The Bookseller's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 1)

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘Don’t interrupt, Alysoun,’ I said.

  ‘But I want to know.’

  ‘In the old days, my maid,’ Walter said, ‘long before the Normans came, England was made up of many small kingdoms, and each had its own king. Our man Jestyn lived near here. His father had a farm over beyond the Cherwell, and he was the youngest of three sons.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘And no more interruptions, Alysoun.’

  Jestyn was a good lad and worked hard on his father’s farm, but he had little to hope for in the future. His eldest brother would inherit the farm. The second brother was heir to his uncle. So what would become of Jestyn when their father died? He was clever with his hands, so he earned a little by carving small figures of the saints, which he would sell in Oxford market. Perhaps someday he would be able to earn enough to keep himself, but it would be a poor living.

  Then one day in the market, a great procession passed by. The king was come to visit Osney Abbey, and he had with him his beautiful daughter. When Jestyn saw her, he knew at once that he wanted no other woman for his wife, but what hope did he have, a poor third son? He watched them pass, and from that day on, he knew no rest.

  ‘What was she called, the king’s daughter?’ Alysoun asked, before I could stop her.

  Walter pretended to think, closing his eyes and scratching his head. ‘Why, I do believe she was called Alysoun!’

  She gave me a self-satisfied smile, and threw her arm about my neck.

  Now Jestyn could not rest until he learned more about Alysoun, the king’s daughter, so everywhere he went, he asked about her. And he learned that the king, who was a devout man, but also somewhat greedy, greatly desired a golden statue of the Virgin, which belonged to Osney Abbey. The abbot had refused all his offers to buy the statue, but the king had not given up hope. He had declared that if any man could obtain the statue for him, that man should have his daughter’s hand in marriage.

  Jestyn was greatly excited by this and over the supper table one night he made the mistake of telling his father and brothers of the king’s promise.

  ‘Then I shall have the princess,’ his eldest brother said. He was a big, swaggering fellow, used to getting his own way. ‘I shall buy the statue. The monks will not dare to stand against me.’

  The next day he went to the abbey and offered the monks the whole of his father’s farm in exchange for the statue. But the monks refused him. When his father heard what he had tried to do, he cuffed him about the ears.

  ‘I shall have the princess,’ said the second brother. He was small and wiry, quite unlike the eldest one, and he was a sly fellow. ‘If they will not sell the statue, then I shall steal it.’

  It was lucky for him that his father did not overhear.

  The next night he climbed over the abbey wall and slipped into the chapel. The statue stood on the altar, and as he reached out to grab it, a great black dog, the guardian of the statue, rose up and seized him by the seat of his hose. He managed to tear himself away and threw himself over the wall, but he came back with the seat of his hose quite torn away!

  Alysoun giggled, but stuffed her fist in her mouth when she saw Margaret’s frown.

  ‘His mama would scold him,’ said Rafe, and gave a great yawn.

  ‘Aye, she would,’ Walter said, smiling.

  How strange, I thought, that Rafe should say that, never having known his own mother. He must have learned it from Alysoun, or one of their friends.

  ‘Go on, Walter,’ Margaret said. She bit off her thread and laid her sewing aside. ‘What did Jestyn, the third son, do?’

  ‘Ah, well, you see, Jestyn was much cleverer than his brothers.’

  Walter settled the sleepy Rafe more comfortably and continued.

  Jestyn decided to visit the abbey and view this amazing statue. Indeed, he went to Mass there every day for a week and studied that statue until he knew every line of it, then he set to, and carved a copy so like that you could never have told them apart.

  ‘But the statue in the abbey was made of gold,’ Alysoun objected.

  Walter merely nodded.

  Jestyn had saved a little money from the carvings he sold at the market, and he took all his money to the stationer who sold gold leaf.

  Walter bowed to me.

  It took every penny he had, but he bought enough gold leaf to cover the statue, and when he had done it, you would have said it was the very statue that stood on the altar. The problem was, he now had to exchange his statue for the real one. Once again, he attended Mass there every day, and he almost despaired. It seemed all his labour would be in vain, for although he carried his statue with him in his scrip, he had never a chance to exchange them. He prayed hard to the Virgin, for he thought she would favour his marriage to the princess, despite the trick he was about to play. It seems she heard his prayers, for one day during Mass, fire broke out in the abbey kitchen. In the confusion, Jestyn exchanged the statues.

  Alysoun’s arm had been tightening round my neck, but now she relaxed and gave a contented sigh.

  The next morning, Jestyn set out for the king’s castle. He had no horse to ride, so he had to walk all the way, and he was dusty and footsore when he arrived. At first the servants would not let him in to see the king, but at last he prevailed. When the king saw the statue, he leapt from his throne and embraced Jestyn. ‘You shall have my daughter and half my kingdom!’ he declared. And that was just what happened.

  ‘But,’ Alysoun said doubtfully, ‘you said he was a good man. I don’t think he was a good man if he cheated the abbey like that.’

  ‘It’s not quite the end of the story,’ Walter said, easing him arm where Rafe had slumped against it, asleep.

  Jestyn and the princess Alysoun were married, and he was kind to his father and brothers, now he was grown rich and powerful, but he was troubled about the wooden statue covered with gold foil that now stood on the altar at Osney. It cost him many a night’s sleep. However, the king died not six months after the wedding, and the first thing Jestyn did after his death was to mount his fine horse and ride to the abbey with the real statue. He confessed everything to the abbot, who set him a penance, but it was not a severe one, for he was mighty pleased to have the statue again. When Jestyn returned to the castle with the statue he had made, he told Alysoun all that he had done to win her, and how he had returned the real statue to the abbey. He thought she would be angry, but she only smiled and kissed him.

  ‘They cannot be very clever, these monks,’ she said, ‘for the weight of the statues is quite different. Any woman who lifted the statue to dust it could have told them that this one is made of wood.’

  Jestyn laughed, for he knew that his wife spoke the truth, and that she was indeed cleverer than all the monks of Osney put together. Nevertheless, to the end of his days he believed that the Virgin had helped him to win Alysoun, by pulling the wool over the monks’ eyes.

  Alysoun yawned. ‘That is a good story. I am glad Jestyn married Alysoun, but I am also glad that the monks got their statue back. Is it still there?’

  ‘That I do not know,’ Walter said. ‘I have not been to Osney Abbey, and it did happen a very long time ago.’

  ‘There are many treasures in the abbey,’ I said. ‘Quite likely it is still there. That will be a good tale for your book, Walter. And now, princess Alysoun, it is time you went to bed.’

  ‘Carry me!’ she said imperiously. ‘I am a princess!’

  Walter laughed. ‘I will bring Rafe.’

  When the children were safely abed, I drew the curtain across their doorway, but not before I had seen from the corner of my eye a puppy-shaped shadow slipping into the room behind me.’

  ‘I’ll be away home, then,’ Walter said, when we reached the kitchen. ‘I thank you for an excellent supper, mistress.’

  ‘And I thank you for an excellent tale, Walter,’ Margaret said. ‘It was good to see you at our table again.’

  I saw Walter through the shop to the door, locking and bolting it aft
er him. Back in the kitchen I sat for an hour or so with Margaret before I went exhausted to bed, but oddly, I could not sleep for a long time. When I did, Walter’s story haunted my dreams and when I woke I had the unsatisfactory sense that it had tried to tell me something.

  Chapter Seven

  That Friday morning the shop was unusually busy, leaving me little opportunity to think about William’s murder or the seeming disappearance of the Irish Psalter. I was pleased, however, when the carter returned from Banbury with the news that the widow had accepted my offer for her husband’s books. She would be glad, he said, of the money soon.

  ‘Her husband was a decent fellow,’ he said, ‘Goodman Preston, holding a tenant farm just outside the town, but he was a dreamer. The last few years he has let the farm slide, and once Goodwife Preston has paid the heriot due to the lord – their best pair of oxen! – she will have little enough. The farm must go back to her overlord, for she has no sons to work it.’

  ‘What will she do?’ I asked. I felt somewhat guilty that I had not offered more for the books, but as it was I did not expect to make much profit from them. Perhaps if I could squeeze a little more out of Merton for the bestiary, I could send Widow Preston the extra.

  ‘She and her daughter are both skilled lacemakers,’ the carter said. ‘She has taken a cottage in the town and will sell at the market. I daresay she will earn enough to keep them both, but until she has stock to sell, they must eat and pay rent.’

  ‘I will ride over there on Monday,’ I said, ‘and take the money myself.’

  He had hardly gone when Mistress Lapley also called in, wanting to know when her copy of the French book would be ready.

  ‘It is with the binders, Mistress Lapley,’ I reassured her, ‘and they have promised to have it ready sometime next week. I will send Roger to you with it as soon as it is in my hands.’

  She had been coming into the shop at least twice a week since she had first commissioned the work, to Roger’s annoyance, and I saw him now making a face behind her back. I hoped also to sell her the bound set of mismatched tales, but I would not show it to her until Roger had finished making our own better book from it, which I might hope to offer to a wealthier customer.

  After that, a crowd of students arrived, coming from their lectures, some returning their rented peciae, some choosing others to take away and copy. The summer disputations were but a few weeks away, and as the time drew nearer it always proved a spur to their studies. I had not realised it was so near the dinner hour when Jordain arrived, breathless and dishevelled.

  ‘I am sorry, Nicholas,’ he burst out, when he was barely through the door. ‘I cannot come with you this afternoon.’

  I took him by the elbow and steered him through into the kitchen. Margaret was stirring something in a pot over the fire, Alysoun was laying out plates on the table, and Rafe was rolling about on the floor with the puppy, who was washing his face earnestly.

  ‘Come through into the garden,’ I said.

  We took the path that lay between the vegetable plot and the herb garden, and took a seat on the bench under one of the pear trees. Opposite us the quince was in full bloom. Last year it had borne little fruit, but by the signs the harvest would be bountiful this autumn.

  ‘What’s amiss?’ I said, for he looked distressed.

  He took off his academic cap and ran his fingers through the thick curls which surrounded his tonsure. His hair was dark with sweat.

  ‘Has something untoward happened?’

  ‘Nay, nay, I am making too much of it.’ He clapped his cap on to the back of his head, where it perched precariously. ‘A lad from the Cross Inn caught me as I was leaving the Schools. It seems William’s mother and sister arrive in Oxford today. They sent ahead to the inn, to be sure of a room. They will be here sometime this afternoon, so of course I must be here to receive them.’

  ‘Aye, you must. But it is only – what? – three days since you wrote to Mistress Farringdon. They are very quickly come.’

  ‘Their home is but over the border in Berkshire, no great distance.’ He gave me a troubled look. ‘I wish now that I had delayed William’s funeral another day.’

  ‘You were not to know. They will understand. Do you want me to come with you to meet them?’

  ‘Nay, there is no need. It is best if you carry on with our original plan. We need to know whether there is any sign that William ever went up that other branch of the Cherwell. I will see them settled at the Cross Inn, then take them to visit William’s grave. Mistress Farringdon must tell me what she wishes to do, whether to take William’s body home, or leave it here in Oxford.’

  ‘I will make the trip as swiftly as I may,’ I said, ‘though I have no idea how far along that portion of the river extends. As soon as I am back in Oxford I will find you. Will you be at Hart Hall?’

  ‘Aye, if I have finished my business with William’s poor mother, though I cannot say how long it will take. We may still be at St Peter’s.’

  ‘I will find you,’ I said firmly, ‘never concern yourself with that. Now, take some dinner with us before you go off to await them.’

  He shook his head. ‘I have no appetite. I dread this meeting with the boy’s mother. She would have believed that he was safe in my care.’

  ‘You cannot be held responsible for his death, Jordain. He was not a child. I married at about his age.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he was under my care.’

  There was no persuading him otherwise, and I knew better than to press him. He hurried away to await mother and sister at the Cross Inn, and I went in to dinner with my family.

  There was no need to go the long way round, this time, by the East Bridge and up the west side of the Cherwell. Once I had eaten my dinner and seen Walter and Roger settled for the afternoon, I headed up Catte Street to the small Smith Gate, then over the Canditch, and right along Longwall Street. Sometimes this first portion of the road that follows the curve outside the town wall is known as Holywell Street, for at the point where the wall and the road turn sharp south, two branches lead ahead. The one on the left goes to the church of St Cross, a daughter chapel of St Peter’s, while that on the right leads directly to Holywell Mill.

  The whole area around both church and mill is known as Holywell, for close by the church there is a well of pure, sweet water, sacred to St Winifred and St Margaret. Its water is known to be efficacious in the case of skin diseases and other ills. Even some with leprosy have been cured. I had drunk from it myself as a young student, when I had a persistent cough, and it had cured me, so I could vouch for its healing powers. I had read my ancient history, and I knew that this ancient well must once have been sacred to some pagan god or goddess. Whoever the presiding deity might be now, pagan or Christian, the water is surely blessed.

  I took the right hand way to the mill, stepping aside on to the verge almost at once as a farmer’s cart came from the opposite direction, having delivered a load of grain for grinding. Here and there along the dirt track, clusters of birds flew up at my approach, starlings with their dagger beaks and plumage as fine as eastern silks, plucky little sparrows, defiant in the face of the larger birds. Somehow I always regard the sparrow as a very English bird. They were all feasting on scattered grain that had spilled from the many carts which passed this way. As I neared the mill, I nodded to a wiry villein trudging toward me, bowed under a heavy sack of flour, sent by a master no doubt too mean to spare a horse or a mule for the task. He returned my nod, but wore a surly look.

  ‘Hard work on a hot afternoon,’ I said sympathetically.

  He grunted, and swung the sack to the ground, then straightened and pressed his fists into the small of his back.

  ‘Aye, with so many dead, maister treats us that are left like treadmill beasts. We’ll not endure much more.’

  It was not the first time I had heard such sentiments. Landowners were hard pressed since the Death to find labour enough to work their land, and many a man whose ancestors had been tied
to the same manor for generations was running away from his villein service.

  ‘It’s hard,’ I said, ‘but do you not have bed and lodging, at least? There’s many a vagrant or outlaw would be glad of that.’

  He made a scornful noise. ‘No need to become either. I’ll be making my way into town one day soon, and stay my year and a day.’

  ‘You will still need a trade,’ I said cautiously. This was a dangerous conversation, and I would be well out of it as soon as possible.

  ‘Oh, I’ve skills enough,’ he said carelessly. ‘I can turn my hand to most things.’

  He would need more than that, I thought, to find himself a position as a craftsman, but did not pursue the matter.

  ‘Well, I wish you a better future, friend,’ I said. ‘God go with ’ee.’

  ‘And with ’ee, maister.’ With a grunt he heaved the sack on to his back again, and set off down the road.

  As I neared the mill I realised that the miller must not be grinding at the moment, for the only sound was the rushing of the river over the weir. The great wheel stood silent and still, but the wood gleamed wetly and sparkling drops fell from the timbers. It must just have ceased turning. Remembering my promise to Alysoun, I put my head through the door, briefly blinded by the darkness within after the sun and glimmer of the water outside.

  ‘Goodman Wooton!’ I called. ‘Art at home?’

  The burly figure of the miller loomed out of the shadows beyond the chute which delivered the ground flour into sacks here on the lowest floor of the mill.

  ‘Aye?’ he said, none too welcoming, for it was clear I brought him no business.

  I stepped inside and broached the matter of a puppy, born of a good ratting dam. With Goodman Wooton it was as well not to waste words or he would merely walk away.

  He shrugged. ‘I might take it, I might not. I’d fare better with a dog grown, not a new weaned pup. John Baker in the High Street, you say? He buys of me, though not all of his flour, I’ll be bound. And his son is a young devil.’

  This, I thought, was hardly fair to Jonathan, but there was no purpose to engaging in a dispute with the miller. And I knew very well that John bought only his coarsest flour here, the mixed grain for maslin bread. The finer qualities he bought from Blackfriars.