by Ann Swinfen
The scholar’s life was in many ways enviable, but was it not also a sort of prolonged childhood? The college enfolded you and became a kind of parent, provided you with a home and companions, fed you, kept you safe, shielded you from the harsher realities of life outside these tranquil quadrangles.
I was still turning over these thoughts as I climbed the staircase to the book rooms. Philip Olney answered my knock with a peremptory ‘Come!’ He was sitting in shadow, with the shutters half closed, although this was one of the rooms to have glass in the windows, so that light could be provided without the risk of draughts disturbing precious papers within. For once, he did not have a book in his hands, but was sitting hunched up, seemingly doing nothing.
Even in the partial light, I was shocked at the change in him, just since I had seen him a few days ago. He looked ill. He had always the pasty complexion of a man who spends most of his life indoors, but now his skin showed an almost yellow tinge, like old parchment which has been left exposed to too much harsh sunlight. There were dark shadows under his eyes as though he had not slept, and his hands, which were gripping the arms of the heavy oak chair he favoured, were trembling.
Best not to show that I was disconcerted by this unexpected sign of weakness in my old adversary. I was here, after all, purely on a matter of business.
‘Good day to you, Master Olney,’ I said, in a cheerful voice. ‘I have brought this very fine bestiary, as I promised, but I fear you must make your decision today, for Master Caundish of Gloucester College has already got wind of it, and is hot on the trail. I cannot deny him, if you do not wish to purchase it for Merton.
I walked toward the window. ‘You will not be able to examine it properly without light.’
Not asking for permission, I drew open the shutters and allowed the strengthening afternoon sunlight to stream in. He raised a hand to shield his eyes.
‘The bestiary?’ he said vaguely. ‘Ah, the bestiary.’
He seemed to recall himself from some way off and stirred in his chair. I laid my satchel on his desk, unbuckled the straps, and carefully drew out the book. Olney became a little more animated and leaned forward as I unwrapped the bestiary from the cloth and laid it before him.
As he picked it up and stroked the binding with the true connoisseur’s touch, he seemed more like his usual self, though I noticed that his hands still had a slight tremor. Carefully he began to turn over the pages. He was not a man to be rushed. He would examine every page for damage or flaws, as well as assessing the quality of the workmanship. I knew he would be unable to find any fault, but I was not sure whether he – or Merton – would be prepared to pay the price I intended to ask.
Olney’s assessment would, I knew, take some time and there was no point in trying to hurry him, so I found myself a stool and sat down, prepared to wait. I took care to place it fairly close to the shelf reserved for the Irish Psalter, but not so close as to arouse suspicion, even in Olney’s strange mood. What ailed him? Something was clearly worrying him. In fact, he looked sick with nerves, like a man about to undergo some great ordeal, or to endure a punishment. Had someone discovered that the Irish book was missing? I had found it strange that when I was last here, Olney had claimed that Master Basset had given instructions about the handling of the book. Then there had been that curious visit of Basset to my shop (where he had never set foot before), when he had warned me off taking an interest in that same book.
It all pointed to Basset himself being aware that something was amiss with the book, so it could not be fear of him that left Olney looking sick. Perhaps he dreaded discovery by the warden of Merton, Warden William Durant. Less easy going than his predecessor, Robert Trenge, Durant might well inflict serious disciplinary measures on a librarius who allowed the college’s greatest literary treasure to be stolen. Olney might lose his position as guardian of the book collection. Might he even lose his Fellowship? That would be enough to turn any man sick.
At last Olney closed the book and laid it on his desk, keeping his hands possessively cupped around it, a promising sign.
‘I can find no damage,’ he said grudgingly.
‘Indeed you will not,’ I said crisply. ‘Not only is it in perfect condition, it is an exceptionally fine specimen. I do not believe I have had a better one through my hands. I must, therefore, charge accordingly. And you will understand that Master Caundish is also most anxious to obtain it for the specialised collection he is amassing.’
‘How much?’
I named a figure about half as much again as I was hoping to get.
He shook his head. ‘Too much.’
I shrugged. ‘Very well. I quite understand if you do not have the funds to buy it.’
I got up and went over, reaching out to wrap the book and return it to my satchel. He snatched it away and held it close to his chest.
‘Wait! I am not sure . . . I must speak to Master Basset . . . he may have funds . . .’
With that he rose to his feet and hurried out of the room. I was astonished. In all my previous dealings with Olney, he had the authority to make such decisions for himself. Basset was a keen bibliophile and a collector of books himself, although he never dealt with me directly, only sometimes through intermediaries. His consent was not normally required before the purchase of a book for the college. Perhaps changes had taken place at Merton.
But now was my chance, during the brief time Olney was out of the room. Basset’s set was in the same quadrangle but up a different staircase. As I heard Olney clatter to the bottom of the stairs, I ran to the box which should hold the Irish book. It was inlaid with Bible scenes in carved ivory and it had a lock. I had no need for a key. I picked up the box and weighted it in my hand. The Psalter, a little larger than the common size, filled with whole page illuminations, was quite heavy. There was no doubt about it. The box weighed of nothing but itself.
It was empty.
When Olney returned, I was standing at the window, my hands resting on the sill, looking out at the stretch of greensward which reached to the town wall. No doubt the college would build there eventually, but for the present, some of the Fellows were enjoying the sun on this Saturday afternoon, lectures finished until Monday. Several benches had been placed for them to take their ease – some in the shade of a few old and lichened apple trees, some in the sun.
I wondered about those apple trees. Perhaps this had once been some wealthy burgess’s holding, with an extensive garden and a fine orchard on its south side. Merton was not a new college, like Queen’s. It had been founded nearly a hundred years ago, so the land would have been purchased then. Established shortly before the pestilence struck the town, Queen’s College – named for our popular Queen Philippa – had been able, like many other colleges of the university, to take advantage of whole families wiped out, with properties within the town fallen vacant and going cheap. The colleges and the abbeys now owned the greater portion of the town, even where they had not yet built, but had shops and houses let out to tenants. I was grateful that my father-in-law had had the foresight to buy the freehold of our shop and house outright.
Olney came in, still showing the signs of worry on his face, but more decisive than he had appeared when I arrived.
‘Master Basset has agreed to your price,’ he said curtly, ‘though in my opinion it is too high. If you present your bill to the bursar, he will see that you are paid.’
He laid the bestiary on his desk, but kept his hand on it.
As a matter of business, I have learned to keep a blank face, so I was careful not to show my astonishment that they had accepted my demand. Perhaps they were both too distracted by the matter of the Irish book to give any energy to haggling over the price of the bestiary. It would certainly be an ornament to their collection.
‘Very well,’ I said pleasantly.
I removed the book firmly from under Olney’s hand, wrapped it, and returned it to my satchel. I was not such a fool as to leave it here, unpaid for.
‘I will call on the bursar on Monday with the account made out, and if it is paid then, I shall hand the book to him.’
That would stop any deceitful delays on their part. They should not have the book until I received payment. I had grown tired of their prevarications.
Olney opened his mouth to protest, but I could see that he had not the heart for it. ‘Very well,’ he said abruptly, sitting in his chair and picking up some papers by way of dismissal. I crossed to the door, smiling to myself. He might assume a superior air, but I had won that round. I would have an ample profit on the book, and if the bursar paid me on Monday, I could take a little extra with me when I rode out to pay the Widow Preston in Banbury the same day. And not only had I secured far more than I had expected for the bestiary. I had now established beyond doubt that the Irish Psaltery was no longer in Merton.
I was halfway through the door when Olney spoke again.
‘That student you mentioned before, Master Elyot, found in the river.’
I turned back. ‘Aye? William Farringdon. You would know him. He was to take up a Fellowship here in the autumn.’
He blenched at my mention of the name.
‘He drowned, did he not?’
‘Nay.’ I paused. ‘He did not drown. He was murdered. Stabbed in the back.’
He made no reply, but he had no need. I could read on his face that he already knew.
I spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden with the children. The days of the week were generally so busy, especially during the university terms, that I hardly saw them save at meal times and when I put them to bed, but I tried to keep the afternoon on Saturdays for them. This was also the time when they had their lessons, though I tried to intersperse these with play.
The puppy was still a novelty, and they were full of news about the rest of the litter.
‘The miller from Trill’s Mill is a friend of Jonathan’s,’ Alysoun said. ‘And he took the biggest puppy. He also said he knew someone who might take the last one, the one Miller Wooton did not want. ’Tis a widow who lives down Grandpont, near Denchworth Bow. I think he said she is his aunt. She lives alone, and there’s always strangers passing, coming to Oxford. He thinks she would like a dog for company and to keep her safe.’
‘That is good news,’ I said. ‘I am sure the puppy will be happier there than out at Holywell Mill.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I do not like Miller Wooton.’
I glanced down at her in surprise. We were sitting on the bench under the pear tree, with her Latin book between us.
‘I did not know that you had met Miller Wooton.’
She flushed guiltily, and began to chew her thumbnail, a sure sign that she had been caught out in some misdemeanour.
‘I am not cross, Alysoun, but it is best you tell me.’
‘He was horrid to Jonathan, Papa! Last harvest time, Jonathan took just a few of the miller’s apples. They had fallen on the ground, because he never bothers to pick them all. Not having a family, I suppose there are too many of them for him. Anyway, he would never have missed these, just left them to be eaten by the blackbirds and the field mice or rot away. But he caught Jonathan and gave him such a beating! His back was covered with red stripes. He dared not let his father see, so I borrowed some of Aunt Margaret’s salve and dressed them for him.’
‘Did you tell Aunt Margaret?’
She wriggled. ‘It was only the smallest little bit of salve, Papa, and Jonathan did not want anyone to know but me.’
‘So you have not seen Miller Wooton yourself?’
She bit her thumbnail so furiously that a piece broke off and she spat it out.
‘Well–’
‘Aye?’
‘I was picking up apples too, and when we saw the miller, we both ran, but Jonathan tripped. I got away, but the miller saw me. Afterwards, I went back and helped Jonathan come home. He was really hurt, Papa, but the miller did not want those apples. He just wanted to stop us having them.’
‘Nevertheless, it was stealing,’ I said firmly. ‘And I do not know why you did it. We have plenty of apples.’
‘They were not for us, they were for Jonathan and his father. They only have one apple tree and it is dying.’
‘Next apple-picking time,’ I said, ‘we will give the Bakers a big basket of apples. Remind me.’
‘Thank you, Papa!’ She stood up and kissed me on the cheek.
‘Enough of apples,’ I said. ‘Sit down now. Rafe has read his horn book for me. Have you prepared your Latin reading?’
‘Aye.’ She picked up the book and found the place, marked with a grass stem. She pushed her hair behind her ears and began, reading each sentence first in Latin, then translating it. After half a dozen sentences she stopped.
‘Papa, why is Caesar always withdrawing to winter quarters?’
‘It is what soldiers do, my pet.’ I remembered thinking the same at her age. ‘It would be too cold for them to stay out in the field. They were very good at building forts very quickly, so they could be snug for the winter. I expect they spent the time sitting by the fire, polishing their boots and telling stories.’
‘Like Walter?’
‘Aye, just like Walter.’
Probably the same stories, I thought, though with Roman variations. Jestyn was probably called Julius and had to steal the lares and penates from some rich man’s house.
When Margaret returned from her visit to the Cross Inn, the children were trying to persuade Rowan to fetch a stick they were throwing for her, but she simply sat down and looked puzzled, or else wandered away to rootle amongst the long grass near our garden wall. I was dozing, off and on, for to tell the truth, my head still ached from the blow I had taken.
Margaret sank down beside me and eased off her shoes.
‘The right one pinches.’
‘Get the cordwainer to look at it.’
‘I will.’
She picked up a scrap of paper I had left lying on top of Alysoun’s Latin book.
‘What is this? It looks like magical symbols. What have you been teaching the child?’
‘The Greek alphabet. We were writing out all the family names in Greek letters. That is Margaret.’ I pointed. ‘And that is Rowan.’
She looked disapproving. ‘Almost as bad as magical symbols. What does the child want with learning Greek?’
‘It was only the letters. She asked me about them. I do not know whether I shall teach her the language. For now, Latin is enough.’
‘So I should think. She is only six, and only a girl.’
‘A girl with a bright mind. I would hate to see that mind caged, like a singing bird which cannot take flight.’ I paused for a moment before venturing on a difficult subject.
‘I would not have her married off when she is scarcely more than a child.’
‘I was fourteen.’
‘As I said, scarcely more than a child.’
‘I managed. So will she.’
‘Not at that age,’ I said decisively, patting her hand. ‘How did you find the Farringdons?’
‘Still in great distress. I think they understand now that William had become tangled in something underhand and criminal. So distant from the boy’s true nature. I always found him a decent, honest lad. And to add to their distress, they know now that he was doing it to relieve them of their poverty, so they feel in a sense responsible, both for his actions and his death.’
I sighed. ‘I suppose it is to be expected. A mother will always feel responsible for her child, and the girl was clearly devoted to her brother.’
‘She is a good wench, concerned for her mother as well as for her brother. She is the sort of girl who would make a better companion for our Alysoun than that idle scamp Jonathan Baker.’
‘Juliana is a mite too old for Alysoun. Twice her age and mature beyond her years. Besides,’ I said mildly, ‘Jonathan is a good lad. He needs a woman’s care, but he is kind and loyal. Alysoun could do worse for a playmate.’
Marga
ret shook her head. ‘As she grows older you must look for better companions for her. Girls of her own state in life. And – if you must have your way – literate.’
‘Time enough,’ I said. ‘Did you sit with the Farringdons all this time?’
‘Nay, I persuaded them to walk about the town a little with me. There were some longing looks at our shops, but nothing bought. I am sure they are truly without means.’
‘Since the father’s death and the loss of the pension, that is certainly the case. Little wonder that William was so desperate to help them. It is hard to know how to give them any assistance now. If William had but taken up his Fellowship at Merton, the college might have been moved to do somewhat for them, but he was not to have been admitted until the Michaelmas Term. I know that Jordain is doing all he can – the funeral mass, their stay at the Cross Inn – but he has little enough himself. He has no family money, only what he earns from his teaching. He makes a pretence that Hart Hall is paying, but it is a myth. The only money Hart Hall has is the fees from the students for their lodging, and the better part of that goes to Stapledon’s Exeter College, which owns the property and charges an exorbitant rent.’
‘Can we help?’
‘A little, perhaps, but you know that there is never a great deal left when I have paid for my materials and given Walter and Roger their wages. Our family also has to eat. The children are growing and forever needing new clothes and shoes. I know that you make most of their clothes, but the cloth must be bought, and shoes, even for children, do not come cheap.’
‘Aye, Rafe’s feet seem to grow a size every month. I think he will have big feet like our father.’