by Ann Swinfen
I have known bibliophiles who would sell their family inheritance to lay hands on a book they coveted, though I had never yet met one who would countenance murder in the getting. Perhaps the buyer had not countenanced it and the dark man, the man of violence, had struck out at William without authorisation. In which case, our two rogues must find themselves at a pretty pass now. Having lost their scrivener, and even that portion of the book which he had copied, they would be forced to find another to take William’s place, and begin again.
That would explain why the red-headed man had gone to the derelict mill where William had worked, in order to retrieve the expensive parchment. It would have been difficult to account for its loss, as well as the loss of their scribe. It must have been a shock to him, finding me there, searching the place. No wonder he had struck out, no doubt in a panic. He must have been carrying a stout staff, but it was my good fortune that he was not a man who wielded a knife so expertly.
The book must be concealed elsewhere. If Jordain and I were to catch up with them, we must try to think as they would think. If they had the book and they had the parchment, they would now be looking for a talented scribe and illuminator. At some point, also, they would need to obtain inks and paints and gold foil, although it would seem, from the pages we had found under William’s mattress, that the plan was to finish the lettering first, and to paint the illuminations last, before binding. And that, too, was a consideration. Would they risk taking the manuscript to Henry Stalbroke? If the intention was to mimic the original binding, they would need an exceptionally skilled binder.
Where would they look for a new scrivener? We still did not know how they had found William, with both the skill and the need for money. Of all towns in England, Oxford was second only to London in the abundance of skilled scribes. Indeed, I ventured to think that though we might have fewer, we probably had greater talent amongst us. I am a fair scribe myself, and so are my men. Two other booksellers in town had competent men. Then there were all the religious houses in and around Oxford – Osney, St Frideswide’s, Rewley, the Carmelites, Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustinians. And although the mendicant orders were meant to have no worldly possessions, books were an exception, especially here, where their members were being sent in increasing numbers to receive a sound education. Even the colleges had their scriveners, not only the law clerks for their charters and their day-to-day business, managing property both movable and immovable.
There was a vast array of talent here in Oxford, but it might be difficult for our rogues to reach the right sort of man, with the skills they required, in need of money, and the willingness to keep his counsel.
As I reached Carfax and turned right up Northgate Street, a gaggle of youths burst from the door of the Swindlestock Tavern. They were only mildly drunk, but drunk they were for so early in the morning. Dressed in the everyday clothes of their secular peers – short, very short, cottes and brightly coloured hose – their tonsures revealed them as students, though in one or two cases the tonsure was disappearing under new growth. It was common knowledge that when students went home for the summer, they allowed their hair to grow back, just as they returned to the sports of their fathers, hunting and hawking. Indeed one of these boys had a great mastiff on a chain, which was pulling him along. No doubt who was master of that pair. The university constantly brings out new regulations, banning the keeping of animals by students, but to little avail. When I was a student, there was a fellow came from Germany with a bear cub. I wonder what became of him? Another had a snake, but it was killed by a mastiff not unlike the one now surging in my direction.
I quickened my steps to avoid an unpleasant confrontation, and entered the yard of the Cross Inn.
The innkeeper pointed me to a small back parlour, away from the main room where the inn’s guests gathered. Jordain was there, seated at a table with a thin, worried woman, perhaps in her early forties, and a delicate young girl, not quite in her full bloom yet. Both had eyes red and swollen with weeping. There was a jug of wine and beakers on the table, all untouched. Jordain presented me to them.
‘I cannot say how sorry I am for your loss,’ I said, taking a seat next to Jordain and opposite mother and daughter. ‘I do not need to tell you what a fine young man William was. He worked for me in my bookshop for a few weeks, two years ago.’
The woman nodded. ‘I thank you for your kindness, Master Elyot. William had spoken of you. He said that if he did not succeed in becoming a scholar, he could think of no better trade than that of a bookseller.’ She was keeping admirable control of herself, but she could not hide the trembling in her voice. I understood why Jordain thought she was ill. It was not recent grief only that had hollowed her face so that the cheekbones stood out sharply under her skin, and dark shadows had ringed her eyes. The girl – it seemed her name was Juliana – said nothing, but tears welled up in her eyes and fell silently. From time to time she wiped them away with the trailing hem of her sleeve.
This was even worse than I had dreaded, and I wondered why I had agreed to come. There was nothing I could do to ease their grief, and I felt that the presence of Jordain and me must simply increase it. However, I was here now, so I had best make the most of it.
‘Jordain has already told you about this strange business of the Psalter?’ I said. ‘Had William said anything to you about it?’
Mistress Farringdon shook her head. ‘Nothing at all. Only, in his last letter he said I was not to worry, that he would send money so that we could take a cottage and have enough to live on. I did not understand how this could be, unless he meant he would be working for you again, or beginning his teaching in the university, though that would not be for another six months. When I wrote back, I asked him how he would find the money, but he never replied.’
She swallowed painfully. I poured wine for her and handed her the beaker. She took it obediently and drank a little. I thought it might give her a little strength in this ordeal.
‘We think he had undertaken the work to earn some money for his family,’ I said, ‘quite understandably.’
Jordain and I had agreed that we would not mention the fact that copying Merton’s book, certainly without permission, was a kind of theft. Tragic enough that they should suffer William’s loss, without besmirching his name, but Mistress Farringdon was no fool.
‘These men he was working for, you think they killed him? They were scoundrels, I think, although you are not saying so.’
Jordain sighed. ‘Mistress, we do not know. Very little is clear. Why they should kill him is a mystery, but we can think of no one else.’
‘We are not even sure who they are,’ I said, ‘but we are perhaps a little closer to finding them. We have a good description.’ This was a little more than the truth, but I found the despair in her eyes nigh unbearable.
‘Master Jordain tells us that you too were attacked, Master Elyot,’ she said. ‘And badly hurt.’
‘Nay,’ I said. ‘Not seriously. Just a sore head. I’ll soon mend. So, you can throw no further light on this work of William’s?’
She shook her head. ‘I am sorry.’
‘I did not ask Jordain when I saw him last night.’ I cleared my throat. This was a delicate matter. ‘Do you wish to take William’s body home with you? Or leave him here at St Peter’s?’
She smiled so sadly it wrenched my heart. ‘He loved Oxford,’ she said. ‘From a small boy, all he ever wanted was to become a scholar here. Let him rest in Oxford.’
Jordain and I exchanged glances. ‘I think we should leave you now, Mistress Farringdon,’ he said. ‘Why do you not take a few days to rest, after your hurried and unhappy journey? I have arranged for Hart Hall to pay for your lodging at the inn. We would like you to have time for a little quietness here.’
She tried to protest, but Jordain can be very stubborn when he makes up his mind to it. Hart Hall would pay, indeed! The money for the inn, like the cost of the funeral mass, would come out of Jordain’s own pocket, but I s
upported him.
‘I think this is an excellent plan, Mistress Farringdon. Would you permit my sister to call on you? It might be of help to have a woman friend here in the town.’
I saw that she looked relieved. Margaret would be just the support she needed, and could offer the kind of comfort that would be unacceptable coming from us. As we rose to take our leave, the girl Juliana spoke for the first time, looking at me with dark blue eyes still enlarged with tears.
‘Master Elyot, you should speak to our cousin Emma. She and William were always close, at least until she came here.’
I looked at her blankly, then turned to her mother for an explanation. She looked uncomfortable, and a faint blush coloured her cheeks.
‘My sister’s girl by her first husband,’ she explained. ‘Emma Thorgold. When Emma’s father died – six years ago, it would be – my sister married again. Her new husband already had five children of his own, and he needed someone to care for them and keep house for him.’
She said this with some bitterness, and I understood the kind of marriage it would have been. These things happen.
‘Her stepfather never had much use for Emma, and she spent time with us when she could. She’s of an age with William. Then last summer my sister died of a stillbirth, the only child of this second marriage, and in truth she was past safe child-bearing.’
‘The week after her death,’ Juliana broke in resentfully, ‘her stepfather sent Emma away to be a nun at Godstow. She cried and cried. She did not want to be shut away from the world, in a nunnery. It was a hateful thing to do.’
‘Hush, child,’ her mother said. ‘Though it was unkind, and against her wishes, I am sure the nuns are good women and will look after her. She is a novice there now.’
‘When William was home at Christmas,’ Juliana said, ‘he told us he was able to see her. He used to visit once a week. It is not so very strict a house, and the novices are allowed visits from family. We are the only family Emma has.’
‘Sister Benedicta she is called now,’ Mistress Farringdon said.
‘Benedicta! Not very blessed,’ Juliana said stubbornly. ‘William might have told her something about this scheme he was a part of. She was like a sister to us both.’ She turned toward her mother. ‘And not that kind of sister, however holy.’
Having found her voice, the child had grown quite voluble.
‘I thank you for that,’ I said, smiling at her. ‘We will certainly visit Sister Benedicta, if we are permitted.’
‘Emma.’
‘I think we must use the name the abbess has given her.’
With that, we took our leave, promising to visit them the next day and conduct them to Sunday Mass at St Peter’s, where special prayers were to be said for William. I would send Margaret to see them in the afternoon.
As we made our way back toward Carfax, Jordain said, ‘Poor creatures. I hate even having to mention this whole matter in which William was caught up.’
‘I am sure they have told us all they know. No need to mention it again unless we are able to bring the men responsible to justice.’
‘You have the right of it. And I cannot see that a trip out to Godstow would serve any purpose. Even if we were allowed to see this novice, Sister Benedicta, she cannot have anything to tell us.’
‘Probably not,’ I agreed. I grieved for the girl, forced into a monastic life for which she had no vocation. At least I had first chosen the celibate scholar’s life of my own volition, and when I found that my life lay elsewhere, I was able to break free. Once imprisoned behind the convent walls, no such choice would be available for Emma Thorgold.
Jordain and I parted at the junction of the High and Catte Street, he to his dinner of boiled cabbage, but I, so I hoped, to rather better fare. When I reached the shop, which Walter was about to close, at midday, as usual on a Saturday, he had news for me.
‘Master Caundish from Gloucester College has been here,’ he said, ‘asking about the bestiary.’
‘How has he got word of that?’ I was surprised. ‘I have mentioned it to no one except Master Olney at Merton.’
‘Perhaps he boasted that he was to have first refusal. He would enjoy gloating over Master Caundish.’
‘Aye, he would. Or perhaps the widow from Banbury had mentioned it to someone who knew that Master Caundish collects bestiaries. What did you tell him?’
‘I would not let him see it.’ Walter grinned. ‘He might have snatched it and run off. I said he must come back on Monday and speak to you about it.’
‘Well done.’ I grinned back. ‘Now I shall have even more to bargain with, when I see Master Olney this afternoon.’
Chapter Nine
After dinner, Alysoun and Rafe asked that they might run across the street, taking Rowan with them, to pay a visit to John Baker’s puppies again before the millers from Blackfriars and Trill Mill came to make their choice later in the afternoon. Thomas Yardley had sent word that he could not come until next week.
‘Tell Master Baker that I had no success with Miller Wooton at Holywell Mill,’ I told Alysoun. ‘He must seek another home for the last pup.’
‘Perhaps Cousin Jordain would like to have him?’ Alysoun said winningly.
I laughed. ‘Cousin Jordain is hard pressed to feed those students of his. I do not think he has any to spare for a growing puppy. We will put our heads together soon, and think who might be glad of a dog. Will John keep the terrier-like one, do you think?’
‘Oh, aye, he says so.’ She beamed and took my hand. ‘Thank you, Papa.’
‘For what, my pet?’
‘For helping us find homes. I could not bear to think of them drowned.’
‘Nor I. Wanton killing is evil in the eyes of God,’ I said. ‘Never forget that.’
The time would come when I would have to tell her the full story of William’s death, but I prayed it might not be soon. Let her keep the unblemished innocence of childhood a little longer.
When they had run off, I found Margaret in the garden, feeding our small flock of hens, and explained that William’s mother and sister would be staying a few more days in Oxford.
‘I thought perhaps Mistress Farringdon would be glad of a woman friend,’ I said. ‘This is a fearful time for her, not only losing her son by the hand of a murderer, when he was caught up in some suspicious affair, but also finding herself on the brink of a very uncertain future. She knows no one in Oxford, apart from Jordain and me. I thought, if you would not mind–?’
‘Of course. I shall be glad to go.’
She shook the last grains from her flat basket, and the hens rushed about, pecking the ground at her feet.
‘Away with you!’ she said, as one seized the lace of her shoe, perhaps mistaking it for a worm. It received a firm push in the rear, propelling it toward the scattered grain.
‘I shall just wash my hands and take off my apron. She is at the Crown Inn, you say?’
‘Aye.’
She tucked a loose strand of hair into her wimple. ‘Will I do? Am I respectable enough?’
I smiled. Amongst her own, Margaret had the confidence of a queen, but she was not always so sure of herself amongst strangers.
‘Quite respectable enough. You will like her, Mistress Farringdon. And they are our kind of folk. Not grand. There is a girl as well, Juliana. About thirteen. She has taken her brother’s death very hard, but I would say that she has a mind of her own, for all that.’
I left her debating whether it would be acceptable to take the Farringdons some of her baking, and I went into the shop to collect Widow Preston’s bestiary. Turning over the leaves again, I was even more impressed with its quality. Like all works of this type, it portrayed a number of beasts no man had ever seen. Or at any rate, no man who had not travelled the silk road or gone on pilgrimage to the Holy Land or ventured into Barbary. Whether the artist had even seen them, I could not tell you, so I had no knowledge of their accuracy. However, with the common animals of England the artist show
ed himself to be a careful observer. The fox, the wolf, the badger, the boar, the otter, the squirrel – all seemed to leap alive off the page. The parchment was of excellent quality and the binding was of polished calfskin, tinted maroon, over boards. The edges of the pages were gilded, with no sign of rubbing.
The moralising texts which accompanied each illustration were the usual rather limping efforts, but one does not buy a bestiary for the texts. It is the pictures which are important. I wrapped the book carefully in a soft cloth and slid it into my stiffened satchel. I was not greatly looking forward to my encounter with Philip Olney, but whatever other worries occupied my mind, I must keep up my business so that my family could eat.
The day had started dull after the previous afternoon’s storm, but at least the rain had laid the dust in the streets. Now the sun was shining through a thin veil of cloud and behind it the sky was a delicate blue. Elizabeth had worn a gown of that very shade the day we were married. It was folded away now, in a coffer under the eaves. One day, Alysoun might like to wear it.
Past University College, I turned down Magpie Lane to Merton. There was building work in progress in the first quad of Merton – the college seemed forever to be adding a wing here, a new floor there, though there was still no sign of that promised library. Once it was built, they would need to fill it with books, so I had high hopes of them, in the way of increased business. What would Philip Olney do then? Could he guard access to the books as jealously as he did at present? It would be more difficult to keep a watch on a whole library instead of simply two adjacent rooms. And surely the purpose of the library would be to provide books for all the Fellows of the college to peruse. Well, I would watch with interest, if the library was made manifest in my own lifetime.
As usual, the porter made no impediment to my entering the college, and as I crossed the quad I nodded to a few of the Fellows I knew. Most were customers of my shop. Some of the younger ones had been fellow students with me in the past. Had my life taken another course, I too would be sharing this tranquil peace – tranquil but for the hammering of the builders. A life devoted to study, the day-to-day worries of getting a living lifted from my shoulders. A mind devoted to intellectual study. Oh, it had its temptations! But that would have meant no precious years with Elizabeth, however tragic their end. No Alysoun. No Rafe. No pride in making my bookshop the finest in Oxford, which I knew, without modesty, it was.