by Mel Starr
“He told me also that he was pitched from this ladder when you first set to work here.”
“’E was,” the thatcher laughed. “On ’is arse in the mud. Splutterin’ curses, ’e was.”
“A thong was missing, he said, and the rung fastened with but a length of yarn, dirtied so it would appear to be a strip of leather.”
“’At’s right.”
My eyes traveled to the ladder. A new thong, lighter in color than the others, marked the repair. I held out the broken thong found in the grass. The thatcher peered at it, then at his ladder.
“The lass found this in the grass between here and the wall about Canterbury Hall. A match for the others, would you agree… but for the new repair.”
“Aye, ’tis. But why was it there?”
“Someone may have used your ladder to go over the wall and commit theft.”
“Must’ve torn the thong on the way down,” the thatcher mused.
Aymer Thatcher appeared around the corner where Canterbury Hall meets St John’s Street. I turned to greet him, showed him the broken thong, and bid him follow Kate and me to the porter’s gate. I have had good result in treating the pain of injuries with a potion of wild lettuce and hemp seeds and root. Mixed with ale, these herbs bring sleep and allay much affliction. I might have included seeds of columbine, but I mistrust the use, for too much is poison. A man in great pain might be tempted to take more than he was advised. Then all pain, and his life, would be ended.
I left Kate and the thatcher at the gate, found my pouch in the guest chamber, and poured generous portions of the herbs into a bottle, which I sealed with a wooden plug. In my pouch was also a small vial of flax-seed oil mixed with the oil of monk’s hood. The concoction is potent in relieving aches when rubbed on the afflicted joint, but deadly if consumed.
I found the thatcher leaning against the wall, and Kate also, pressed close to the stones. Her brow was furrowed, her face pale. My first thought was that this thatcher had made free with his tongue while I was seeing to his relief. I was about to speak sharply to the fellow when, following Kate’s gaze, I saw two men sauntering down St John’s Street toward Canterbury Hall: Sir Simon Trillowe and a youth I took to be his squire.
I handed the bottle of herbs and vial of oil to Aymer and was about to instruct him in their use when Sir Simon’s path brought him before us. He stopped, stared at me, then Kate, then back to me. He smiled. No, he smirked, and finally spoke.
“We meet again… Hugh, is it?”
“Master Hugh,” Kate replied.
“Do maids speak for you?” he jibed.
“Perhaps those who would not speak to you would willingly speak for Master Hugh,” Kate rejoined. Her cheeks were flushed red.
“Ah, but Mistress Kate, you have just spoken to me.”
“’Twas of need, not pleasure, be sure.” Kate turned from Sir Simon and found something engrossing beyond the Canterbury Hall gate which demanded her attention.
“Perhaps we will meet again, Master Hugh.” He emphasized “Master”. “Indeed, I am certain of it.” He walked on. The youth turned to me and laughed.
What was I to do? Seek Lord Gilbert and complain? Of what? Had I been threatened? Probably. Could I prove it? No. Did I want Lord Gilbert to think me incapable of winning my own battles? I resolved that, for so long as I remained in Oxford, I would wear my dagger under my cotehardie. I was sure Sir Simon spoke true. We would meet again. He would see to it. His injured pride demanded balm.
I instructed the thatcher to mix a portion of the lettuce and hemp into a pint of ale an hour before he wished to sleep, and told him of the caution he must take in applying the oil to his skin; that no trace of the liquid must touch his lips. He tugged his forelock in gratitude and respect and asked what was owed for this relief. I collected a ha’penny and the thatcher set off clutching the flask and vial to his chest with his good hand. Kate and I followed.
We were walking on Catte Street when Kate finally spoke. “Sir Simon is angry with me, I think.”
“At us. Had I hoped to win you, and lost, I would be as cross as he.”
“But you would not threaten another.”
“Would I not?”
“Nay. I would not wed such a man, and you are not.”
“Aye,” I agreed. “I would endure my loss in silence.”
I had not thought of the Lady Joan Talbot, now the Lady de Burgh, for many months. As I spoke her comely face came to mind. But only briefly. Kate is quite capable of banishing thoughts of other females from my mind.
I left Kate at her father’s shop with the promise that we would meet on the morrow for troth plight and hear the banns first read. I do not remember what the Canterbury Hall cook served that evening for supper. It was surely another pottage with maslin loaves, else I would remember. Stolen books and a comely maid possessed my thoughts.
Master Wyclif accompanied me to St Peter’s Church next morning. With Master John and her father as witnesses, Kate vowed before a priest to become my wife, and I pledged to make her so.
Before the mass a curate stood and announced to the congregation our intention to wed. He asked was there any who knew of reason we might not. I half expected Sir Simon to appear from behind a pillar and denounce our purpose. But he did not, nor did any other, and so the banns were announced. Twice more the priest would do so, then Kate might become my wife.
I thought as we left the church that day that I detected envious glances from other young men directed to me. Perhaps it was my imagination.
Arthur arrived next day in time for dinner. I was not surprised. Arthur dislikes missing a meal. He was rewarded for his alacrity. Dinner this day at Canterbury Hall was a pease pottage with coney and onions.
When the meal was done I drew Arthur to the guest chamber to question him regarding Bampton and how the reading of the banns was received. He sat upon a bench, belched with contentment, and conveyed the congratulations of Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla.
“The lady sent servants to Galen House this morning, early, as I was settin’ out for Oxford. Told Lord Gilbert it must be made fit for a bride. Knowin’ Lady Petronilla, ’twill be so, an’ soon.”
“I hope it will be soon needed. But I cannot take a bride to Bampton and leave her there while I return to Oxford to seek stolen books. Come, we’ll seek the carters’ house and see have they returned from London yet.”
They had not. No horse peered out from the tiny barn, and there was no cart in the toft. I left Arthur on Kybald Street and told him to loiter about the place. Should the carters return he would find me at Canterbury Hall, but not before supper. I told him I intended to retrieve Bruce from the stable behind the Stag and Hounds and visit the Abbey of St Mary at Eynsham.
From Oxford to Eynsham is near five miles. Bruce is not a beast to be hurried, so I heard the abbey bells ring for nones as we splashed across the Thames at Swinford.
The abbey hosteller was pleased, I think, to learn that I did not require the abbey’s hospitality for the evening. I told the fellow that I wished to see the abbot, on Lord Gilbert Talbot’s business. This was not so much a falsehood. Lord Gilbert had set me to find Master John’s books, so the commission made the work Lord Gilbert’s business, would you not agree?
The hosteller turned Bruce over to a servant and instructed him to see the old horse to the abbey stables. This servant was the largest man I had ever seen. I am taller than most men, but this fellow was a head taller than me. He could look Bruce in the eyes as he led the old horse away. The arms which took the reins were as thick through as my neck.
The hosteller led me to the western range of the cloister, where it is common among Benedictines for the abbot to enjoy private quarters. I am sure I could not have entered this chamber had I announced my presence as an obligation to Master Wyclif. The service of a powerful lord will open many doors barred to those whose service is to lesser folk.
The abbot answered the hosteller’s knock upon his door with a rasping invita
tion to enter. Abbot Thurstan was a small man. His wizened body was shrunken in a habit which once might have fit, but he was now lost in its folds. His head no longer needed a razor. The fringe of white hair circling his skull was nature’s work. My father, no monk, wore such a tonsure, as will I, no doubt, some years hence.
The sun, now low in the western sky, illuminated the abbot’s lodging with a brassy glow. He was a dark outline in the light pouring through the windows behind him. Dust floated and flickered, golden motes in the air. The abbot’s head was rimmed in a gilded fringe as the sun tinted his silver locks.
Abbot Thurstan had been seated at a large table upon which an open book indicated his interrupted pursuit. As he stood he plucked spectacles from his nose. To think that in the last century there were some who thought these small bits of brass and glass were the devil’s work. How could this be so, when they are such a boon to those whose eyes are weary with years?
The hosteller announced me as Master Hugh de Singleton, about Lord Gilbert Talbot’s interests. Abbot Thurstan bid me be seated in one of three chairs which occupied a corner of his chamber, and set himself in another.
“How does Lord Gilbert?” he asked in a thin, cracking voice.
“Very well, as does the Lady Petronilla.”
“Good.” A distant look came to the old man’s eyes and he stared as if drawn to some image beyond my shoulder. “I knew his father, Lord Richard. An estimable knight… but I forget myself.”
The abbot reached for a small bell upon his table and rang it. A lay brother appeared at the door nearly as soon as he placed the bell back upon the table.
“Wine for our guest, Jerome, please.”
Jerome scurried off about this task and Abbot Thurstan turned again his attention to me. “How may I serve Lord Gilbert?”
I was about to tell him when Jerome reappeared with an ewer of Rhenish wine and two silver goblets. Lord Gilbert’s name did indeed command respect.
Jerome filled the goblets and silently left the chamber. Abbot Thurstan motioned for me to take one of the goblets and lifted the other with a trembling hand. The wine was excellent, sweet and clear. We sipped in silence for some time, until the old monk seemed to remember himself, and put the question to me again.
“Ah, how may we serve Lord Gilbert?”
“A friend of m’lord has been robbed.”
The abbot’s brow furrowed and he drew his lips thin across yellowing teeth. “I am sorry to learn of any theft, but what has this to do with the abbey? And what has been stolen?”
“The stolen items are such as an abbey might wish to purchase,” I replied.
“Hah,” the abbot chuckled. “Not this abbey. We are forty monks and seventy lay brothers and can but feed ourselves and do no other. Our debts,” he waved a feeble, veined hand, “mount each year. Since the great death our tenants are few and income much reduced. No, we will not purchase stolen goods, be they ever so desirable, for we can purchase few goods at all.”
“Would the abbey be asked to serve another in such a matter… that is, to act as broker for another purchaser?”
The old man stroked his chin, much as Lord Gilbert might do. “I might answer that more honestly did I know what has been stolen.”
“You have been asked to act as agent?”
“Did I say that? I have not. But did I know what is taken, I could tell you if it be likely I, or Prior Warin, would even be asked.”
“Books.”
“Lord Gilbert sent you to find stolen books? Whose books?”
“A friend.”
“Never mind.” The old monk took another swallow of his wine. “I think I know. ’Tis Master Wyclif’s books you seek, is this not so?”
“Aye. Has this news come to Eynsham already?”
“We learned of it some days past. What has Lord Gilbert to do with this theft?”
“I am Lord Gilbert’s bailiff at Bampton. Master Wyclif is a friend. When I told Lord Gilbert that Master John asked my help in recovering his stolen books, Lord Gilbert released me from my duties at Bampton to do so. Master Wyclif is a favorite of Duke John, as you may know.”
“So ’tis said. I wonder,” the old monk mused, “if the thief knew his act might set two great lords against him?”
“Some do not consider their deeds until the consequences are upon them.”
“Aye. Well, no thief will sell his taking here. Does any seek to do so, I will send for you… Where do you lodge?”
“Canterbury Hall.”
I left Eynsham convinced that the abbot knew nothing of Master John’s books. It was too soon to seek Brother Michael. To do so would give warning if he had to do with the theft, and did he not I would learn nothing of value from him. But I had planted a seed in the abbey ground. Now to be patient and see would it grow.
The sun rested in tree-tops to the west when Bruce splashed across the Thames at Swinford. I dislike traveling alone at night since the evening Henry atte Bridge attempted to deal me a mortal blow on the road from Witney, so I prodded Bruce with my heels. To little effect.
No miscreant accosted me this night. I left Bruce at the Stag and Hounds and stumbled through dark streets to Canterbury Hall. The porter was not pleased to be roused from slumber to open the gate to me.
I found Arthur fidgeting on the bench in the guest chamber. “’Bout to set out an’ seek you,” he chastised. “Thought you might’ve met up with the thief, or maybe Sir Simon again.”
“Nay. Bruce will not be hurried. Have the carters returned?”
“Not yet.”
A cresset lighted the chamber. I saw in its glow a loaf and a cup. Arthur followed my gaze. “Brought a loaf an’ some ale from the kitchen,” he explained.
I would not need to seek my bed hungry. I thought this the only laudable result of the day. I was wrong. The seed was sprouting.
The carters returned to Oxford on Tuesday. I had sent Arthur that morning to prowl Kybald Street and the neighboring lanes. He returned to Canterbury Hall for his dinner with no news, but an hour after eating his fill of another pottage he hastened breathlessly across the enclosure from the porter’s lodge to advise me that the carters were at that moment unharnessing their horse.
Arthur followed close behind as I hurried from St John’s Street to Grope Lane. The carters lived but a few paces east of Grope Lane, on the north side of Kybald Street. We found the brothers in the yard behind the house, tending to horse and cart. After such a journey both would need care.
Henry Carter and his brother were twins. Most men must peer into a well or catch their image in a glass window to see how they appear to another. Not these brothers. They had but to glance at each other to know their features. This duplication seems to me to prove false the notion that, should a woman bear twins, she has lain with two men.
“Henry?” I asked.
One of the carters looked up from considering wear to the axle of his cart and answered, “Aye?”
“You have just returned from a long journey, I am told.”
“Aye. To London, to the abbey at Westminster,” he replied quizzically.
The brother had just hung the harness on a peg in the barn. He stood in the open door, peering suspiciously at me. Most men, I think, are leery of those who pry into their business. I drew two pence from my purse and offered the coins to the carter. I watched his eyes soften.
“What were you commissioned to take to Westminster? It was a chest, I am told.”
“If you know what it was we was hired to take, why need to ask?”
“Do you know what was in the chest?”
“Nay. ’Twas sealed an’ locked an’ we was told ’twas not to be opened.”
“And this chest was to be covered and kept dry… is this so?”
“Aye.”
“A monk from Eynsham hired this work?”
“Why do you ask when you know the answers? An’ why concern yourself with my work?”
“Forgive me. I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord G
ilbert Talbot at his manor at Bampton.”
This revelation did not seem to impress either Henry or his brother. They stared impassively, awaiting any further information I might care to impart.
“Did you deliver the chest to the abbot?”
“Nay. We was to take it to a monk there name of…” Henry turned to his brother, who stood yet in the open barn door. “Who was it we was to give the chest to?”
“The librarian, Brother Giles.”
“Was he expecting this chest? Or was he surprised when it was delivered?”
“He was expectin’ it, alright.”
“What was your pay for this work?”
“A shillin’ an’ eight pence. Half when we took the job, half now we’re back an’ job’s done.”
“You are to collect from Brother Michael at Eynsham?”
“Aye. Time enough today. I’ll walk there an’ collect what’s due.”
A thought came to me. I drew another ha’penny from my purse and offered it to the carter. “When you speak to Brother Michael tell him a wheel came loose from your cart as you neared Westminster and pitched the chest to the verge. He will surely ask was the chest damaged. Tell him, ‘Yes, ’twas split at the end.’ If he then asks were the contents damaged, tell him, ‘No, the books were not harmed.’”
“Books? The chest was full o’ books, then? Figured ’twas so, bein’ we delivered ’em to a librarian.”
“Aye, I believe so. I will return tomorrow. Report all he may say about the chest and its contents.”
Wednesday morning, as the bells of St Frideswide’s Priory announced terce, I set out for Kybald Street with Arthur close behind. The carters were at work behind the house, Henry splicing the whiffletree where a crack showed, and his brother greasing the harness he’d hung on the barn wall the day before. Or was it Henry greasing the harness? The brother at work on the cart peered up under frowning brows as I approached.
“Did as you asked,” he muttered. “Cost me tuppence. Monk said as how we’d damaged ’is chest ’e wasn’t due to pay all.”
I fished two pence from my pouch and held the coins to the man. His face brightened considerably. “Hoped you’d be good for it,” he said as he reached for the coins.