A Trail of Ink

by Mel Starr

Kate spoke this not as an invitation, but as a conviction. A capon seemed to me an improvement to the usual pottage and loaf at Canterbury Hall. I made no objection.

  We walked through the Smithgate on to Holywell Street but forty paces from Caxton’s shop. As we did a figure appeared in the door, leaving the place. The man was tall, with a close-trimmed dark beard, wore parti-colored chauces, a green cotehardie, and a yellow liripipe coiled about his head.

  Sir Simon Trillowe saw us approach and frowned mightily, so that his dark brows met above his nose. He took no step in our direction but stood fast before the shop and observed us through narrowed eyes.

  “Sir Simon,” I greeted him with a bow.

  Trillowe made no reply to me, but turned to Kate and spoke. “Mistress Kate… your father said you were out. Perhaps I am too late to ask if we might walk again along the Cherwell?”

  “Aye, Sir Simon. I am needed this afternoon in the shop.”

  Trillowe smiled grimly at Kate, glared at me, and strode west toward Canditch and the castle.

  It was well past noon and the bell at the Augustinian Friary rang for nones when Kate, her father, and I sat at the workroom table for our dinner. The capon had stewed all morning in a broth with turnips and leeks and was delicious. I did not wish to be thought a glutton, so contented myself with a modest portion. But when I had finished Kate spooned out another helping to my bowl. I protested, but she knew it was but for courtesy and ladled the bowl full. Robert Caxton looked up from his own spoon with a benign expression. I was pleased that the stationer did not seem to think I was presuming upon either his dinner or his good nature.

  While we ate Kate told her father of the injured thatcher and my ministrations to him.

  “’Tis a good thing to be able to help men so,” Caxton affirmed between bites of turnip. “My back seems now good as ever since you drew the splinter from it.”

  “Father kept the splinter,” Kate laughed, “and shows it to all who are willing to hear the tale of his wound.”

  I was pleased to learn that word of my skills might thus become known, but it seems unlikely that an injured man would forsake the physicians and surgeons of Oxford to seek me at Bampton. It is good when men speak well of you, even if no profit follow.

  I was reluctant to leave the stationer’s shop when the meal was done. Had you seen Kate and spent time in her presence you would understand. I have written these words before. They bear repeating. And lurking in my mind was an apprehension that Sir Simon might return while I was away.

  Nevertheless I bid Kate and her father “good bye” – after praising the meal. Kate can cause a man to forget himself, but I kept enough of my wits about me that I remembered to thank her for dinner.

  Only after I left the stationer’s shop did I think of Arthur. I have written that Kate had such an effect upon me. Perhaps Arthur had gone to the stables behind the Stag and Hounds and seen to our horses. Then he might have dined at the inn. Or perhaps he returned to Canterbury Hall and was fed there. I set my feet toward Canterbury Hall. If I did not find Arthur there, he might return later and find me.

  I found him. Arthur had drawn a bench from the guest chamber and sat upon it against the chamber wall, drowsing in the afternoon sun. I might have some worry for his welfare, but it was clear he had little concern for mine. Considering the company in which he last saw me, this was understandable.

  Arthur became aware of my approach, and jerked upright when he saw me. He seemed abashed that I had found him lazing in the sun, but I hold nothing against a man who seeks the simple pleasures God provides when no duty calls him.

  “Are the horses well?” I asked.

  “Aye. They be fine. An’ Mistress Kate?” Arthur grinned.

  “Likewise. There are more stationers in Oxford than when I last resided in the town. I must copy two more lists.”

  “What do you want of me? Can’t serve with copyin’.”

  Arthur has many skills, but dealing with books and words on a page are not among them. I thought of another employment for him.

  “Go to Northgate Street, and perhaps the castle foregate, and keep your ears open. It seems unlikely that a despoiler of books would seek to sell them there. But I have few other plans. Perhaps a careless thief may let a word slip, and it be repeated.”

  Many days had passed since the theft. If a robber wished to sell his plunder he would surely do so straightaway, not wait near a fortnight. Or would he? I had no better notion, so Arthur set off and I went to the guest chamber to copy two more lists.

  I might have saved ink, parchment, and time. The stationers to whom I took the lists had not been presented any of the books registered, although both gave ready assurance that, should a volume from the list be offered, they would report the business to me at Canterbury Hall. I had no reason to doubt their word, but it occurred to me as I departed the second stationer on Great Bailey Street that, for a share of the profit, a man might close his eyes to the misdeeds of a felon. There was little I could do about that. No man can change the nature of another. Only the Lord Christ can do so, and then only if the one whose soul is altered be willing.

  There was again a pease pottage with leeks and maslin loaves for supper. I thought of the meal I might have enjoyed at Bampton Castle had I supped there rather than Canterbury Hall. But was I in Bampton I would not have enjoyed time and dinner with Kate Caxton. Most things worthwhile have a price.

  The Angelus Bell ringing from the Priory Church of St Frideswide awoke me next morning. The tolling had not the same effect on Arthur. The man could sleep through our Lord’s return.

  I had become accustomed to breaking my fast with cheese and a loaf fresh from the Bampton Castle oven. I did not enjoy setting about my day with an empty stomach. Arthur agreed on this matter, but while we were guests at Canterbury Hall we must observe the regimen. This was to me further proof that I had made the proper choice when I decided I would not seek a position in the Church. Although I suppose as secular clergy with my own parish I might eat when I chose.

  This day I decided to visit the monastic houses in Oxford to learn if any had recently been offered books. I sent Arthur again to the marketplace and castle foregate to listen.

  The great Benedictine House in Oxford is Gloucester College. I set my feet for Stockwell Street, and arrived as the chapel bell chimed for Terce. I waited until the service was done, then sought the college librarian. The monk in charge of the college volumes was a genial fellow, well fed, who peered at me with watery eyes made weak from much attention to his manuscripts.

  I did not think it necessary to provide such a man with a list of Wyclif’s stolen books. He would be familiar with all the missing volumes, and most assuredly his library would include the missing titles, with the possible exception of Bede’s work, which is rare and valuable.

  The fellow had been offered no books, as I expected. But he readily agreed to send word to Canterbury Hall should he be approached to buy.

  I returned to the Hall for my dinner. Arthur was there before me, and eager for his meal, which this day was not a pottage, but egg leaches for a first remove and eels baked in ginger for the second remove. This was a pleasant change from the Hall’s normal fare. Arthur approved. He grinned at me from the far end of the table, his cheeks bulging with eels. A groom at Bampton Castle might share in egg leaches, but would never enjoy eels in ginger.

  I went in the afternoon to the Franciscan and Dominican Houses where friars who seek degrees at Oxford reside while at their studies. It would be a waste of parchment to write more than that they had no knowledge of Master John’s books. And yes, they would send word to Canterbury Hall should any man offer to sell. But for my dinner this was a wasted day.

  The cook, I think, decided he must atone for dinner. Supper this day was a white pottage of oats and leeks. Arthur ate two bowls of the stuff, but when I finished my portion I felt I should whinny like a horse did I consume more.

  I had no opportunity before supper to question Arthur
about his day, but did so as soon as we retired to the guest chamber after supper. I lit a cresset and asked Arthur of town gossip. He removed his cap, brushed thinning hair with thick fingers, and spoke.

  “Buy a man a cup of wine at tavern an’ he’ll be glad to tell what ’e knows. There be many folk in Oxford don’t abide by what the priests tell ’em,” he began. “But you’ll not be carin’ about all that.”

  “Aye. Spare me the details of Oxford’s sins. I once lived here, remember?”

  “Oh, aye. Well, ’tis known about town that you seek Master Wyclif’s books. ’Eard it spoke of three, four times.”

  “So the theft is known?”

  “Aye. Not as most on Northgate Street or the castle forecourt care ’bout that. Most is like me, see, an’ books is no good to ’em.

  “Strange thing. Some young gentlemen was passin’ by the castle forecourt an’ two was badgerin’ the other. Said as how he looked a fool, chasin’ a tradesman’s daughter, an’ her then tossin’ ’im aside for a bailiff. They came near to blows. Figured I knew who was spoke of.”

  “Did one of these fellows have a dark beard, trimmed short, and wear a yellow cap with a liripipe coiled about his head?”

  “Aye. ’Twas him the others nettled. Had ’is hand to ’is dagger before the others left off.”

  Sir Simon had lowered himself to court a burgher’s daughter. To be rejected would injure his pride. He would blame me. Perhaps I should be on my guard.

  I left Arthur to report on my progress, or lack of it, to Master John. I found him seated in his chamber, a candle before him and a borrowed book open on the table. He did not seem surprised when I told him I had no better idea now how to seek his books than the day before.

  Arthur was snoring upon his pallet when I returned to the guest chamber. This music, and my thoughts, kept me awake long into the night. The sacrist of St Frideswide’s Priory was rousing the canons for vigils before I slept.

  There was yet Rewley Abbey and Oseney Abbey, and the friaries of the Carmelites, the Augustinians, and the Trinitarians to visit. I resolved to seek Master John’s volumes in these houses next day if Arthur learned nothing more in another day of attending to Oxford gossip. While he did so I resolved to pursue another mystery: women.

  I awoke with the Angelus Bell from St Frideswide’s Priory to a cold, drizzling morning. Arthur was not pleased that I sent him to the castle forecourt on an empty stomach on such a day. I told him to return and we would meet for dinner. I did not tell him the business I intended to pursue. I should have.

  I wrapped my cloak about me and set off for Holywell Street. This cloak was of fur, a gift from Lord Gilbert two years past as part of my wages for accepting the post of bailiff on his Bampton estate.

  I had seen others peer enviously at me when I wore the garment through Oxford’s streets. Such a coat was beyond my station. Let them stare. I was warm and dry.

  I made my way up Catte Street, passed through the Smithgate, and had walked but two or three paces east on Holywell Street when three men stepped before me and blocked my way. My first thought was that I had been accosted by thieves and was about to be robbed of my purse. A second thought caused me to realize this was not likely. It was not the dark of night, when felons might be abroad, but day, and the men who obstructed me were not poorly dressed, as one might expect of a man willing to risk his neck to have another man’s coins.

  One of the three stepped toward me and demanded my name. I told him. He next asked my destination. I told him that, as well. He then asked about my coat; where had I come by it? When I told him it was a gift he rolled his eyes and turned to his companions.

  One of these was a man of about my size and age. Which is to say he was some above average in height and slender. The leader of the three turned to this fellow and spoke:

  “Sir William, is this the coat?”

  “Aye, the very one.”

  The leader of this band was a brawny fellow, not of my height, but he surely outweighed me by two stone or more. He was of Arthur’s size and shape. He grasped my shoulders and before I could react, so surprised was I, he spun me about and his companions stripped my coat from me.

  “You are arrested,” the leader told me harshly.

  “Of what am I accused?” I replied, somewhat stupidly as I think back on it.

  “Hah… do not take us for fools. You have stolen Sir William’s fur coat.”

  “Not so,” I replied with some heat. My wits were returning and my temper was aroused. “’Twas a gift from Lord Gilbert Talbot.”

  I thought the fellow hesitated for a moment. Perhaps it was my imagination. “And why should a lord give a fur coat to you?”

  While I engaged the leader in this conversation Sir William was inspecting my coat. “This is my coat, Sir Thomas,” he said firmly.

  Sir Thomas, who still gripped my arm, turned back to me. “You were a fool to steal such a coat, and twice a fool to walk along the Cherwell with a maid where another might see you wearing a stolen coat.”

  I opened my mouth to protest but before I could speak the third member of the group, a short, round fellow, seized my free arm and with Sir Thomas began dragging me down Canditch toward the Northgate. A crowd of onlookers gaped at the scene, believing, I am sure, that some miscreant had been apprehended.

  Sir Thomas and his silent companion alternately dragged and shoved me through the streets to Oxford Castle. Once there I was taken through stone passageways to a chamber I knew well, the anteroom and clerk’s office for the sheriff of Oxford, where two years past Margaret Smith and I convinced Roger de Cottesford and a judge of the King’s Eyre that they must release Thomas Shilton. Standing beside the clerk was a man I knew. Sir Simon Trillowe grinned thinly at me behind hooded eyes.

  “Inform Sir John that we have caught the thief,” Sir Thomas told the clerk. The man rose silently from his place, opened the heavy door behind him, and did so.

  The Sheriff of Oxford appeared in the doorway moments later. His stout body nearly filled it. Small, dark eyes peered at me from a florid face which featured a large, hooked nose. He was Sir Simon’s father. The nose left no doubt of that.

  “Here is the stolen coat,” Sir Thomas proclaimed, standing aside so Sir John could see my cloak in Sir William’s hands. “We found the thief on Holywell Street, as Sir Simon said we might.”

  Sir Simon dropped his eyes and bowed slightly toward Sir Thomas. The smile remained upon his lips and I knew why I was apprehended and charged. What I might do to free myself was not so evident.

  “’Tis yours, surely?” the sheriff asked Sir William.

  “Aye. There is no doubt. A London furrier made it for me two years past. Twelve shillings it cost me.”

  Sir John turned to me with glaring eyes. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  “The man lies… or is mistaken. His only true words are that the coat was indeed made by a London furrier. But it was made for Lord Gilbert Talbot.”

  “Then why would you have it?”

  “A gift from Lord Gilbert. He wished me to serve him as bailiff at his Bampton estate and offered a fur coat to persuade me to agree to the post.”

  “He lies,” Sir Simon said. Until these words he had lounged against the chamber wall, pleased with my discomfort. “I’ve seen Sir William with this very coat these past two years.”

  Sir John turned again to me and spoke through thin lips. “I think it odd that Lord Gilbert would give such a coat to a… a bailiff. I know Lord Gilbert. He is a parsimonious fellow. I doubt he owns such a coat for his own shoulders.”

  “Then send for him and ask,” I challenged.

  “I see no need to trouble Lord Gilbert when I have before me two witnesses who say you are a thief.”

  The sheriff turned to his clerk and spoke. “Fetch the gaoler.” To Sir Thomas he said, “We are fortunate the county court is assembled this week. Trial in this matter will be Friday. Be he guilty, we may hang him Saturday.”

  I had no doub
t but Sir Simon and his friends would make certain that I would be condemned. I tried again to convince Sir John to consult Lord Gilbert.

  “Unless you send to Lord Gilbert,” I cried, “you will do murder come Saturday. I am no thief. I am in Oxford to seek thieves… those who have stolen Master John Wyclif’s books. And Master John has seen me wear this coat. He also can tell you ’tis mine, not Sir William’s.”

  “Master Wyclif?” Sir John pursed his lips. “Troublesome fellow.”

  As the sheriff delivered this opinion his clerk appeared with a slovenly man I assumed to be the gaoler. This conjecture was quickly proven correct. The fellow lifted shackles and chain in his left hand and expertly bolted the irons about my wrists before I could react. What good reacting might have done I cannot tell.

  I was led from the clerk’s chamber, through the gallery, to a stone staircase. Shadows there were dark. I could not see where the staircase ended for the gloom. The gaoler gave me a shove when he detected my reluctance and as I took the first step I heard laughter echo down the corridor from the clerk’s anteroom.

  I found the bottom step more by feel than by sight. The gaoler, perhaps accustomed to the shadows in which he worked, shoved me a few paces past the last step, then stopped before an indentation in the stones which, when my eyes grew more familiar with the dark, I saw to be a door.

  Before I could draw another breath I heard the door swing open and received another shove which propelled me into a cell darker even, was that possible, than the corridor in which a moment before I was standing.

  The gaoler slammed the door shut behind me and replaced the bar. How many men, I wondered, have heard that same sound while standing in this place? Perhaps Thomas Shilton, imprisoned on my mistaken testimony, occupied this very cell. He emerged unscathed when I learned my error. Would I escape also? This seemed doubtful, for those who placed me here knew I was no thief and if they were in error seemed glad of it.

  The cell was not utterly dark. Near the top of the vaulted ceiling a slit was cut into the wall, perhaps three fingers high and a forearm long. Dim light penetrated the cell through this aperture. It perhaps opened to some shaded part of the castle yard. The slit was too high to reach, and it would have been of no use to try. Even a man as slender as I could get no more than a hand through the opening. And then only if his wrists were unshackled. Mine were not.