by Mel Starr
“I have no competency in such matters. You are on your own. ’Tis your competency solving puzzles I seek.”
“But I am already employed.”
Master John’s countenance fell. “I had not considered that,” he admitted. “Lord Gilbert requires your service… and pays well for it, I imagine.”
“Aye. I am well able to afford a wife.”
“But could not the town spare you for a week or two, until my books are found? Surely a surgeon… never mind. You see how little I heed other men’s troubles when I meet my own.”
“All men think first of themselves. Why should you be different?” I asked.
“Why? Because my misplaced esteem tells me I must. Do you not wish the same, Hugh? To be unlike the commons? They scratch when and where they itch and belch when and where they will and the letters on a page are as foreign to them as Malta.”
“But… I remember a lecture…”
Wyclif grimaced.
“… when you spoke of all men being the same when standing before God. No gentlemen, no villeins, all sinners.”
“Hah; run through by my own pike. ’Tis true. I recite the same sermon each year, but though we be all sinners, and all equally in need of God’s grace, all sins are not, on earth, equal, as they may be in God’s eyes. Else all punishments would be the same, regardless of the crime.”
“And what would be a fitting penalty for one who stole twenty books?”
Wyclif scowled again. “Twenty-two,” he muttered. “My thoughts change daily,” he continued. “When I first discovered the offense I raged about the Hall threatening the thief with a noose.”
“And now?”
Master John smiled grimly. “I have thought much on that. Was the thief a poor man needing to keep his children from starvation, I might ask no penalty at all, so long as my books be returned. But if the miscreant be another scholar, with means to purchase his own books, I would see him fined heavily and driven from Oxford, and never permitted to study here again, or teach, be he a master.
“Both holy and secular wisdom,” Wyclif mused, “teach that we must not do to another what we find objectionable when done to us. No man should hold a place at Oxford who denies both God and Aristotle.”
“You think an Oxford man has done this?”
Wyclif chewed upon a fingernail, then spoke. “Who else would want my books, or know their worth?”
“That, it seems to me, is the crux of the matter,” I replied. “Some scholar wished to add to his library, or needed money, and saw your books as a way to raise funds.”
As it happened, there was a third reason a man might wish to rob Master John of his books, but that explanation for the theft did not occur to me until later.
“I am lost,” Wyclif sighed. “I am a master with no books, and I see no way to retrieve them.”
I felt guilty that, for all his aid given to me, I could offer no assistance to the scholar. I could but commiserate, cluck my tongue, and sit in his presence with a long face.
The autumn sun set behind the old Oxford Castle keep while we talked. Wyclif was about to speak again when a small bell sounded from across the courtyard.
“Supper,” he explained, and invited me to follow him to the refectory.
Scholars at Canterbury Hall are fed well, but simply. For this supper there were loaves of maslin – wheat and barley – cheese, a pease pottage flavored with bits of pork, and tankards of watered ale. I wondered at the pork, for some of the scholars were Benedictines. Students peered up from under lowered brows as we entered. They all knew of the theft, and, I considered later, suspected each other of complicity in the deed.
A watery autumn sun struggled to rise above the forest and water meadow east of Oxford when I awoke next morning. Wyclif bid me farewell with stooped shoulders and eyes dark from lack of sleep. I wished the scholar well, and expressed my prayer that his books be speedily recovered. Master John believes in prayer, but my promise to petition our Lord Christ on his behalf seemed to bring him small comfort. I think he would rather have my time and effort than my prayers. Or would have both. Prayers may be offered cheaply. They require small effort from men, and much from God. The Lord Christ has told us we may ask of Him what we will, but I suspect He would be pleased to see men set to their work, and call upon Him only when tasks be beyond them.
I thought on this as I walked through the awakening lanes of Oxford to Holywell Street and Robert Caxton’s shop. Was it really my duty to Lord Gilbert which prevented me from seeking Wyclif’s stolen books, or was I too slothful to do aught but pray for their return? I did not like the answer which came to me.
As I approached the stationer’s shop I saw a tall young man standing before it, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The fellow was no scholar. He wore a deep red cotehardie, cut short to show a good leg. His chauces were parti-colored, grey and black, and his cap ended in a long yellow liripipe coiled stylishly about his head. The color of his cap surprised me. All who visit London know that the whores of that city are required by law to wear yellow caps so respectable maidens and wives be left unmolested on the street. He was shod in fine leather, and the pointed toes of his shoes curled up in ungainly fashion.
The fellow seemed impatient; while I watched he strode purposefully past Caxton’s shop, then reversed his steps and walked past in the opposite direction, toward my approach. I drew closer to the shop, so that at each turn I could see his face more clearly. His countenance and beard were dark, as were his eyes. The beard was neatly trimmed, and his eyes peered at my approach from above an impressive nose – although, unlike mine, his nose pointed straight out at the world, whereas mine turns to the dexter side. He seemed about my own age – twenty-five years or so. He was broad of shoulder and yet slender, but good living was beginning to produce a paunch.
I slowed my pace as I approached the shuttered shop. Caxton would open his business soon, and I assumed this dandy needed parchment, ink, or a book, although he did not seem the type to be much interested in words on a page.
I stood in the street, keeping the impatient coxcomb company, until Robert Caxton opened his shop door and pushed up his shutters to begin business for the day. The stationer looked from me to his other customer and I thought his eyes widened. I bowed to the other client and motioned him to precede me into the shop. He was there before me.
The morning sun was low in the southeast, and did not penetrate far into the shop. But dark as the place was, I could see that Kate was not within. He of the red cotehardie saw the same, and spoke before I could.
“Is Mistress Kate at leisure?” he asked.
Caxton glanced at me, then answered, “Near so. Preparing a pot of ink in the workroom. Be done shortly.”
“I’ll wait,” the fellow said with a smile. “’Tis a pleasant morning. And if Kate has no other concerns, I’d have her walk with me along the water meadow.”
He might as well have swatted me over my skull with a ridge pole. My jaw went slack and I fear both Caxton and this unknown suitor got a fine view of my tonsils.
Robert Caxton was not so discomfited that he forgot his manners. He introduced me to Sir Simon Trillowe. A knight. And of some relation to the new sheriff of Oxford, I guessed.
When he learned that I was but a surgeon and bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot, Sir Simon nodded briefly and turned away, his actions speaking what polite words could not: I was beneath his rank and unworthy of his consideration.
“We heard naught of you for many months, Master Hugh,” Caxton remarked.
This was true. I had neglected pursuit of Kate Caxton while about Lord Gilbert’s business in Bampton. And, to be true, I feared Kate might dismiss my suit should I press it. A man cannot be disappointed in love who does not seek it.
“No doubt a bailiff has much to occupy his time,” the stationer continued.
Sir Simon doubtless thought that I was but a customer, not that I was in competition with him for the fair Kate. He would learn that soon
enough.
The door to Caxton’s workroom was open. Kate surely heard this exchange, which was a good thing. It gave her opportunity to compose herself. A moment later she entered the shop, carrying my pot of promised ink, and bestowed a tranquil smile upon both me and Sir Simon. I smiled in return, Trillowe did not. Perhaps he had guessed already that it was not ink I most wished to take from Caxton’s shop.
“Mistress Kate,” Sir Simon stepped toward her as she passed through the door. “’Tis a pleasant autumn morn… there will be few more before winter. Perhaps we might walk the path along the Cherwell… if your father can spare you for the morning.”
With these words Trillowe turned to the stationer. Caxton shrugged a reply.
“Good.” Sir Simon offered his arm and, with a brief smile and raised brows in my direction, Kate set the pot of ink on her father’s table and took Trillowe’s arm. They departed the shop wordlessly.
Caxton apparently thought some explanation in order. “You didn’t call through the summer. Kate thought you’d no interest. I told her last night you’d asked to pay court. But Sir Simon’s been by a dozen times since Lammas Day… others, too.”
“Others?”
“Aye. My Kate does draw lads to the shop. None has asked me might they pay court, though. But for you.”
“Not Sir Simon?”
“Nay. Second son of the sheriff, and a knight. He’ll not ask leave of one like me to do aught.”
“And Kate returns his interest?”
Caxton shrugged. “She’s walked out with him three times now. A knight, mind you. And son of the sheriff. Can’t blame a lass for that.”
“No,” I agreed.
“Can’t think how his father’d be pleased, though. A stationer’s daughter! A scandal in Oxford Castle when word gets out, as it surely has, by now,” Caxton mused.
“Aye. What lands his father may hold will pass to his brother. The sheriff will want Sir Simon seeking a wife with lands of her own.”
I hoped that was so. But if a second or third son acts to displease his father, it is difficult to correct him. How can a man disinherit a son who is due to receive little or nothing anyway? So if a son courting Kate Caxton displeased the sheriff of Oxford, such offense might escape retribution. This thought did not bring me joy.
Nothing much else of that day in Oxford brought joy, either. Even Caxton’s refusal to accept payment for parchment and ink could not raise my spirits. I trudged through the mud to the Stag and Hounds, retrieved Bruce from the stables, and from the old horse’s broad back watched as the castle keep faded into the distance while we two, horse and rider, sauntered past Oseney Abbey toward Bampton and home.
I arrived at the castle at the ninth hour, in time for supper. Lord Gilbert was in residence, so this was a more elaborate meal than when he resided at another of his castles, with several guests, and many grooms and valets occupying lower tables.
A groom brought an ewer, basin, and towel to the high table and I washed the dust of the Oxford Road from my face and hands. The water was pleasingly scented with mint.
I had enjoyed no dinner that day, so as soon as Lord Gilbert’s chaplain offered thanks to our Lord Christ for the meal I broke the loaf of wheaten bread before me, spread butter on the fragments with my knife, and set about calming my growling stomach.
It was during the third remove, a game pie, that I noticed Lady Petronilla peering at me from the other end of the high table. There are, I believe, subtle signals of sorrow which women perceive more readily than men. I was unaware that my discontent was plain to another. And to Lord Gilbert it was not.
The game pie this day seemed beneath the cook’s usual standard. I had little desire to finish my portion. And the subtlety also seemed to lack appeal. Perhaps the wheaten loaf poisoned my appetite.
Three days later, after a supper of eels baked in vinegar and spices, pike in galantine, and salmon in syrup, John the chamberlain approached me as I entered my chamber. Lord Gilbert, he said, was in the solar and would see me.
A blaze in the fireplace both lit the solar and warmed it against the chill of an autumn evening. Lady Petronilla glanced up at me from her needlework as John ushered me into the chamber, and Lord Gilbert looked my way briefly before continuing his conversation with Sir Watkin Kidwell, a guest to whom I had been introduced at Tuesday supper when I returned from Oxford.
I stood, confused about the summons, until Lord Gilbert nodded toward a bench which rested, unoccupied, between him and Lady Petronilla. This seat was pleasingly near the fire, and while I sat a groom replenished the logs to the accompaniment of a great salvo of sparks which swirled up the chimney. I was tired, and had recently supped. The combination produced drowsiness. I feared I might topple into the fire.
The hum of conversation ceased. I awoke from my lethargy to see Sir Watkin rise, bow, and bid Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla “Good night.” I stood, perhaps a bit wobbly, to honor Sir Watkin’s departure, as did Lord Gilbert.
When the guest had departed Lord Gilbert resumed his chair and motioned me back to my bench. I drew it away from the fire, for the logs recently placed on the blaze were now burning furiously.
“Lady Petronilla,” Lord Gilbert began, “would have me speak to you.”
Lady Petronilla looked up briefly from her work and smiled from under lowered brows. I could not guess why she thought conversation necessary, but her gentle smile reassured me that the discussion was probably not going to center upon some malfeasance on my part. Few men enjoy a command to meet with their employer, and I admit to some apprehension when John delivered Lord Gilbert’s summons. I had been reluctant, two years past, to accept Lord Gilbert’s offer to become bailiff of his Bampton estate. But now I found myself equally reluctant to leave the post should Lord Gilbert have detected some dereliction on my part.
It was not Lord Gilbert, but his wife, who had detected a change in my manner, and it was this she had noted and urged her husband to investigate. Therefore my summons this evening.
“M’lady,” he continued, “believes some thing is amiss with you, and would have me seek it out.”
“Amiss, m’lord?”
“Aye.” Lady Petronilla laid her work in her lap and spoke. “You were laughing and in good spirit when you departed for Oxford Monday. But since your return you are morose. I have watched you at table… you eat but little. I told m’lord, ‘Some mishap has overtaken Master Hugh while at Oxford.’”
“M’lady,” Lord Gilbert interjected, “has a meddlesome imagination.”
“Meddlesome I am not,” Lady Petronilla barked. “I am… observant.”
“Aye,” Lord Gilbert chuckled and nodded toward me. “She is that.”
“I told m’lord ’tis not good for a young man, so full of life and joy one day, to be so glum the next.”
“And I told her this was not our concern.” He paused. “She disagreed.”
Lady Petronilla nodded and pursed her lips.
“So I have called you here to learn what has gone amiss in Oxford. Or,” he hesitated, “to learn if my wife’s imagination has…”
“’Tis no imagining,” Lady Petronilla rejoined.
Lord Gilbert was to my right hand, Lady Petronilla to my left. Their dispute caused my head to swivel. I made no reply to Lady Petronilla’s assertion, but she would not accept my silence.
“Come, Master Hugh. When a young man cannot finish a tasty game pie for his supper, or salmon in syrup, then something is much awry.”
“Hmm,” Lord Gilbert muttered, pulling at his beard. “This is true? You did not finish your salmon?”
“He did not.”
“I have never known you to reject a salmon. M’lady speaks true… What troubles you, Hugh?”
I dislike encumbering others with my own misfortune. And I have observed that, on most occasions, others prefer not to share the burden anyway. I hesitated to reply.
Lady Petronilla understood what my silence implied.
“You do not p
rotest, Master Hugh. So ’tis true. Were it not so, you would be quick to object.”
“It is a matter for my own concern,” I finally replied. “I do not wish to vex others.”
“I told you ’twas so,” Lady Petronilla said triumphantly to her husband. Lord Gilbert raised one eyebrow and went to pulling at his beard. These mannerisms I knew well. He stroked his chin when deep in thought, and raised an eyebrow when puzzled. This last expression I had tried to emulate. Unsuccessfully.
“It is not good for a man to carry his worries alone,” Lord Gilbert remarked. “You have no wife to share your sorrows.”
“Or joys,” Lady Petronilla smiled.
“’Tis more difficult for you, of course… finding a wife. You must search her out for yourself. Our fathers,” Lord Gilbert smiled at his wife, “placed us together. For the which I am grateful, as is, I trust, m’lady.”
Lady Petronilla beamed in reply. This conversation had somehow got around to wives and marriage. Perhaps Lord Gilbert had an intuition that a young man’s woe might have to do with a lass.
“I would be much pleased to find a good wife,” I agreed. “I know that marriage may bring sorrow, but bachelorhood brings little joy.”
“Well,” Lord Gilbert chuckled, “you had best get you back to Oxford. You will not find her in Bampton Castle… nor anywhere in the town, I think.”
“But I have duties here.”
“What? Michaelmas is long past. The harvest is in, and John Holcutt has matters well in hand for winter. You are at leisure to pursue your own ends and seek a wife. A prosperous burgher’s daughter, I think, or, with luck, the only child of a knight, with lands she might bring with her.”
Lady Petronilla nodded agreement. Gentlemen and their ladies are much alike. Get land; this is nearly all they think on. Kate Caxton will have small dowry, I think. Her father is a burgher, but I am not privy to the depth of his purse. Knowing Lord Gilbert as I do, however, should he lay eyes on Kate, he will approve my choice.
My choice. Little good my decision would do me now, with the handsome Sir Simon Trillowe in pursuit of Kate.