The Tainted Coin hds-5

by Mel Starr

  I called softly to Arthur and a moment later he appeared, stepping silently through the sodden forest.

  Here the layer of fallen leaves covering the holes and the accompanying piles of dirt was thinner than at Standlake. Rain had surely loosened some this day, so whoever dug these pits had done so recently, perhaps this very morn. I held a finger to my lips to silence Arthur, though in truth he made no sound as he stepped near, and glanced about to see if any men might at that moment be seen observing us from behind an oak. Arthur caught my intent, and did likewise. We stood thus for some time, silent in the dripping wood, but neither saw nor heard any other man.

  “’Tis sure the villains who delved here found no riches at Standlake,” said Arthur.

  “Aye, they would not trouble themselves here had they done so. Nor did they find silver or gold here, I think.”

  “Four holes, rather than one?”

  “Aye, unless the fourth pit rewarded their labor.”

  Arthur peered about, water dripping from his cap and eyebrows, and shivered. This was unlike him, for he bore discomfort as well as any man. I knew this from having spent some hours with him bound uncomfortably in a cold swineherd’s hut a year and more past.

  “We have missed our dinner,” I said. “But mayhap cook will have a morsel remaining, and I am wet through and need dry clothes. Let us be off.”

  Once or twice as we neared, then passed St. Andrew’s Chapel, I thought I saw in the road the mark of a broken horseshoe, but the pelting rain had so eroded all impressions in the mud that I could not be sure the felons had entered the town. And I was so wet and chilled, I no longer cared much where the fellows had gone. My mind, as we approached Bampton Castle, was fixed on warm, dry clothes, and a warm, dry wife. I found both readily.

  Chapter 7

  Rain continued all the next day. I sought Arthur and told him we would not return to Abingdon until the morrow, when the deluge, I hoped, would have passed. I spent the day in my old bachelor quarters, playing with Bessie and enjoying conversation with Kate.

  Saturday dawned clear but cold. After a loaf and a cup of ale, Arthur and I were off again for Abingdon, with a sack of my instruments and herbs slung across Bruce’s rump. I had spent so much of the journey on Thursday watching the road pass beneath me that I could not refrain from doing so this day as well. If the men I sought had found no treasure yet, perhaps they might be again upon the roads. They were not.

  We left our horses in the mews behind the New Inn, consumed a dinner of stockfish and pease pottage, then set off for St. Nicholas’s Church and the abbey gatehouse.

  The porter was not present, perhaps at his dinner, but the lay brother who served in his place trotted off willingly to seek the hosteler. Brother Theodore appeared soon after, the stained linen cloth pressed to his cheek. The monk did not seem comforted to see me.

  I carried over my shoulder the sack of instruments and herbs I would use to mend Brother Theodore’s fistula. His eyes went to the sack as he approached and I saw him sigh.

  “I have brought all things needed to deal with your hurt,” I said.

  “I am sorry for your inconvenience,” the monk replied.

  “You have changed your mind? You no longer wish me to treat your fistula?”

  “Nay. I wish it heartily, but m’lord abbot forbids it.”

  As we spoke the porter appeared, returning to his post. He overheard Brother Theodore and explained.

  “Saturn is in the house of Aries, as any competent leech or surgeon should know, and will remain for a fortnight. No surgery upon a man’s head or face will succeed at such a time. Brother abbot has forbidden it.”

  I knew the tradition that Saturn, that malignant planet, might bring medical and surgical care to naught, was the physician or surgeon so bold as to try his skill when Saturn was opposed.

  But I also knew of Henri de Mondeville’s experience in mending men after battle. He once extracted an arrow which pierced a man’s cheeks, through from one side of his face to the other, no matter the position of planets or the moon in the zodiac. What good to a man wounded in battle to wait a fortnight, or even a day, to minister to his injury?

  De Mondeville wrote of his cures that recovery from wounds seemed dependent more upon the skill of the surgeon than the position of the stars and planets. So after reading Surgery, which book set me upon my chosen work, I paid scant attention when learned doctors at the university in Paris required of us students that we become expert in the zodiac and the influence of the stars and planets over our work.

  And while a student at Baliol College I read The Confessions of St. Augustine. He wrote that astrology strikes at the root of human responsibility. To men it says, “What has happened is not my fault, it was decided by the stars. Venus or Mars or Saturn did this, not my foolishness or sin.” God, creator of the stars and planets, is to be blamed for whatever mistakes we make or evil we do.

  But if the abbot forbid me dealing this day with Brother Theodore’s fistula, so be it. An abbot may not be contradicted within the walls of his demesne. Brother Theodore had lived with his malaise for some years. He would need to endure a fortnight longer.

  “How does Amice Thatcher?” I asked.

  “Brother Anselm sent her away this morn,” the hosteler finally said.

  “Away? Why so? She may be in danger. The infirmarer knew this. What cause did he give?”

  “Said the children were too noisy, disturbed those who were ill.”

  The hosteler seemed skeptical. Had it not been so, I would not have prodded the monk further.

  “Did you hear of others who complained?”

  Again the hosteler hesitated. “Nay… well, not much. My chamber is in the guest hall, so as to be near my charges. I’d not have heard even were the children troublesome.”

  I believe he did not wish to seem disloyal to a friend, but wished to speak the truth. This is often a trying thing for an honest man, whether he serves abbot, bishop, or King.

  “Did Mistress Thatcher annoy the infirmarer? Had she some distasteful habit, or did she demand more than proper of a guest?”

  “Nay, not so far as I could see. But somehow she vexed him. He was in a choler when I saw him this morn, before matins.”

  “Did she return to her home?”

  The hosteler shrugged. “Brother Anselm didn’t say.”

  “How long past was it she left the hospital?”

  “She was gone well before terce.”

  “I must find some other haven for the woman. There are men about who may believe that she knows of treasure, and would threaten harm to her and her children if she does not tell them where it is hidden.”

  “Treasure? The woman knows of treasure?”

  “Nay. But there are men who may think she does.”

  “I could not think so poor a widow could possess knowledge of treasure,” said the hosteler.

  “Let us hope the felons who seek the loot agree with you.”

  “You know where the wealth is to be found?” Brother Theodore asked.

  “Nay. But those who seek it have murdered a man already to have it, and I fear for Amice Thatcher if they believe she can lead them to the treasure.”

  All this time the hosteler had held his stained linen cloth before the ugly fistula which lay aside his nose, high on his cheek. He looked down at the befouled fabric, then spoke again.

  “’Twill be many days before Abbot Peter will permit you to deal with my wound. You are sure you can heal me?”

  “Few things in life or surgery are sure. But I know how to repair the fistula so that God, does He will it, may complete the cure.”

  “There is another matter,” the hosteler hesitated. “I own nothing, nor does any monk. If you are paid for the skills you apply to my face, it must be from abbey funds. What is your fee for such surgery?”

  I thought for a moment of the wealth accumulated in the abbeys of England, then replied, “Three shillings.”

  The monk’s eyes widened at
this, and well they might, for I would serve a poor man who suffered so for three pence, which I believe the hosteler knew. But he voiced no complaint; he merely said, “A fortnight, then, when Saturn leaves the house of Aries.”

  “Indeed,” I said, and was about to turn and seek Amice Thatcher in the bury when three monks appeared between the guest hall and the abbot’s kitchen, striding purposefully toward the porter’s lodge and the gatehouse. This path took them straight toward me, Arthur, and Brother Theodore. The hosteler saw my attention diverted and turned to see what had caught my eye.

  “Oh, Lord,” he said softly.

  Since none of the three who approached seemed to resemble the Lord Christ, I took his remark to be a malediction.

  Two of the approaching monks were of normal size and appearance, but the third, who walked, or rather waddled, between the others, was nearly as wide as he was tall. His tonsured head thickened where it sat upon a neck which disappeared into multiple chins and rolls of fat. The monk’s robe billowed before him as if some great gust of wind had filled it like a sail, but ’twas his belly. An ornate cross hung from a golden chain about the monk’s fleshy neck.

  Brother Theodore said nothing more as the three approached. I noticed that his eyes were cast down.

  The three monks stopped before us and waited for Brother Theodore to speak. He did so, and introduced me to the cellarer, the prior, and the rotund abbot, Peter of Hanney. The abbot peered at me through the fleshy slits in his face, and said, “So you’re the surgeon who would treat Brother Theodore when the heavens declare any cure at such a time must fail.”

  “The heavens,” I said, “declare the glory of God, but say nothing of a surgeon’s skill.”

  “No skillful surgeon,” the prior growled, “would defy the stars and planets. Saturn must not be trifled with. ’Twas when Saturn conjoined with Jupiter and Mars that the Great Pestilence, with its choler and noxious vapors, struck down so many souls.”

  “So it was said.”

  Behind the three monks smoke arose from a chimney of the abbot’s kitchen. I wondered if he followed the Benedictine Rule as ardently as an abbot should. His girth said not. Abingdon is on the way between Oxford and Winchester and an abbot has an obligation to serve high-born guests at his table. Rule or not, I suspect that Abbot Peter partakes often of the beef and pork and lamb served to his visitors.

  Abbot Peter dismissed me with a wave of his fleshy hand and turned toward the abbey church. The prior looked back briefly, then followed his superior. His glance said much: a message of dismissal and disdain. The cellarer continued toward the porter’s lodge.

  “By heavens,” Arthur said when the abbot was a safe distance away, “I’d like to graze in ’is meadow.”

  God will forgive a man his sins, if he asks, but his body may not. What other of the seven deadly sins Peter of Hanney may be guilty of I know not, but he is surely guilty of gluttony.

  I was about to bid Brother Theodore good day, when four men stepped from the porter’s lodge at the cellarer’s approach. The cellarer did not break his stride, but passed through the gatehouse into the marketplace. The four men followed. They were not monks, and I saw that each man had a sword slung from his belt.

  Brother Theodore followed the direction of my gaze and explained. “Four years past the town hired a lawyer, up from London, to plead against the monastery’s claims upon the town and market. M’lord abbot bribed the jurors, and the judges dismissed the case. There is much bad blood,” the hosteler sighed, “between abbey and town, so that monks cannot walk the streets unless they are defended.”

  Arthur and I followed the cellarer to Burford Street, and watched as he walked toward St. Helen’s Church. A few men doffed their caps and bowed as the monk passed, but as many, when his back was to them, spat in the street behind him before continuing on their way. No cowl is so holy but that the devil can get his head under it.

  Arthur and I sought the alley where Amice Thatcher dwelt and I soon stood before her door. No bushel topped the pole set there. The woman had no ale fresh this day, but as there was no sign of her or her children, I assumed she was at work brewing a fresh batch, her children perhaps joining in the labor.

  I rapped upon the door, but received only silence in response. I thumped again, louder, so that the fragile assembly of planks seemed ready to collapse, but yet there was no sound from Amice Thatcher’s house.

  The pounding had attracted the attention of a crone who dwelt across the street. “Ain’t ’ome,” she said. “Come ’ome, then went off again.”

  “Amice returned here this morn?”

  “Aye. Didn’t stay. Two fellas come by an’ she went off with ’em. Her an’ the children.”

  Two men? Were these the same who had slain John Thrale? If so, how did they discover she was no longer under the protection of abbey walls?

  “Was one of these men tall, wearing a red cap, and the other fat, with a blue cap?”

  The old woman pressed a finger to her cheek, thought for a moment, then spoke. “B’lieve so. Didn’t pay ’em much mind. Folks often seek Amice’s ale… she don’t water it as some do.”

  I looked to Arthur. He read my mind and said, “Too many folks about. If one of them rides a horse with a broken shoe, the track would be well covered.”

  The crone heard him and said, “No man comes to the bury mounted. Streets be too narrow, an’ men hereabout don’t think much of gentlefolk.”

  “When Amice departed with these men, which way did she go?”

  The old woman pointed a bony finger to the declining sun, where the narrow lane curved around toward the south.

  “Toward Ock Street,” she said.

  Arthur and I elbowed our way through the crowded lane. Or, more truly, Arthur pushed through the mob and I followed. Arthur is well able to clear a path through a throng, and I trailed like a rowing boat drawn behind a great ship.

  Where the narrow path entered Ock Street the crowd thinned, but yet the mud of the street was too trampled for a horseshoe, broken or whole, to be identified. Amice Thatcher was gone, likely now in the hands of men who sought silver and gold, and who thought she knew where it might be had. She did not, or so she had said. Did she speak true to me? If not, would she tell where John Thrale had found his treasure in order to save herself and her children? If she did not know where Thrale found the cache, what would wicked men do to her or her children to force from her that which she could not give?

  The sun was low in the west and the evening was chill and threatened rain. There was nothing more to be done this day. I told Arthur we would seek the New Inn and a bowl of pottage, and renew our work next morn.

  Sleep did not come readily that night. I thought of what I might have done to safeguard Amice Thatcher. Was not a monastery hospital as secure as any place where she might have found refuge? There was nothing to be gained by questioning now the decision I had made four days past to place Amice in St. John’s Hospital, but I did so anyway, thus forcing sleep from my troubled mind.

  I thought also of the coin, and John Thrale’s dying words: “They didn’t get me coin.” Why had he but one coin, and that hid in his mouth? If he had visited his find earlier on his tour of villages and customers, would he not have had more of his treasure with him, hid somewhere on his person or in his cart? Perhaps he did, and his attackers found it. But he said not. And if the felons had discovered his treasure, why did they yet seek it? No, John Thrale had not visited the covert place where ancient coins and jewelry were hid before he was attacked in the forest near St. Andrew’s Chapel.

  But if the cache was yet to be visited when Thrale made his rounds, why had he one coin hid in his cheek? The answer to that question drove sleep even farther from me. The chapman had one coin because it was there, in the wood to the east of St. Andrew’s Chapel, that he had found the hoard. If he had already visited the cache, he would have had more loot in his possession. Buried somewhere in that wood was the treasure Amice Thatcher’s captors sought
. Perhaps John Thrale had been surprised as he uncovered the hidden wealth, and managed to hide it, but for one coin, before his assailants came upon him. If the treasure was at some place farther along his route, he would have had no coin with him.

  I had more questions than answers, and slept little that night for considering these matters over and over again.

  Chapter 8

  Arthur and I left the New Inn early next morn, attended mass at St. Nicholas’s Church, sought the baker so as to break our fast with a loaf, then set out for the crooked lanes of the bury. I had some forlorn hope that Amice Thatcher might have returned to her home, or would do so early this day. If not, she would not know about or resent me entering her house to see if there was anything in it which might tell me of her abduction, if that was truly what occurred when she went off with the men who had slain John Thrale.

  The hour was yet early, but the lane before Amice Thatcher’s hut was aswarm with those who lived or labored in that place. It would not do to break down her door, flimsy as it was and easily breached. Inhabitants of such a lane look out for each other, and I saw several sideways glances of suspicion as we stood before Amice’s door.

  I rapped my knuckles smartly upon the decaying planks of the door. There was no response, not even from the crone who lived across the way. She was about some work of her own, no doubt, which was good. Busy with her own tasks, she would not see as Arthur and I left the street and sought the rear of Amice’s house.

  The passages between Amice’s home and those on either side were narrow. But if she earned a living as an ale wife there must be a toft behind her hut where she had vats and tubs for brewing. And if so, there must be a door opening to the toft from the rear of the dwelling. Such a door would not, I thought, be stronger than the door which opened to the street, so might be more easily forced, with the added advantage that doing so would be unobserved by a neighbor.