiously – at the two scriveners’ desks, with their pots of coloured inks and piles of parchment, at the shelf of secondhand books just inside the window, and the shelves along the walls stacked with peciae, the short sections from the standard student texts, available for hire.

  ‘I have never been inside here,’ she said, ‘though I have often walked past on the way to market. Look, Stephen – so many books!’

  Stephen had already edged toward the shelf of books by the window and was eying them eagerly, but made no move to touch them.

  ‘Do you like books, Stephen?’ I asked.

  He nodded, but did not speak.

  ‘Then we shall take something with us for you to read while we are away,’ I promised. ‘But for now, come through to the house and meet my family.’

  Margaret and Beatrice were formally polite with each other, and I could see that Beatrice was not what my sister had expected, fresh and pretty in her neat gown and white apron, but very quiet and modest in her bearing, even deferenti
al to Margaret. On the other hand Alysoun came bouncing forward to greet Stephen, and had soon dragged him off to a corner of the kitchen, where Rafe was playing with the puppy Rowan. The children, I thought, would manage this better than the women.

  I had no time to observe them further, for there was a louder knock on the outer door. I went through to let Philip in.

  ‘They are here already,’ I said to his query. ‘It was a long walk for Stephen.’

  ‘He manages very well,’ Philip said, ‘as long as he is not hurried.’

  He set down his own bundle and a satchel on my desk, and untied from a strap of the bundle a leather flask.

  ‘I have brought this from Merton’s cellar, to toast the success of our mission to rescue the harvest.’

  I smiled at him. Now that I knew him better, Philip continued to surprise me. It was clear that he regarded our visit to the farm as a release from the constraints of his difficult life in Oxford. I hoped it might prove so.

  At first our meal together was somewhat restrained, but under the influence of Philip’s flask – which proved to contain not ale but excellent French wine – we all began to relax. We even allowed the children a taste of the wine, well diluted. Though Rafe made a face and would not drink his, Alysoun and Stephen both asked for more, which was refused by both Margaret and Beatrice. I think there was a little bravado between the children, as to who could drink the most. By the time we had finished, Margaret and Beatrice cleared all away together as though they were becoming friends, while Philip carried Stephen up to the children’s room, where he would share Rafe’s truckle bed. Philip would have the truckle bed in my room, and Beatrice would share with Margaret.

  We were all, perhaps, a little awkward with each other, with so much unknown and unspoken between us, but, in order that we might make an early start the next morning, we retired soon after supper.

  Lying awake in bed I could no longer push aside the thought of Emma travelling south to her grandfather’s home, while we travelled in the opposite direction to the farm. It should have made my feelings duller. But it did not.

  It was before dawn the next day when Philip and I reached the Mitre. Jordain was before us, leading the hired horse and cart out into the High. The heavy-built cart horse, with his feet as broad as plates, was placidly chewing an apple, the juice dribbling down over his chest. The ostler slapped him cheerfully on the shoulder.

  ‘He’s a good lad, is Strider,’ the man said. ‘Let him go his own pace, and he’ll pull you forty miles a day.’

  This was a gross exaggeration, as I knew well, but I also knew the beast was strong and willing.

  The stable lads had already saddled Rufus for me, and a mare called Star for Philip. With Jordain driving the cart, we rode back to the shop. Although I glanced aside, up St Mildred Street, there was no sign of life about the Farringdons’ house.

  While we were loading the cart with our assorted bundles, three excited children and a skittish dog, Walter arrived to take charge of the shop. I handed over the keys and the two books to be delivered.

  ‘See that you take some rest while we are gone,’ I said. ‘I can see that your back still troubles you.’ For he was moving awkwardly.

  ‘Ah, ’tis but age, Master Nicholas,’ he said. ‘We must all come to it.’

  ‘That is foolishness,’ I said briskly. ‘You are not of an age to be decrepit for years yet. It is crouching with your nose nearly in the ink that has done it. When we return, we shall try what spectacles may do, whatever you say.’

  He shook his head stubbornly, but I can be just as stubborn, when I set my mind to it.

  Margaret wedged a large basket of food between the bundles of clothes, so that we might take dinner on our way, without the need to stop at some wayside tavern, which she did not trust. The previous afternoon she had needed Alysoun’s help to carry baskets of supplies to the Farringdons, for we all feared that Maud Farringdon’s earnings at the dairy were scarcely enough to feed her household of four.

  At the last moment before we set off, I remembered my promise to Stephen and fetched two books of stories that Alysoun enjoyed and stowed them in my satchel. Jordain and Margaret would drive the cart, turnabout, while Philip and I rode alongside. Jordain’s two students were to meet us at the North Gate.

  The early summer dawn was casting a glow over the golden stone of the town gate as we reached it, to find Guy and Giles with their impatient horses, eager to be away from their studies. Once through the town wall and into the broad sweep of St Giles, our party spread out, the four horsemen and a cart making up an uneven company. It would be difficult for us to stay together.

  ‘Let the two of you ride on ahead,’ I said to Giles, ‘and give your horses some exercise. Wait for us where the road to Witney branches off to the west from the Woodstock Road. Do you know it?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Not far past the turning to Wolvercote and Godstow. There is a crossroads. The turn to the left leads to Witney and Burford, the one to the right runs east and meets the road to Banbury.’

  ‘That is the place.’ I nodded. ‘Master Olney and I must stay with the cart and must go at its pace, but if you let your horses have their heads now, mayhap they will take more kindly to a slower pace afterwards.’

  The two students grinned happily and set off up St Giles at a fast canter, throwing up a cloud of dust which blew back on us. Margaret coughed and frowned, wiping the dust from her face with her sleeve, and Jordain apologised.

  ‘They were discourteous,’ he said. ‘I am sorry, Margaret.’

  She shrugged. ‘No more thoughtless than any lads at that age. Shall I take the reins?’

  ‘Nay, I will drive yet a while. I know that you have been up all hours preparing food. Do you and Mistress Medford rest for now.’

  Indeed, it was somewhat trying for Philip and me to hold back our own mounts to the plodding pace of the cart horse, but there was nothing else for it, if we were to stay together. Since the Pestilence there were many masterless men roaming the country, and although most of our route would be on well travelled roads, a cart carrying women and children, with but one man, clad in a modest scholar’s gown, would seem easy prey, should they be caught unawares on a quiet stretch of the road.

  Our progress through the day continued in much the same way as we had started out, the students riding ahead for a time, then waiting for us to overtake them. Around midday, near Witney, we found a stretch of grass beside the road, partially shaded by trees, and called a halt. The riding horses were hobbled and allowed to graze, while Strider was unhitched and given a nosebag with a feed of oats, since he was by far the hardest working of all.

  ‘This is a fine feast you have brought for us, Mistress Makepeace,’ Philip said, as the two women laid out cold pies and pasties, a basket of cheeses, loaves baked that morning, and another basket of lettuce and radishes.

  Margaret smiled at him, but shook her head. ‘Little enough. I have kept some back for our supper.’ She glanced aside at the children and students, who had already fallen upon the food. ‘Best make haste, or it will all vanish before our eyes.’

  It was pleasant under the shade of the trees, for it had become increasingly hot beneath the unremitting glare of the summer sun, but we could not linger long if we were to reach Leighton-under-Wychwood before nightfall. During the afternoon Philip and I took the opportunity to exercise our own horses from time to time, one of us taking the place of one of the students, for the horses were fretting at the maddeningly slow pace of the cart.

  The sun was declining in the west, sending its rays blindingly into our eyes, when we turned north before reaching Burford, on to the narrower road which would take us to Leighton-under-Wychwood. By now we were all tired, and the three children were asleep, curled up amongst the bundles in the cart. Both Margaret and Beatrice were pale with fatigue, and Jordain (who had taken over most of the driving) rubbed his shoulders from time to time as though they ached.

  Just after turning on to the by-
road, we halted for a brief supper, but perched, all of us, in the cart, too tired to do more than satisfy our hunger with a few mouthfuls, too tired even to speak. Alysoun and Stephen woke briefly, but Rafe slept on.

  ‘Not far now,’ I said, by way of encouragement. Jordain had visited the family farm in the past, when we were boys newly at Oxford, but to the students, and to Philip and Beatrice, it must have seemed as though the journey would never end. The cart horse, too, was tiring. It had been a long day and a heavy load for him.

  Our brief snatch of food over, Philip, Guy, Giles, and I remounted and we headed on. Even the boys had lost the energy of the morning and were content to ride at our slow pace.

  The sun had dropped behind the trees of Wychwood, which had begun to gather about us, and a sliver of moon was rising in the east, as we came to the village.

  ‘Barely a quarter of a mile now,’ I said.

  Something must have woken Alysoun, for she sat up, rubbing her eyes.

  ‘I can see the church,’ she said, before yawning so much I could see the gleam of her teeth. ‘Wake up, Stephen!’ She poked him. ‘We are here.’

  ‘A little further,’ I said apologetically to the boy, whose face was drawn and pale in the dimming light. ‘Through the village, along the lane, and then we are there.’

  ‘That leads to the de Veres’ manor,’ Alysoun said, pointing to the branch off the lane beyond the church. The way to the manor had become overgrown and neglected since the death of the de Vere family, but I saw that it was newly cleared.

  ‘Only there aren’t any de Veres any more,’ Alysoun added.

  She was too young to remember them, but they were not forgotten in the village.

  ‘Look!’ Margaret cried, pointing ahead. ‘Edmond has hung out lanterns for us.’

  The fitful gleam ahead of us was a welcome sight and I think even Strider sensed that his hard day’s labour was nearly done, for he pricked his ears forward and moved a little faster. Someone must have been listening out for us. Even on the summer-dried earth of the lane, the horses’ hooves and the rattle of the cart’s wheels heralded our arrival. The door of the farm was thrown open, casting a broad path of light across the yard as we clattered in. Edmond’s wife Susanna surged forward, crying out a welcome, followed by Edmond, silent as usual in the face of Susanna’s exuberance, but grinning broadly.