Without a Trace

by Starr, Mel;

  “What if the lady is found with the scholar, and has plotted to leave her husband to be with the lad? Will the knight have her back?”

  “Hah! You must ask him that. He desperately desires an heir, as I told you, and without a wife he’ll have none.”

  “True. Men who have wealth and lands want to pass these on to children and grandchildren. I have neither, nor will have, so I escape the worry.

  “Speaking of descendants, how is your Kate – begging your pardon, Lady Katherine – and your children?”

  I assured the scholar that I had left them this morning hale, then returned to the matter which brought me to his door.

  “Do you know this Martyn de Wenlock?” I asked.

  “Nay. He is not of Queen’s, I think. But surely some men of my circle will know him. Come.” He stood. “We will visit the other halls until he is found.”

  Arthur followed me and I followed Master John as we departed the college and entered the High Street. We found de Wenlock at the third place we sought him.

  Nay, that is not strictly true. We found those who knew him, and we learned of the man, but we did not find him. Not then.

  We sought de Wenlock first at University College, then at Merton College, with no success. But William de Daventre, the provost of Oriel College, knew the man we sought. De Wenlock had studied there.

  “Where will we find him?” I asked when the provost replied that he knew Martyn.

  “Not here. After Trinity Term he left the college. But a few days past.”

  “Where did he go?” I asked.

  “He never said. Not to me. Mayhap he’ll return for the Michaelmas Term. Scholars come and go, as their interest waxes and wanes, and as their funds bloom and wither.”

  “Who are de Wenlock’s friends? Did he share a room with another scholar of Oriel?”

  “Aye. Robert Lewys.”

  “Where did the two reside? Is Lewys yet in Oxford?”

  “The two had a chamber here, at the college. Whether or not Lewys remains I cannot say, but I suppose so. I’ve not heard that he is away, either for the summer or permanently.”

  “Will you lead us to the lad’s chamber?” Master John asked.

  “Follow me,” the provost said. We did.

  Robert Lewys was not at home, which was a disappointment. I had hoped to learn what I could from him of Martyn de Wenlock, and then set out for Bampton. Assuming that what I might learn would exculpate de Wenlock from collusion in Lady Philippa’s disappearance.

  We might have prowled the inns of the High Street for hours and not found Lewys. It was best to await his return to Oriel College.

  The wait was not so long as I had feared it might be. The scholar tottered back to his lodgings less than an hour later. He had surely been at an inn, and likely not drinking mere ale. He reeled from one side of Grope Lane to the other, and I despaired of learning anything of importance from a man who had consumed too much wine.

  The provost greeted Lewys when he came near, and the fellow was so startled to hear his name and see four men awaiting him that he stumbled and fell to the mud of the street.

  Rising was an ordeal, and finally Arthur took the man’s arm to set him upon his feet. The scholar swayed so that I thought he might collapse again. Evidently he had enough wit about him that he realized the probability, for he took two staggering steps and leaned against the doorpost.

  “Robert,” the provost said, “here is a man who wants words with you about Martyn de Wenlock.” As he spoke, the provost looked to me. Lewys then did also, and I saw him try to focus on my visage which was, no doubt, spinning before his eyes.

  Robert clumsily doffed his cap, then ceremoniously replaced it askew upon his pate, the liripipe falling to his waist.

  “I am Sir Hugh de Singleton, seeking Martyn de Wenlock. I am told that he has departed Oxford. Is this so?”

  Lewys swayed against the doorpost and glanced to the provost, as if considering whether or not he should, or must, answer. Or could.

  “Aye. Gone, is Martyn,” the fellow finally said, his tongue thick between his teeth.

  “Where, and when will he return?”

  “He won’t return. So he said.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  The scholar again seemed to consider his words, or perhaps the wine had dulled his memory.

  “Cambridge,” he finally said.

  “Does he intend to study there?”

  “Aye. Peterhouse College.”

  “Why did he choose to desert Oxford for Cambridge?” I asked.

  Lewys was again silent for a time, as if a reply was too much for his addled brain to consider.

  “A lass,” he finally said.

  “A lass? In Cambridge?”

  The scholar shook his head and the action caused him to stagger. Arthur reached out a hand to steady him. Between Arthur and the doorpost Lewys regained some stability, then spoke.

  “Nay, here, in Oxford.”

  “So ’tis not a lass in Cambridge who draws him, but a lass in Oxford who repels him?”

  This concept seemed too deep for Lewys. His brow furrowed and his eyes rolled from me to Master John to the provost.

  “He saw her at Whitsuntide. Said ’twas too much to bear.” The scholar hesitated. I prompted him.

  “Saw whom? And where?”

  “Philippa. He saw her here, with her husband.”

  “Lady Philippa was here, in Oxford? Did she see Martyn? Did they speak?”

  The scholar’s reply was to retch violently. He grasped his stomach, then his neck, and we who questioned him had to step away hastily to avoid our shoes being fouled.

  Lewys emptied his belly, stood, regained the security of the doorpost, then wiped his mouth upon a sleeve. Do drunken men understand how witless they appear?

  Lewys had lost the thread of our conversation along with the contents of his stomach. He looked to me with a vacant expression and I repeated the question.

  “That’s right. She’s a lady now. She wed some knight, Martyn did say. She was here upon Oxford’s streets with her husband. Martyn didn’t say if he’d had words with her.”

  Spewing out his belly full of wine seemed to have returned Lewys to a more lucid state.

  “Seeing the lady caused de Wenlock much woe?” I said.

  “Martyn said she lived but a long day’s journey from Oxford, so she’d likely seek the town often – for new gowns and such – and ’twas more’n he could bear to see her again. He said he’d go where she’d not be.”

  “Cambridge?”

  “Aye.”

  “And he departed Oxford as soon as Trinity Term was done?”

  “Aye.”

  “Did you see him away? How did he travel?”

  “Walked, didn’t he? He had but three books. He carried them along with all his worldly goods in a sack over his shoulder. The last I saw of him he was bound for Southgate.”

  A lad who had departed Oxfordshire two weeks earlier, possessing so little he could carry his belongings in a sack, seemed an unlikely candidate to carry off a lady from under her husband’s nose, although surely he could benefit from the addition of two pounds to his purse.

  I wondered if Lady Philippa now resided in or near Cambridge. And if so, was she taken there against her will? The thought of traveling there to seek Martyn de Wenlock and ask him of Lady Philippa did not appeal. But I could see no other way to learn of what – if anything – the young scholar might have had to do with Lady Philippa’s disappearance. As it happened, I was able to answer that question, or so I thought, without the journey.

  Chapter 8

  “’Tis past the ninth hour,” Master Wycliffe said as we left Oriel College, its provost, and Robert Lewys. “Darkness will overtake you, I think, before you can return to Bampton. Will you sup with me? There are empty chambers at Queen’s College where you may stay the night, and a stables just round the corner on Catte Street where your beasts may be cared for.”

  The thought
of an evening in discourse with my mentor appealed. I had thought to return so far as Eynsham and spend the night there at the abbey before journeying on to Bampton, as I have done in the past when matters called me to Oxford. But Master John needed to exercise little persuasion to change my plans. Arthur, so long as he could consume a good meal, was amenable.

  We dined at an inn on the High Street, upon a roasted capon and maslin loaves. Whilst we consumed the fowl Master John saw a friend enter the establishment, hailed him, and invited the fellow to join us, saying the capon was fat enough to feed four. Arthur seemed dejected to hear this conclusion.

  The man wore a scholar’s gown and accepted the offer with alacrity. His visage was hollow-cheeked and his neck scrawny. His appearance indicated that he rarely found a plump capon before him.

  “Hugh, here is Eustace le Scrope,” Master John said, and introduced me then to his scholarly friend. “Eustace is of Balliol College and a fine scholar.”

  Such an accolade from Master Wycliffe is praise indeed, for Master John is known for his corrosive wit in disputation with scholars who display faulty knowledge or reasoning. This penchant has earned him both virulent enemies and loyal friends. Few of Oxford’s scholars have no opinion regarding Master Wycliffe and his views.

  Conversation over the capon bones was mundane. Perhaps I expected the exchange of brilliant thoughts and phrases. But even scholars are not immune to the pleasures of gossip. So my mind drifted to thoughts of Lady Philippa’s disappearance. Then something Arthur said brought me alert.

  “The maid’s father paid for her return?” Arthur said.

  “Aye,” le Scrope replied. “Three pounds. He could well afford it, as the rogues surely knew.”

  “Of whom do you speak?” I asked.

  “My cousin, Sir Thomas le Scrope, of Didcot.”

  “I apologize. I was wool-gathering and did not follow the conversation.”

  “Eustace was telling us of the taking of his cousin’s daughter,” Wycliffe said. “I had told him of your search for the missing lady and her two-pound ransom and he spoke of a similar abduction.”

  “When?”

  “’Twas at Candlemas,” Eustace replied, mildly annoyed at my inattention, but willing to be patient.

  “And it was a lass abducted? A young lass, you say?”

  “Aye. Joan was but thirteen years.”

  “How did it happen?” I asked. Eustace looked a little askance at this, but had the courtesy to go over it again.

  “Joan was marching to the church with other matrons and ladies. ’Twas her first time to be of age to do so. When of a sudden four mounted men galloped into the town, scattering the procession, and one was heard to call out, ‘Here is the lass.’”

  “These fellows knew whom they sought?” I said.

  “Aye. ’Twas not a random taking. The scoundrel seized her and threw her across his saddle whilst his companions wielded swords and challenged any to interfere. Men who saw this happen bore only daggers and were no match for the miscreants.”

  “Were the men masked?” I asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Even so, were they recognized? Could they be identified?”

  Eustace shrugged. “Most folk of Didcot know who seized the lass, but none have the courage to say so.”

  “The rogue is known about Didcot?” I said.

  “Aye.”

  “They have a powerful protector, then? Powerful enough that your cousin paid three pounds rather than see the evil-doers arrested.”

  “Aye. You have it so. If he sought their capture his barns would burn within a fortnight, and mayhap his house as well.”

  “Who protects this outlaw band?”

  Eustace was silent.

  “You fear to say? For dread of what the brigands might do if they learned you named their protector?”

  “Even Oxford scholars are not immune from the retribution of sinful men,” Eustace said softly.

  Le Scrope leaned toward me as if to share some secret and in a whisper spoke a name.

  “’Tis bandied about that Gaston Howes took the lass.”

  “This man is leader of a band of felons?” I asked. “Who is his dark champion?”

  Eustace fell silent again, raised a morsel of maslin loaf to his mouth, and glanced about the noisy inn as he chewed. The man was determined to ensure that no other was paying attention to us or our conversation before he would continue. His covert survey of the room evidently satisfied the scholar.

  “Sir John Willoughby,” le Scrope said, raising his cup as if the ale would wash his mouth clean of the name.

  “Willoughby? There is a judge of the King’s Eyre of that name, I believe,” I said.

  “Aye, so there is.”

  “And Sir John is kin to the judge?”

  “He is. Distant cousin or some such, I’ve heard tell.”

  Here was interesting information. A band of felons had recently seized a maid and demanded three pounds’ ransom of her father for her release. The ransom was paid even though ’twas likely he knew who had carried his daughter off. The felons had a powerful protector, who himself had an even more powerful defender. I felt sure that of the three pounds Sir Thomas paid in ransom more than a few shillings went to Sir John Willoughby and his cousin the judge.

  Would such rogues go so far from Didcot that they would seize Lady Philippa Molyns? Likely the supply of ladies near to Didcot whose ransoms would make them worth carrying off is small. And perhaps husbands and fathers of the area, who fear for their wives and daughters, pay to ensure the ladies will be let alone. Who could know? Men so threatened would not likely tell others of their inability to safeguard their spouse or daughter.

  “Your search for the missing lady of Coleshill has brought you to Oxford, then?” le Scrope said. “Have you information that those who took her may be of this place?”

  “I have not. But there is – was – a scholar of Oriel College who courted the lady before she wed Sir Aymer Molyns. I thought to seek out that scholar and discover what, if anything, he might know of Lady Philippa.”

  “You failed to find the man?” Eustace said.

  “Aye. We are told he has removed to Cambridge, to avoid the ache of seeing the lady upon Oxford’s streets – which painful encounter did befall him some weeks past.”

  “You think that he might have carried her off, or she might have willingly fled her husband to be with this scholar?”

  “Aye. I do. Mayhap she now resides in Cambridge, willingly or not,” I replied.

  “So – will you travel to Cambridge in search of this scholar?”

  “If I must. He has been there but a few weeks, so few folk of Cambridge will know the name Martyn de Wenlock.”

  Le Scrope had been leaning upon the stained, scarred table. He abruptly sat straight up, his eyes wide and his mouth open.

  “Martyn? Cambridge?” he said.

  “Aye. You know the man?”

  “Know him? I saw him yesterday. When was he to have gone to Cambridge?”

  “A scholar who shared a room with him said he departed Oxford the day after Trinity Term ended.”

  “Hmmm. He may have done,” le Scrope said. “I’d not seen him for several weeks. But I did see him yesterday.”

  “You are sure it was he?”

  “I have no doubt. I’ve known Martyn going on three years.”

  “Did he say where he now resides?”

  “Nay – I knew no reason to ask the question. ’Twas but a greeting as we passed one another on Cornmarket Street, near to St. Michael’s at Northgate.”

  I looked to Master Wycliffe. “Master John has invited me and my man to stay the night in a vacant chamber at Queen’s College. My home is in Bampton, and I meant to return there on the morrow. But now I think not. Are you engaged tomorrow, or could you prowl the streets with us? We do not know de Wenlock and would not recognize him. Perhaps if we walk the length of Cornmarket Street he might reappear there.”

  Le Scrope had enj
oyed a free meal, so perhaps he felt obliged to assist me in my search. He agreed to meet me, Arthur, and Master Wycliffe at the gate to Queen’s College at the third hour next day. Master Wycliffe’s sight has declined, to be sure, but not so that he can no longer recognize a face he knows – and he professed himself keen to be included in our hunt for the man we sought.

  I slept little that night, and the fault was not (only) Arthur and his snores. My thoughts were upon Lady Philippa, Martyn de Wenlock, and the solution to the lady’s disappearance, which I considered might be near. Would the scholar leave Oxford to avoid seeing a lady whose occasional appearance brought sorrow for what was lost – then suddenly return? Did de Wenlock reappear in Oxford because he knew Lady Philippa was near? Why do so if her presence brought mourning? Perhaps it no longer did. But why not?

  Or did he return because he knew he would no longer be grieved by the lady’s appearance on Oxford’s streets?

  Whatever the answer, I hoped I might discover it the next day.

  ’Twas not the first time my hopes were dashed, and likely will not be the last.

  Master Wycliffe, as most scholars, breaks his fast with only a cup of ale. He had a ewer full, and shared the brew with Arthur and me. There remained yet two hours ’til Eustace le Scrope should appear before Queen’s College, so Arthur and I left Master John to his studies and sought a stationer. It is my custom to write a careful record of felonies I have been charged to resolve, and I needed to renew my supply of parchment. I thought the events in which I was now embroiled would be worthy of the writing. Back in the day when my father-in-law owned a shop in Oxford he supplied this need, thankful for my service to him in removing a splinter from his back which had gone deep and festered. I had no need to purchase ink, for my Kate had produced the stuff for her father, and made all I could require from oak galls and copperas.

  But those days are gone, and on this morning I had to part with an eye-watering sum to purchase four gatherings – vellum is not cheap. Then Arthur and I wandered the familiar streets, passing the inn where once upon a time, on the first floor, I had hung with pride my sign indicating that a surgeon resided there. Arthur knew the place well, for he had accompanied Lord Gilbert on the day, many years past, when another groom’s beast, startled at a cat dashing across the street before it, wheeled and bucked and with an iron-shod hoof struck and lacerated Lord Gilbert’s leg.