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

by Ann Swinfen

  Then there had been that all too public confrontation when Alan had caught Mordon assaulting another young girl, as of right. He had handled his former lord violently, shouting accusations and swearing at him before his guests, both the wealthy and the well born. Aye, Lady Edith did have some justification for leaping to the conclusion that Alan had made the murderous attack, although she had far overstepped her authority in having him seized and imprisoned. She was not yet confirmed in any rights on the manor of Leighton, though it might well be that her family in Northamptonshire had such rights of life and death on their own lands. But only over their villeins, surely? Not over a free man like Alan.

  My thoughts had wandered again. Everyone was standing for the final blessing. I heaved Rafe on to my shoulder as I rose, and he opened sleepy eyes. Alysoun tugged at the hem of my cotte, and I smiled down at her. Sire Raymond made the sign of the cross over each part of the congregation, then led his fellow priest and the two boys down the short nave and out at the west door. Sunlight poured in as it was opened. While we had been inside, the day must have brightened. I turned toward Lady Edith, but she was already gone, joining her party who had been seated behind us and sweeping away after the priests, brushing aside the villagers who bowed and curtseyed politely as she passed, paying them no heed.

  We waited until most of the church was clear, before starting to move slowly toward the door. Rafe was fully awake now, so I set him on his feet, and Margaret took him by the hand. Outside, there was no sign of the other priest, who must have left with the party from the manor, but Sire Raymond was there as usual, greeting each of his parishioners by name.

  When I reached him, he stayed me with a hand on my arm, until most of the congregation had gone.

  ‘Nicholas,’ he said, ‘I do not like what I hear about this taking of Alan Wodville. His wife came to me yesterday, to ask if I might help. Do you think I might be allowed to see him?’

  I waved to Sir Henry to join us.

  ‘What is the news of Alan?’ I asked.

  ‘He fares not too badly. I visited him this morning and found him somewhat tousled, but fed and rested. He has not been ill used. Not yet, at any rate. Wiser heads have prevailed. We have persuaded the lady that to do any harm to a man merely suspected, with no evidence to connect him to the killing, will do her harm in the eyes of both the coroner and the sheriff. She acted, I believe, on the hot impulse of the moment. The mention of the sheriff gave her pause. If she is to take seisin on the manor in her lord’s place, she would be wise not to make trouble with the king’s sheriff beforehand.’

  ‘Very true,’ Sire Raymond said. ‘But Wodville remains a prisoner?’

  ‘For the moment. Let us hope the coroner may be here by tomorrow. The man Mordon cannot remain much longer unburied.’

  ‘Does the lady wish him to be buried here, at our village church?’ Sire Raymond glanced anxiously aside at the small churchyard. He would need to allocate space for the grave. ‘She does not . . . she would not expect him to be laid to rest in the de Vere chapel?’

  I frowned. Some of the de Vere tombs lay in the stubby south transept of the village church. Although it was known as a chapel, it was hardly that, nothing but a corner containing three tombs. Yves de Vere had been buried before the altar, under the flagstones of the nave, for there had been little room left for a tomb near his ancestors. Besides, when the Death was mowing down half the village, no one had been able to give thought to erecting a fine tomb in the chapel. It would be an outrage if Gilbert Mordon should be placed there.

  ‘Nay, I think not,’ Sir Henry said. ‘She has spoken of burial in the manor chapel.’

  Sire Raymond gave a sigh of relief. ‘That would indeed be best. Later today I shall visit Alan Wodville’s family and assure them that he is not faring too ill.’

  As Sir Henry and I turned away down the short path leading from the church to the village street, he took me by the arm.

  ‘I do not know whether you have had any further thoughts on the nature of this killing, Nicholas?’

  I gave a rueful smile. ‘Thoughts, aye. As tangled as the undergrowth we ploughed through in Wychwood. Conclusions? Never a one, though I am almost certain it could not have been an accident.’

  I told him my reasons, based on the flamboyant nature of Mordon’s clothing.

  He nodded. ‘My thinking also. However, I think we may narrow it a little further. This morning, before coming to Mass, I seized the opportunity to take another look at that injury. The light was poor in the wood, with evening coming on, when we found him. In bright daylight, I noticed something further which had escaped me before.’

  He paused.

  ‘The angle of the arrow. Straight through the man, a level shot. Such an arrow could not have been shot by a man standing on the ground, and shooting upwards. It was loosed at much the same height as it penetrated, I would guess, and from quite close by. A horseman, I’d say, who had no difficulty in approaching Mordon, and so was known to him. I do not believe it could have been one of the villagers, on foot.’

  I nodded. ‘I am sure you have the right of it. A man on foot, shooting upwards – the arrow would have entered at a steep angle. Indeed, might not have penetrated so deeply as to prove fatal.’

  We stopped on the verge of the village street.

  ‘It was a man on horseback,’ I said. ‘One of the hunters.’

  Chapter Eight

  In the afternoon I took myself off to my bedchamber up under the eaves, to pen my letter to Emma. I always carry writing materials with me, so I drew from my scrip my portable inkwell, untrimmed quills, penknife, and a sheet of inexpensive parchment, a little ragged at the edges, for it had been in my scrip for some time.

  I used the knife to neaten the sheet, and shaped the quills as I like them, moderately broad at the tip, with a slight slant. In preparing everything to my satisfaction, I managed to spin out the time until I must finally put the words down, for I had not yet decided what I should say. As a boy I had done my lessons for Sire Raymond on a little table beneath the window, and here I laid out pens, ink, and parchment in a neat row, drawing up the same stool I had used in those far off days. I thought of that boy I had once been, bent eagerly over the borrowed books, passionate to learn everything he could lay his hands on, seeing the world open up before his eyes.

  What would that boy have thought of me now, a man grown? Probably with some little contempt, for having thrown away all that he had once thirsted for. Yet how far time and circumstance may change us! Indeed, my world had narrowed down, but it was a world I loved, a world where I was content. Jostling in the world of ambition and fame, would I have been as content? I doubted it.

  I smoothed out the parchment with the edge of my hand, for it was inclined to curl. It stared up at me, creamy, open, inviting words I could not find. I began to chew the end of my quill, a habit I deplore in myself and scold in my scriveners. I held it out and looked at it gloomily. Tattered and unsightly. As a boy I would never have come so near to ruining a quill. My supply then was limited, for goose feathers were not readily available in the village. Often I had to make do with chicken feathers or the feathers of wild birds like gulls or ravens, found by chance. None served as well as goose feathers, so I treasured those I owned. Nowadays, with a ready supply, I was grown careless. I could even afford good quality feathers to fletch my arrows, though I rarely used a bow now, save for practice at the town butts. I had never so much as notched an arrow to my bow during the ill-fated hunt in Wychwood on Friday.

  I brushed the crumpled plume into something like order, and dipped the quill in the ink pot, wiped the tip on the rim to avoid blots. I would begin as Emma had done:

  Dear friend,

  And what to say now? Well, I could say something of our work on the harvest, then try to find some response to her curious letter. Should I mention the death of Mordon? Surely I must, for if she did not hear of it until the time when next I saw her, she would wonder why, having written to her, I
had not mentioned it.

  I have received your letter, brought hither by carrier from Mistress Farringdon, for which I give you thanks. Your drawings are very fine, and they recall for me my visit to your grandfather’s manor.

  Well enough, although I sounded somewhat pompous.

  Our party made a safe journey, though tiring, from Oxford here to my cousin’s farm, and I trust your own journey did not overtax you.

  I was beginning to sound like some ancient dame. What was amiss with me? Should I begin again? But I had not brought many sheets of parchment. Best not to waste this.

  Most of the harvest has gone well, as long as the good weather held. The wheat and barley are all cut and partly threshed. A bad storm hit us before we could gather the oats, so we now must save what we can. The children run wild here in the country, and Rowan is in some disgrace today for chasing the cock and pulling out one of his tail feathers. It would make a good subject for one of your drawings.

  That was better. A simple account of our activities. But I had mentioned drawing again, so I could not avoid the issue.

  Would that I might employ you as a scrivener! Though perhaps it would put poor Roger’s nose out of joint. But, dear friend, you have another role in life now. No longer Sister Benedicta, confined to Godstow Abbey, yet free to work in the scriptorium. Now the Lady Emma, heir to a goodly manor. Your grandfather must have other plans for you.

  I was not happy with this. It sounded cruelly dismissive. Even ‘dear friend’ sounded like a sop to soften harsh words. But it was written now. Let it stand. Could I somehow take away the sting? I began to chew the end of my quill again.

  You have a great talent, both as an artist and as a scribe, but what can I do? We are trapped, both of us, in what the world expects of us. Perhaps you might make another book, for your own pleasure? I will help you all I can, supply parchment and coloured inks and gold foil, discuss with you what binding would best suit. It would give me much joy to do so. Would that please you? Of course, it may be that you will not return to Oxford, but remain with your grandfather.

  Did that sound like an ultimatum? I hoped not.

  Jesu! I had never written a more difficult letter in my life. Should I have repeated ‘dear friend’? What would she make of that? It was the phrase she had used herself, so surely she could not take exception to it. Safer, much safer, to turn away from any matter that touched us and write instead about Mordon.

  On Friday, two days gone, we joined a party to hunt the deer in Wychwood, the first hunt of the season. The new owner of Leighton Manor had invited my cousin and his household, and we went right gladly, for we used to hunt there as boys, in Lord de Vere’s time, although the new lord, Gilbert Mordon, had shown himself ill-natured and haughty to all hereabouts. The hereditary huntsman of the manor, a lifelong friend, had been dismissed of his post by Mordon, though required to organise this first hunt before leaving.

  I stopped again. Should I tell Emma all the details of why Alan Wodville had quarrelled with Mordon? Nay, my small piece of parchment would not hold so many words.

  During the hunt, when all the party was dispersed amongst the woods, somehow it came about that Mordon was shot with an arrow and killed. The killer is not known, although Mordon’s widow ordered that the huntsman should be seized and imprisoned, since he had been seen in angry dispute with her husband a short time before. Yet he is the one person never out of sight at any time and could not have done the deed.

  There was little room left to write more.

  We have sent word to the coroner and sheriff, for if the matter be not placed in the hands of the law, I fear for my friend. The lady is very hot against him. We must remain here until the matter is resolved, for Cousin Edmond and I, together with Sir Henry Talbot, were finders of the body.

  I may hope to see you on my return to Oxford.

  Your friend, Nicholas Elyot.

  There, that concluded it with the doubtful death of Mordon, nothing further touching on her talk of working as my scrivener. Nothing as to how matters stood between us, if indeed they could be said to stand at all. I ran my fingers through my hair. Of course she was not serious about coming to work for me. It was folly on my part to think so. The lady merely meant to tease.

  After I had folded and sealed my letter, impressing the wax with my seal, I realised I had not asked her – as I had meant to do – whether her grandfather had yet resolved the matter of her confinement to Godstow Abbey by the actions of her stepfather, Falkes Malaliver. As her nearest kin, Sir Anthony Thorgold should be able to break Malaliver’s gift of Emma as an oblata, at least that was Philip Olney’s legal opinion. If need be, I did not doubt that Sir Anthony would make a generous gift to the abbey, in recompense for losing their unwilling novice, for she was his only kin. He had had no part in Malaliver’s plot to divert Emma’s inheritance into his own hands, but would ensure it could not happen. Nothing more had been heard of the man since Emma’s flight from the abbey, but I was not altogether easy in my mind that he would not make some other attempt.

  Most of our household had decided to enjoy the day of leisure with small tasks – mending harness, knitting winter hose, reading the book I had brought for Stephen. He had finished it, and it was now being passed about amongst those who could read with pleasure. I found Jordain bowed over his papers on the kitchen table.

  ‘Working?’ I asked.

  ‘Preparation for the Michaelmas term.’

  ‘Let it rest. You have done little but labour in the fields since you arrived. I am walking down to the village to find Geoffrey Carter. Do you come with me. ’Tis a fine afternoon, too fine to spend indoors.’

  He grinned. ‘Very well. I will let you tempt me.’

  Outside we found the children throwing a ball for Rowan. Susanna had contrived it for them from some scraps of leather and stuffed it with straw. As soon as they saw what we were about, they clamoured to come with us.

  ‘Not this time,’ I said firmly, for I had another visit in mind, where children might not be welcome. ‘Another day we will all go down to the village, or perhaps we may cast a fishing line into the stream. We sometimes caught a trout in the mill stream when I was a boy.’

  Fishing, I thought, would be a pastime suitable for all, even for the youngest, and for Stephen, who could sit and hold a fishing rod as easily as anyone.

  Jordain and I took our time walking down the lane to the village.

  ‘Already the summer flowers are fading,’ he said, ‘despite the clear skies and the August sun.’

  I nodded. There was a soft perfume in the air of fading greenery and of the cut stems of harvested grain. Even the sweet scent of the hay still lingered ‘Aye. Somehow harvest always marks the beginning of autumn, before summer is fairly done.’

  We walked a little further in silence.

  ‘So what is it you want to talk to me about?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, you did not think I invited you purely for the pleasure of your company?’

  He grinned. ‘The visit to the village is but an excuse. We were there this morning. It is the murder of Gilbert Mordon that is worrying you, is it not?’

  ‘Not merely an excuse, I have a reason. I need Geoffrey Carter to carry a letter to Oxford for me.’ I hesitated, but Jordain and I have never had many secrets from each other. ‘I received a letter from Emma Thorgold. I have written an answer to it.’

  He nodded. ‘I thought I knew her hand, on that letter you had. I remember it from the book of hours you bought from the bookbinder Stalbroke.’

  ‘Stalbroke was merely the intermediary. I bought it from Godstow Abbey.’

  ‘She is well, Mistress Thorgold? Or Lady Emma, should we call her now?’

  ‘She seems well. I have told her about the events at the hunt, the death of Mordon.’

  ‘Aye, as I said, it is worrying you.’

  ‘It was Edmond and Sir Henry and I who found the body, so, aye, it is worrying me. Not that I care a farthing for the man himself.’ I paused. ‘
Nay, that is unkind. No man should die thus before his time, by violence and unshriven. He had surely another twenty years of life ahead of him. With age he might have become kinder. More tolerant. What worries me is the accusations being made against Alan Wodville. He is an old friend. I have known him even longer than you, though not as well. We grew up here as boys.’

  ‘But surely–’ Jordain stopped and sat down on an old fallen tree beside the path. ‘It is clear that he could never have been alone, he was surrounded by others the whole time of the hunt. It must have been a man alone who did the deed, or a man accompanied by no more than a single trusted friend.’

  ‘Everything points that way,’ I agreed, ‘yet Alan is but a simple villager, while the Lady Edith and her London friends, including that lawyer Baverstoke, have so fixed on him that they are convinced he shall be found guilty. And they have money and power to enforce their will.’

  ‘The coroner will surely see the force of truth.’

  ‘I know nothing of the present coroner for this part of the shire. He is a new man since I lived here. William Facherel, he is named. You and I both have some familiarity with the Oxford coroners. Experienced and skilled men, although their inquest on the death of young Farringdon was conducted somewhat hastily. But of this new fellow I have heard nothing.’

  I braced my foot against the log on which he was sitting, and clasped my hands about my knee.

  ‘Who will the coroner summon for the jury, do you suppose? Everyone who was present at the hunt? In Oxford, they summon jurors from the nearest three or four parishes, but that cannot be the custom here. The next parishes are too far away.’