by Starr, Mel;
“When? Why did he travel there?”
“When? Near a week past. He goes there two, maybe three, times each year, does Father Andrew. His mother resides there, an’ his two sisters.”
“When he travels there does he spend the night away?”
Faringdon is but three miles from Clanfield. A man may easily walk there and return in a day.
“Sometimes he does, sometimes not.”
“Did he return the same day on his most recent visit, or remain overnight?”
“He come back next day.”
Here was an interesting discovery. When I asked the priest if he had traveled from Clanfield in the past few days he had replied that he had not. Did he think that visiting Faringdon a fortnight past did not qualify as “the past few days”?
“Did he have a companion with him?” I asked the housekeeper. “Did he travel with another man?”
“Nay. I don’t think so. Not that I saw.”
“Does Father Andrew own a horse?”
“A priest of Faringdon parish own a horse?” the woman scoffed.
I thanked the woman for her time, mounted my palfrey, and as I nudged the beast to set off for Bampton glanced over my shoulder to the priest’s house. The priest stood in the open door, watching us depart. He was too far distant to know for certain, but I thought his expression not so congenial as before.
The grange’s barley loaves and oat pottage did not satisfy past the ninth hour, and ’twas well past that of the clock when we passed Cowleys Corner, and the wall of Bampton Castle came into view.
Duty and desire may often be in conflict. My desire was to leave Arthur and Uctred to deal with the beasts and set off afoot for Galen House. Kate would likely expect me home this day – perhaps wondering that I had not returned sooner – and a meal would await me.
Lord Gilbert had told me I need no longer concern myself with Lady Philippa’s disappearance. But so long as I continued to seek the lady he would wish to be informed of any new knowledge which came my way.
So with Arthur and Uctred I dismounted at the castle drawbridge and sought my employer. I found him with Sir Henry Hering, Bampton Castle’s new marshal, laying out the site for an enlargement of the castle larder. Lord Gilbert saw me approach, made a final comment to Sir Henry, and turned to meet me.
“What news?” he said in his bluff fashion. “Your face says Lady Philippa is yet missing, even though your lips are silent.”
“I did not know I am so easily read,” I replied. “But you speak true. I have no thought as to where she might be or who took her there. I have learned that two men were seen in the night upon Badbury Hill retrieving the ransom, and one of those wore a priest’s robe. Later that same evening two men, one garbed as a priest, or mayhap a monk, sought lodging for the night at a grange at Great Coxwell.”
“Great Coxwell?” Lord Gilbert mused. “The place is little more than a bowshot from Badbury Hill.”
“Indeed.”
“The scoundrel will have a protector. No monk or village priest would be so bold as to steal a lady on his own, I think.”
“Would Sir John Willoughby protect a rascal priest?” I wondered aloud. “Perhaps the other man who collected Sir Aymer’s ransom was Gaston Howes.”
My stomach chose that moment to growl loudly. Lord Gilbert heard, lifted an eyebrow, and dismissed me.
“Your Kate will have a supper ready, I think. You’d best be off. Be cautious if you intend to seek felons who have a powerful protector.”
I promised to do so, then hurried across the castle yard, under the castle gatehouse, thence to Church View Street and my supper.
Chapter 12
’Twas a fast day, so my Kate, with Adela’s assistance, had prepared a dish of haddock in balloc broth for our supper. My goings and comings have, of late, been unpredictable, but Kate’s guess that I would return this day was accurate.
When we were first wed Kate and I fell into the habit of drawing a bench to the toft after supper, there to rest from the day’s travail in the fading sunlight and speak of events. We continued the custom after Bessie, then Sybil and John were added to our household, tucking them first into their beds. When Kate’s father came from Oxford to live with us he would often join us. The bench is large enough for three.
After supper Adela took Bessie and John to their beds – not without some protest from Bessie, who has begun to believe herself old enough to participate in adult matters. Why is it, I wonder, that children wish to be older and the aged wish to again be young? We prefer what we have not, and disdain what we have.
This thought occupied me as I placed the bench against the west wall of Galen House. When Kate and her father joined me I spoke of Bessie, whose protest had only moments before ceased.
“’Tis a happy child who is content with her lot,” Caxton said.
“Then many children are unhappy,” Kate said.
“Aye, and their parents also,” her father replied.
“Perhaps this is no bad thing,” I said. “If all men were content with their lot, who would go to Oxford to study and improve themselves? Who would undertake to build a great cathedral, or even improve a village church? Had I been content with my bachelor state I would not have pursued you,” I said to Kate.
“Ah,” she smiled. “And did the capture improve your condition?”
“I am well fed, with two healthy babes, and my bed is warmed on cold winter nights. I would be a dolt to think otherwise.”
“There are dolts among men, then,” Caxton said.
“Aye, and among women, also,” Kate added.
As neither her father nor I took exception to this remark the subject seemed exhausted and we three fell silent, basking in what remained of the sunlight before the oaks of Lord Gilbert’s forest obstructed the light.
Kate sat to my left, her father to my right. Because she was farther from Caxton, Kate likely did not hear his faint sigh. No, ’twas more a gasp, and I saw his hand reach for his belly. In the past weeks I had seen that his appetite was not so hearty, and his belly seemed swollen. I did not like these developments, but had not mentioned them to Kate. Holy Writ tells us the evils of each day are enough. We must not worry about the evils which may attend tomorrow. So I had not spoken to my wife of my concerns lest she fret about her father’s health. But I resolved that some time when Kate was not present to become alarmed I would examine my father-in-law.
I had spoken of Badbury Hill and Great Coxwell and the discoveries there while we consumed our supper. Kate revisited the subject.
“In the dark I suppose a monk, a priest, and friar appear the same,” she said.
“Unless they be Cistercians. Even in the night the pale robe of a Cistercian monk would surely be distinguished from that of a priest.”
“If ’twas a monk, then, whoso made off with the ransom was likely a Benedictine, eh?” Caxton said.
“Aye, and likely not of the grange at Wyke or Great Coxwell, either monk or lay brother.”
“Do you suppose the two fellows who retrieved the ransom did so for themselves or were they doing the work of some other?” Kate wondered. “It must be some other charged them with collecting the coins,” she added. “Two men would not be strong enough to seize two women from a wagon, I think. Unless they were willing to be taken.”
“If you were wed to a man who berated and beat you because you failed to conceive,” I said, “would you connive at your own disappearance?”
Kate stared pensively at the golden westerly sky before she answered. “Had I someplace to go, aye. I would. But a bad place is better, I think, than no place.”
“Why, then, a ransom demand?” her father asked.
“Mayhap the place she would go had little wealth,” I said. “Such as the lodging of a poor scholar.”
“And to demand a ransom would disguise the fact that the lady was complicit in her own disappearance,” Caxton said.
“It could be so,” I replied. “But how could the lady convin
ce a priest or monk to aid her in the business?”
“A few shillings would be enough, I think,” Kate said. “Or even less, had the lady some kin in holy orders, willing to help her.”
Here was a new thought, and worth pursuing if no other paths took me to Lady Philippa. But first I had a mind to visit Didcot and there seek Gaston Howes and mayhap Sir John Willoughby. But not alone. If Howes led a band of knaves in service to Sir John, I would learn nothing from him unless I appeared at his door backed by more force than he could muster.
I serve a greater lord than Howes, for Lord Gilbert outranks Sir John Willoughby, who is but a knight, and not even a banneret, and this I determined to use. That evening, after we had replaced the bench in the kitchen and sought our beds, I decided to send a message to Sir John, over Lord Gilbert’s signature, and closed with his seal, if Lord Gilbert would agree. He did.
I sought my employer early next morning, after a maslin loaf and ale. When I explained my mission he readily agreed to the part I wished him to play – which was simple enough. He had but to sign his name to a letter which I would dictate to his chaplain’s clerk, whose duties include serving as Lord Gilbert’s secretary.
The clerk was summoned to the solar, told of his task, and sent for ink, parchment, and pen. He returned shortly and wrote to Sir John Willoughby the letter I dictated. In brief, I told Sir John that I, Lord Gilbert, Third Baron Talbot, had taken an interest in the disappearance of Lady Philippa Molyns, née Felbridge, and had learned of a similar offense near Didcot. In a few days my bailiff, Sir Hugh de Singleton, would visit him seeking to discover if the men who took for ransom a lass named Joan le Scrope might be the same who seized Lady Philippa and demanded two pounds’ ransom for her return. I ended the missive with a remark that the recipient would surely offer Sir Hugh all assistance he required, considering the rank of him who signed his name.
Lord Gilbert returned to the solar as I concluded dictation. I offered him the document, which he read and approved, then he took the clerk’s quill and with a flourish signed his name. The clerk folded the parchment while Lord Gilbert removed his signet ring. A candle was tilted so as to drip wax upon the letter, and the clerk pressed Lord Gilbert’s seal into the wax.
“If Sir John will not help you find this Gaston Howes,” Lord Gilbert said, “what then? Do you expect me to send household knights to Didcot if he will not yield to this request?”
“Your name upon this parchment will suffice, I believe. Can even his cousin, a judge of the King’s Eyre, protect him if you go to the king, or Prince Edward, and request that influence be applied to produce the information I seek?”
“You are as acquainted with the prince as I. You might ask this of him yourself.”
“Indeed, but I do not wish to presume upon Prince Edward’s goodwill.”
“The prince does not take umbrage at those who might presume on his goodwill if they have previously done him good service. As you have done.”
“We may hope,” I replied, “that the prince’s intervention will not be required, and this letter with your seal upon it will suffice.”
“Indeed. In the letter you tell Sir John that you will visit him in a few days. Who will deliver this message?”
“I thought to send Arthur and Uctred, garbed in your livery, your badge upon their tunics.”
“’Tis sixteen miles, thereabouts, to Didcot. Do you expect them to travel there and return the same day?”
“Nay. Neither the beasts which bear them nor their own rumps should be so abused. I would send them tomorrow, after mass and dinner. They may return Monday. There is a priory near Didcot where they may seek lodging Sunday evening.”
“Very well. Then you will go to Didcot on Tuesday?”
“Aye, or perhaps Wednesday. If I give Sir John a few days to consider his position I may find him more amenable.”
“You may. Or you may provide him with time to invent falsehoods and prepare an uncongenial welcome. Will you travel to Didcot alone?”
“Nay. Mysterious events can happen to a lone traveler. Arthur and Uctred will return there with me.”
Neither Lord Gilbert nor I thought to ask Arthur and Uctred if they desired to travel to Didcot even once, much less twice. Grooms in service to a great lord are not asked where they wish to go nor when they wish to go there. They are told. And expect this to be so. And life within the walls of a castle can be boring at times.
By the time the letter to Sir John had been written, signed, and sealed ’twas near time for dinner. Thus I knew where to find Arthur and Uctred, and awaited the ringing of the bell which would bring them to Bampton Castle’s hall.
“Have you ever been to Didcot?” I asked Arthur.
“Did what?”
Here was answer enough. “Didcot. A town a few miles beyond Abingdon.”
“The place what that scholar spoke of, where the lass was took at Candlemas?”
“Aye. Lord Gilbert and I wish for you and Uctred to travel there tomorrow, after mass and your dinner. In Didcot you will seek Sir John Willoughby and deliver to him a letter from Lord Gilbert.”
“This is about Lady Philippa?”
“It is. Perhaps. Men who succeed at a felony may think to try the same evil again.”
“Willoughby? I recall the name,” Arthur said. “That scholar spoke of a knight who protected them what stole the lass. That ’im?”
“Aye. But you need do nothing but place the letter into his hands, then return on Monday. Steventon Priory is not far from Didcot. You may spend the night there. We intend to allow Sir John to consider Lord Gilbert’s words for a day, then Wednesday you and Uctred and I and perhaps a few others will confront Sir John with what is known of his business, and try to learn if there are matters unknown which can be brought to light.”
“A few others? You think Sir John will take amiss what Lord Gilbert ’as to say?”
“He may. Or he may seek to avoid causing a great lord anger, and cooperate.”
“So when you visit Didcot on Wednesday you think it best to prepare for the worst, eh?”
“Aye. Safer to prepare for villainy which may not occur than expect good fortune and be confounded.”
I left Arthur and Uctred to their meals and returned to Galen House and my own dinner. Kate and Adela had prepared whelks in bruit with maslin loaves. The day was warm and pleasant, my belly was full. Bessie and John played and giggled. Why, then, was I dissatisfied? Should a missing lady I had never met so upset my life? Probably not. Should I dismiss the matter, tell Arthur and Uctred to remain at the castle tomorrow, and require Sir Aymer to find his own wife? Lord Gilbert had granted me such permission. Would I be less fretful if I gave up the search, and never learned Lady Philippa’s fate, or if I continued the quest, perhaps unsuccessfully?
And success seemed unlikely as I thought of what little I knew and what I must yet discover before the lady could be found and returned to Coleshill. Bogo Bennyng had been absent from ditching past the time he should have returned to his labor, and this at the time when Lady Philippa had vanished. Father Andrew had traveled to Faringdon near the time Sir Aymer’s ransom was collected. Might he and Bogo be comrades in villainy? Here were loose ends which needed tying up. But how?
Sir Aymer mistreated his wife because she did not produce an heir. Would this cause the lady to seek escape, or even seek another husband? Or a lover? And what of John Cely, deaf and near blind, but perhaps not so deaf as folk believed?
What of Martyn de Wenlock? He fled Oxford to avoid the pain of seeing Lady Philippa, so he said – but then abruptly returned. A young man’s heart may be fickle. Had he found a new love in Oxford which brought him back to the town? How could he, if he was in Cambridge? Was he, for a few days, in Cambridge? The innkeeper said he was in Oxford the day Lady Philippa was taken. Did he speak true? Might a few pence have affected his memory?
Who were the men who retrieved Sir Aymer’s coins upon Badbury Hill, and whence did they come? Were they the same who
sought shelter for the night at Great Coxwell? Surely. When they departed the grange where did they travel? To Didcot? Was one of the fellows Gaston Howes? Would a man who had brazenly seized a lass at Candlemas now travel by night, and with a priest, to collect a ransom? And what fine hand wrote the ransom note?
After mass and dinner the following day, I sent Arthur and Uctred on their way, Lord Gilbert’s letter to Sir John Willoughby tucked safely into a leather pouch hung about Arthur’s thick neck. Tied to his belt was a purse which contained ten pence for ale, meals, and lodging at an inn if they could not be accommodated at Steventon Priory.
What transpired over the next two days I learned from Arthur upon their return. Before he spoke I knew that matters had gone amiss and when I traveled to Didcot it must be with a sizeable contingent of Lord Gilbert’s grooms and pages. And a few household knights.
Arthur and Uctred’s faces were bruised and lacerated when they appeared at Bampton Castle’s gatehouse late Monday afternoon. Their cotehardies and tunics were torn and muddied, and the shoulder of Uctred’s garment was bloodied from a torn ear.
They had been attacked, that was clear. Whoso did this must have outnumbered them, or likely their appearance would be no better than Arthur and Uctred’s. Neither man is incompetent at defending himself.
I had been awaiting their return in the castle yard, and when I saw them appear I hurried to greet them. As did others. One glance as they dismounted was enough to confirm they had been in combat. Excited voices asked the predictable questions. I shouted for silence so Arthur could explain the cause of his battered appearance.
“Traveled to Didcot yesterday in good time,” he began. “Asked folk for Sir John, found ’is manor ’ouse in Coscote, an’ give ’im the letter. Told ’im ’twas from Lord Gilbert, so ’e knew that before ’e broke the seal. Did that before ’e dismissed us.”
“What did he say?” I asked.
“Nothin’. Frowned, thanked us, an’ sent us on our way. Didn’t even offer a cup of ale for our trouble.”
“Were you then set upon when you departed Sir John’s house?”