by Ann Swinfen
Filled with relief, I decided the best thing I could do was just to lie here, perhaps have a little sleep. Then my head might feel better and I could stand up without feeling as though the world was tipping sideways. I shut my eyes. Sleep would be good. Later I would make the effort to go home. But before I could make myself comfortable amongst the mouse droppings, a voice in my dulled brain said, ‘Why haven’t they tipped you in the river?’
That brought me awake.
If the man or men who had killed William were also those who had attacked me, they had a convenient means of disposing of bodies. I struggled on to my knees, and promptly vomited, which made the pile of sacks even less inviting. I tried to grasp the brief glimpse I had had from the corner of my eye just as the blow felled me. A man with reddish hair. I had heard that somewhere before. Had Dafydd not said that one of the men who bought his parchment had red hair? But two men had come to him, and, if they were the same, Peter de Wallingford had seen two men talking to William. I had not seen two men, but that was no assurance that two men had not been here.
They might still be here, still intending to tip me into the river. Stunned as I was, I could easily drown. In which case, it did not seem like a sensible plan to wait around for this to happen. I turned my head carefully, biting down on my lips to avoid a cry of pain. There was no one within my limited range of sight. I levered myself to my feet and grabbed the side of the grain chute as the floor dipped and tried to throw me down again. Still holding on for support, I eased myself round until I could see the whole room. The storm rolling overhead had cast a pall over the light, but the door still stood open. In the relative gloom I could not make out anyone but myself in the mill. Weak-kneed, I shuffled over to the table. Apart from the wooden candlesticks, one knocked over and lying on its side, the table was bare. The candles, the quills, and the parchment were gone.
I wondered whether they – or he – had noticed that the ink well was not there. And had they – or he – been puzzled by the fact that the door was unlocked? I still had no idea whether the man who had struck me was alone. If he was, that might explain why I had been left here and not dumped in the river. He might have thought that the blow had been enough to kill me, and without another to assist him, it was not worthwhile bothering to carry me to the river. If the men were about in Oxford, they must have heard that William’s body had been quickly found and an inquest summoned. My body, left to rot in this abandoned place, might not be found for months. The thought caused my stomach to heave.
Outside, the rain was pelting down, a full-blown spring deluge. Surely the men, or man, would not wait about, out there in the rain? Of course, there would be some shelter under the willows, but not much, for they were not yet in full leaf. To go or stay? I was still weak and shaken, but if I waited, two men might come back for me. I was no match for them in my present state, and I carried no weapon but the workaday knife I used at mealtimes or for slitting paper in the shop when needed. If I ventured forth I would soon be soaked to my very skin, but that was better than waiting for the storm to pass over, with the men returning.
I sidled to the door, still supporting myself with a hand against the wall, and peered cautiously out, like a nervous hedgehog uncurling. There was nothing to see but rain, in wavering grey sheets blotting out the view of everything more than a few yards away. I could not see the King’s Mill now, but I had only to follow this narrow branch of the river until it reached the other channel, then turn left and follow its bank to the mill. I hoped I could manage to walk that far. It had not seemed much of a distance when I had first reached the derelict mill, but now my legs were as unreliable as those of a babe just learning to walk.
When I reached the King’s Mill – I would not allow myself to think of failing – then I could decide what to do. I might borrow a horse, if I was capable of staying in the saddle in my present state. Or I might continue on to Yardley’s farm and seek Thomas’s help. Nothing would be accomplished by delaying any further. Leaving the door ajar, as my attacker had done, I began cautiously to pick my way along the bank in the direction of the bigger channel.
I wondered that he had not locked me in. He was not to know that I had a key and must have thought I had found the door unlocked. Locking me in would have made it more difficult for me to escape, if I were still alive. The windows were small, but I might just have managed to squeeze through. If I were dead, why then it would make it even more unlikely that my body would be found. Clearly they had finished with the mill, for everything of importance had been cleared away, though I still could not imagine what had become of the Psalter.
With the rain obscuring everything, I had no idea how near I was drawing to the junction of the rivers. My shoes squelched in the long grass, rivulets dripped off my hair, and my clothes were as sodden as if I had indeed been thrown in the river. I still felt as weak as a newborn lamb, tottering along, but the slash of the cold, wind-borne rain in my face revived my brain a little.
After what seemed an interminable time, I reached the larger channel of the Cherwell. It was probably not as far as it felt, but the rain and the fact that I could not see my way made it seem longer. Thankfully I turned left on a firm footpath, and even as I did so I realised that the rain was slackening at last. Gradually my surroundings came into view, as if the solid wall of rain had been a thick mist which was now dispersing, and I saw ahead of me my goal, the King’s Mill.
Being a royal mill, this was a substantial property, with a comfortable house attached for the miller and his family, since he was a king’s servant of some standing. There was a solid bridge crossing the river, not a tremulous walkway, for which I was grateful. I did not think I could have trusted my legs to take me across Miller Wooton’s perilous structure, although they were beginning to feel a little less like green twigs and more like solid limbs capable of holding me upright.
Both the main mill building and the miller’s house stood on the far side of the river, so I crossed and knocked on the door of the house, since the wheel was turning at the mill, making it almost impossible for me to make myself heard there.
The miller’s wife, Mistress Harvey, answered the door herself. I had met both the miller and his wife before, since he was lettered and devout, characteristics not common amongst men of his trade. He had bought a book of hours from me the previous year, so that he and his wife could follow them faithfully at home. All their children had survived the Death, which they put down to their unshakeable faith. I had known many who were equally devout, including my Elizabeth, whose faith had not saved them, but I did not question their sincerity.
‘Master Elyot!’ Mistress Harvey exclaimed, throwing up her hands in horror at the sight of me. ‘What has come to you! Have you been in the river? And your head – the blood!’
Oddly, once I had ascertained that I had not been stabbed in the stomach, I had not felt my head for blood, only aware of the throbbing pain. I touched it now, and my fingers came away sticky, though much must have been washed away by the rain.
‘Come away in,’ she cried, taking me by the elbow and leading me down a screen passage and into what was clearly her parlour.
‘Nay,’ I protested, ‘I am in no fit state. Take me to the kitchen.’
She clicked her tongue, but saw the sense in that.
When we reached the kitchen, I found myself irresistibly drawn to the hearth. Until now I had not realised that I was shivering so much that my teeth rattled together like dice in a gaming box. Certainly the storm had turned a warm spring day much colder, but I think the blow on the head had unbalanced my humours, so that I felt as cold as a winter’s dawn.
Mistress Harvey asked no more questions, but set her kitchen boy to heating water and filling a tub for me beside the fire, while she shooed her maid servant before her out of the kitchen. As she closed the door I heard her telling the girl to run and fetch her master.
‘He must leave the journeyman in charge. Here’s Master Elyot, the Oxford bookseller, in such
a state–.’
The door cut off the rest of her sentence, but I did not care. I was stripping off my clothes and sinking into the warm water. I think if the kitchen boy had not roused me, I would have fallen asleep there. He had come back with some of his master’s clothes I was bidden to put on, and his mistress would be back shortly to dress my injury.
Master Harvey was a bigger man than I, very broad in the shoulders and chest, due to all that heaving of sacks of grain and flour, but I was glad to don the dry clothes however loosely they hung on me.
Both miller and wife came hurrying into the kitchen when the boy opened the door, and made much of me, Master Harvey pressing a beaker of wine into my hand, while his wife brought salves and dressings for my head.
‘I never meant to cause you so much trouble,’ I said apologetically. ‘I came only to ask if I might borrow a horse to take me home. I fear I might find it hard to walk so far.’
‘With that dint on the head,’ Master Harvey said, ‘I doubt you should ride. I’ll drive you there in the cart.’ He helped himself to some wine. No doubt he needed fortifying after the sight of me.
‘Lean your head over a little,’ Mistress Harvey said. ‘I fear I must cut away a little of your hair here.’
‘How bad is it?’ I asked.
‘A nasty blow,’ she said, proceeding to salve and bind my head with calm practicality. ‘It caught the top of your ear, and that is where most of the bleeding is. It could have been much worse.’
‘Aye. I think he sought to kill me.’
They were too polite to ask what had happened to me, but it seemed only right, in view of their kindness, that I should give them some explanation. I reminded them of the death of William Farringdon earlier in the week, and said that I and the Warden of his hall suspected that he might have been thrown in the river somewhere along the branch which led from a little below King’s Mill to the channel of the Cherwell which flowed parallel to the Oxford town wall.
‘And indeed I found things belonging to William in an old abandoned mill there,’ I said, ‘just before I was struck from behind.’
I kept to myself any mention of the Psalter, or what William had been doing there.
‘I know the place,’ Hugh Harvey said. ‘It was in my father’s time some fellow set up a mill there, but it never lasted but a few years.’
‘Aye, ’tis falling apart.’
‘And did you not see the rogue who did this?’ Mistress Harvey asked, bundling away her linen and salves, having swathed my head in what felt like an unnecessarily large bandage.
‘Only the merest glimpse,’ I said. ‘I think he had red hair.’
Miller Harvey shook his head. ‘I’ve seen no foxy heads about here.’
I did not say that I thought he had come from the opposite direction.
‘There is no need for you to drive me to Oxford,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘If I could borrow a horse or a mule?’ But even as I spoke, I swayed and had to grab the table for support.
‘Hugh!’ Mistress Harvey said, picking up my beaker and sniffing it. ‘You did not give Master Elyot wine!’
‘He needs strengthening,’ her husband protested.
‘Not with wine. Not after a blow on the head. Master Elyot, you are in no fit state to ride. Hugh will take you in the cart. The journeyman will finish the day’s work at the mill. But will you not take supper with us first?’
‘You are very kind, mistress,’ I said, ‘but my sister will be worried. I will send back these clothes tomorrow.’
‘I have made up yours into a bundle,’ she said. ‘Please give my respects to Mistress Makepeace.’
As we made our way toward the door, I saw a row of young faces peering down at us from the top of the stairs, and raised my hand to the Harvey children. All were watching, open-mouthed, save the eldest boy, who came leading the horse and cart from the barn. The miller gave me a hand up into the back of the cart, where I made myself comfortable, with my bundle of wet clothes, amongst half a load of straw and a pair of sacks of flour.
‘Do not think you are taking me out of the way,’ the miller said cheerfully. ‘I have those sacks to deliver to St John’s, and your shop is not much further along.’
‘I’m grateful for your kindness, nonetheless,’ I said.
He climbed up to the front of the cart and chirruped to his horse. Before we were halfway to the bridge, I was asleep, cradled in straw and flour.
Chapter Eight
I woke from a troubled half-sleep, half-waking nightmare, when the cart stopped at the gatehouse to St John’s Hospital. Miller Harvey was talking to the porter at the lodge, then there was the squeal of hinges as the main gate was dragged open to admit the cart. As we drove into the outer court, I sat up and tried to brush the fragments of straw off my borrowed clothes, for I had no wish to look like a wandering beggar here, where I was known. The cart passed through into a further courtyard and stopped. The sacks of flour would be unloaded here, so I stood up and tried to heave them to the rear of the cart, but I was still too weakened to shift the first more than a few feet when Harvey swung himself up into the cart and took it from me.
‘Leave that, Master Elyot,’ he said with a grin. ‘If you start that wound of yours bleeding again I shall have my wife after my skin.’
He slung the sacks easily down to someone waiting below, while I scrambled to the front of the cart. I did not want to arrive under the noses of my neighbours like another sack in the body of the cart. His delivery made, the miller climbed up beside me, turned his horse, and urged him ahead out of the gates. We passed both men and women as we went, for this was a mixed house, caring for the sick and needy, though I had heard that relations between the two sides were not always as harmonious as they should be amongst men and women of the cloth.
‘Not far to go now,’ Harvey said, as the gates closed behind us, leaving only the small wicket open.
We turned right, past the cottages and through the East Gate. The storm had turned the road to a quagmire, so that people drew back as we passed, to avoid the mud thrown up by our wheels. When we stopped outside my shop, I saw that Walter had already closed the shutters. I had lost all sense of time and the storm had darkened the day early. Even now, although the storm clouds had passed, the sky was dull. It must be considerably later than I had expected to return home. I climbed down carefully, carrying my bindle of wet clothes.
‘I give you thanks, Master Harvey, for all your kindness, yours and your wife’s. Will you step inside for a bite of supper?’
‘Nay, I thank you.’ He pushed up his hat with the butt end of his whip, which he seemed to carry merely for show. ‘I’ll away back home before the East Gate is shut.’
With that he turned the cart, with some difficulty for the mud dragged at the wheels, and set off back the way we had come.
I must see Margaret first, then I had better look for Jordain, who would be wondering what had become of me. By now he would surely have finished showing William’s mother and sister the grave in St Peter’s churchyard. He would escort them back to the Cross Inn and might sit with them for a time, but he must now be back at Hart Hall. Suddenly it seemed a long way to walk.
When I came into the kitchen, the murmur of talk, which I could hear as soon as I entered the shop, stopped abruptly.
‘Nicholas!’ Margaret sprang to her feet, a mixture of alarm and annoyance on her face. ‘What have you been doing? Why are you turbaned like an infidel?’
‘Someone took a swipe at me,’ I said, sinking into the chair she had vacated. I did not quite trust myself to stay upright on a backless stool. ‘Mistress Harvey at the King’s Mill dressed it for me and I think she has used an overabundance of bandaging.’ I felt the side of my head gingerly. There was indeed a great deal of linen about my head.
The children were staring at me open-mouthed, and I saw that Walter was still here. Like my sister he had also risen from his seat.
‘King’s Mill?’ he said in bewilderment, as well he
might.
‘Aye, it was the nearest place to go, after I was struck.’
‘And why are you wearing those ridiculous clothes?’ Now that she was assured I had come to no serious harm, Margaret’s voice had become exasperated.
‘I took a soaking in the storm. These are Miller Harvey’s clothes. Mine are here.’ I pointed to the bundle I had dropped at my feet.
She snatched it up and began to shake out the sorry mess of my clothes.
‘I won’t ask why you did not take shelter from the storm, or why you have been all the way over to the King’s Mill.’
I understood very clearly what that meant. Wearily, I passed a hand over my face.
‘Is there any supper?’ I asked meekly. ‘I have no idea what hour it is. I was quite out of my wits for a time. After the blow.’
Her gaze softened a little. ‘We were about to sup. Walter stayed, for we were not sure what had become of you. Had you not returned for supper, he would have come looking for you, for he knew we were worried.’
In the past, I think she would not have worried if I was absent a little beyond my hour, but these were lawless times.
‘That was good of you, Walter, but after we eat, there is an errand you might do for me. I had promised to see Jordain Brinkylsworth when I returned, by I am not certain of making my way to Hart Hall and back. I am still somewhat uncertain on my legs.’
‘Gladly, Master Elyot,’ he said.
Margaret was spreading my wet garments out to dry near the fire, moving the puppy firmly aside when she tried to help by sitting on my cotte.
‘And did you walk all the way home from the King’s Mill?’ she said.
‘Nay, Miller Harvey drove me in his cart. He was delivering flour to St John’s.’