by Ann Swinfen
We both laughed. It was an old family joke.
‘But, Nicholas, there is always my widow’s dower.’
‘That we must not touch,’ I said emphatically. ‘I will see what I can do, but I have another widow with a daughter in Banbury awaiting money from me.’
‘With the Death and the French wars, the world is full of widows and orphans these days,’ she said sadly.
On Sunday morning the students from Hart Hall processed solemnly down Hammer Hall Lane to attend Mass at St Peter-in-the-East. They must have been thinking, as I was, that last Sunday William had been among them. I wondered whether he had made his confession that day, as the students often did, for before the next day was done, he was dead. I shivered at the thought of him going into the next life unshriven.
Jordain did not, as he usually did, lead this procession of his students, but arrived shortly afterwards, escorting Mistress Farringdon and Juliana. Both were veiled, for I suppose they had no mourning garments and there was little else they could do to mark their grief for William. Juliana’s hair had been loose when I had seen her at the inn, but now it was pulled into plaits so tight, wound round her head, that her eyebrows were drawn upwards. Both mother and daughter held themselves severely under control, however. There would be no weeping during the service.
Margaret went to join them, taking Rafe with her, and Alysoun, who had me by the hand, followed. I was not sure how much she understood of their plight, but she knew they were William’s mother and sister. Earlier in the morning I had decided that I must explain to her that William was dead, though not that he was murdered, and that his family was here in Oxford. When we reached the Farringdons, Alysoun slipped her other hand into Juliana’s. The girl looked startled for a moment, then smiled down at Alysoun.
‘I am Juliana,’ she whispered.
‘I’m Alysoun.’
As we stood all through the long service, watching the priest and his acolytes up by the altar, separated from us by the rood screen, the two girls clung together. I let the familiar Latin wash over me, with its mysteries and awe, and wondered, as I often did, what the lay parishioners made of it all. Apart from members of the university, at least half the congregation was made up of townsfolk, most of whom would not understand a word of the service. Did they find some comfort in the familiarity of the ritual, even if the words passed incomprehensibly over their heads?
There was a fellow student of ours who had often argued this point with us. Nowadays he was a Regent Master of Arts, like Jordain, and in fact he was the very man whose lectures on rhetoric William and Peter de Wallingford had attended. John Wycliffe had argued – and indeed very persuasively – that the Bible should be translated into English, so that any man might read its words for himself. It was a dangerous and radical idea, verging on heresy. As students we had urged him to be careful who heard him put forth such ideas. I had not seen much of him of late, being taken up with my secular life, but I reckoned that he probably still held his radical views. You cannot often turn a fanatic from the path on which he has set his foot, whatever the catastrophe that lies ahead.
The congregation seemed larger than usual that day, and with the weather improved again, it grew stifling in the church. I knew most of the parishioners, but there were a few unfamiliar faces. A group of three women clung together near the west door, by their clothes – cheap and provocative – they were whores from the warren of half derelict cottages further up the lane. They did not usually show themselves here, but word of William’s death would have spread throughout the parish. The violent death of one so young is bound to force folk to confront a fear of mortality which can normally be thrust aside in the daily business of living. The whores were young, no older than William. One, indeed, looked no older than Juliana.
As the service drew to an end and the crowd eased cramped limbs and stirred, I noticed another unexpected face. Standing well back in the south aisle, where he would be all but hidden when the door to the churchyard was opened, was Philip Olney. This was not his parish. Indeed, Merton had its own chapel, where services were held for the members of the college. It was strange for him to attend Mass here. It was clear, however, that he had no wish to be seen, so I allowed my glance to pass over him without giving any indication that I had noticed him. Perhaps in the nervous state I had noticed the previous day, he was unwilling to worship amongst his colleagues.
The rector moved down through the congregation and stood by the south door, smiling and greeting people as they drifted out into the sunshine. Those who wished to make confession remained behind, including Mistress Farringdon and Juliana. The whores, too, I saw, felt in need of penance and absolution.
Margaret and I, with the children, converged on Jordain in the churchyard, where he hovered, clearly waiting for his charges to join him.
‘Will you come and dine with us, Jordain?’ Margaret said. ‘And bring Mistress Farringdon and the girl? It is a sad business for them, taking all their meals at an inn in a strange town. It might be some comfort to come to a family meal.’
Jordain hesitated. ‘I have promised to show them Hart Hall. They wished to see William’s room, and where he studied. They were to come there to dine.’
‘Jordain,’ Margaret said decisively, ‘you cannot possibly provide them with the kind of meal you and the students eat. What is it today? More boiled cabbage and stale bread? Or do you rise to the glories of pease pudding?’
‘I like pease pudding,’ Jordain said with a mulish look. Then he laughed. ‘Perhaps you are right, though I believe there was to be a little bacon with the cabbage today. Extravagance! But have you enough to feed three extra?’
‘Ample. I spent yesterday evening baking. I have a custard tart and an apple pie to follow a beef pottage, and today’s new bread. You cannot refuse the poor women a decent meal. You may take them to see William’s room after you have eaten.’
‘Very well, and my thanks to you. I will wait until they have made confession, but you need not stay. The children will want to be away home.’
‘Rowan cries when we leave her,’ Rafe confided.
‘Rowan? Oh, the puppy. I expect she thinks you have abandoned her,’ Jordain said. ‘We cannot have Rowan crying. Away with you, Rafe, and let her into the garden.’
As we came down the lane, I saw Philip Olney ahead of us, scuttling along in an oddly furtive manner. When we reached the High, I expected to see him heading right, in the direction of Merton, but instead he was hurrying the opposite way, toward the East Bridge. I could not imagine what business he could have in that part of Oxford, and on a Sunday too. Altogether, he had been behaving strangely in the last two days. However, I could not imagine that it had any bearing on the disappearance of the Irish Psalter and the murder of William Farringdon, so I dismissed Philip Olney from my mind.
Tomorrow I would deliver the bestiary to Merton and collect the payment, then I would ride out to Banbury and hand over Widow Preston’s money, no doubt to her great relief. I did not keep a horse myself, rarely having need of one, but I could hire one for the day from one of the inns. It occurred to me that it would be possible to turn aside to Godstow nunnery on my way back, provided I was not too late. If I was admitted as a visitor, I would call upon William’s cousin, Emma Thorgold, or rather Sister Benedicta. It was unlikely that she had yet heard of her cousin’s fate. Since, according to Juliana, she and William had been as close as brother and sister, it was an unkindness to keep her any longer in ignorance of his death.
I wondered whether the fondness between them had been more than that of brother and sister, which might partly account for Emma’s reluctance to enter the convent. Still, even if it had been closer, nothing could have come of it, for they were too close in degrees of kinship. The church would never have permitted their union. All this was nothing but pure speculation. The two young people were probably no more than affectionate cousins. However, it would be interesting to meet the girl, even if she could throw no light on what scheme
William had been involved in. If he visited her regularly, as Juliana had said, it was possible that she might know why he was making a copy of the Psalter and what his plans for his family might have been.
Jordain followed us within the half hour, and because I am sure that we were all determined to make no mention of William’s death, we had a pleasant meal. Margaret had made a particular effort, for she felt great sympathy for Mistress Farringdon, having lost sons herself. Both mother and daughter had shed their veils after leaving church, so that if one closed one’s mind firmly on the reason why they were here, it might have been any pleasant neighbourly visit. The two women were already on terms of friendship. Juliana set herself to amuse the children and took them out into the garden as soon as we had finished eating. There was nothing left for Jordain and me to do but to chat idly about the end of year debates, and which of his students he expected to acquit themselves well.
At last, however, it was time for Jordain to take the Farringdons to see William’s room, which cast a sadness over us all, although Margaret had extracted a promise from Mistress Farringdon – whose name, it appeared was Maud – that she would come to spend the next day at our house, though I would not see them, since my trip to Banbury would occupy the entire day.
I walked with Jordain and the Farringdons as far as Catte Street, then carried on to the Mitre, to bespeak myself a horse for early the following morning. Somewhat to my shame, I was looking forward to my day away from the shop. I rarely had the cause or opportunity to leave Oxford, so that it felt already like a kind of holiday. The weather looked set to remain fair, I enjoyed riding, and the road to Banbury lay through beautiful country. It would be good to escape the worries over William’s murder and the missing book, not to mention the attack I had suffered. Altogether, it would make a pleasant diversion.
Chapter Ten
In order to ride all the way to Banbury and back in the day, I would need to make a very early start on Monday, so I asked Margaret to wake me when she rose to bake the day’s bread. With a grey pre-dawn light in the sky, I came down to the kitchen yawning, but already the air was filled with the warm, heart-lifting smell of bread in the oven beside the kitchen hearth.
‘You must make do with yesterday’s bread to break your fast,’ she said by way of greeting. ‘Unless you want to wait for this batch.’
I shook my head as I pulled up a stool to the table. ‘Even your day-old bread is good, Margaret. And I must be away as soon as possible, if I am to be home before dark.’
‘There is a mouthful of last night’s custard tart you may have as well. And I will pack you some cheese and cold bacon in your scrip, that you need not stop for a meal at an inn. For,’ she said darkly, ‘who knows what those inns in Banbury may serve?’
I laughed. ‘I daresay the people of Banbury do not die of it. But I thank you, it will save me time. If I am not too late on the return journey, I shall call at Godstow. I do not know whether they will admit me to see William’s cousin, but I shall try for it.’
‘I have heard that Godstow is not so strict as some nunneries. They give house room to noble ladies who wish to withdraw from the world for a time, without taking the veil, but whether they will allow a man who is not a relative to visit a novice – that might be asking too much.’
‘Well, I shall try. Someone should tell her of her cousin’s death, and it may be that she will know something that will throw light on this scheme to copy the Psalter.’
She looked dubious. ‘I cannot think that she will know anything, but you are right. The lad has been dead a week now. The novice should be told. Maud Farringdon agrees that William used to visit his cousin regularly, as much as once a week, so she will be wondering why he has not come. Poor maid! She was forced into that life much against her will. I do not hold with such things. Man or woman, either should have a true vocation before giving themselves up to the religious life. Any other way is pure hypocrisy, and can lead to nothing but misery and despair.’
‘That is very true. I know the girl was hostile to it from the start, but that was nearly a year ago,’ I said. ‘Perhaps by now she may be reconciled. It cannot be so terrible a life. Not very different from becoming an Oxford Fellow.’
‘Which you, very properly, refused.’ She passed me my scrip, loaded with food for my journey.
‘Aye. Very true. Now I must away. I have left a note for Walter about today’s tasks for them both.’
‘Do you go to Merton first? You said last night that you would deliver the bestiary.’
‘It is here.’ I picked up my satchel. ‘I will collect my horse first, to give the bursar of Merton a little more time to leave his bed, though I know he is an early riser. I want the price of the book in my purse before they change their minds.’
Very few people were yet abroad as I walked up the High. It was more than another hour before lectures began, and some students would scramble out of their beds just in time, obliged to forego even the meagre breakfast provided by their halls. At the Mitre I found my horse ready saddled, as I had requested the previous day, and led him to the block so I could mount. I had chosen a sturdy gelding, a bright chestnut bay called Rufus. I had hired him before and knew that he had the stamina for a long day’s riding, even though he had no great turn of speed.
By the time I had ridden him down to Merton there was more activity in the streets. Oxford was waking up as the church bells sounded five o’the clock. The porter was surprised to see me mounted, but made no objection to my hitching Rufus to the ring beside the gate before I stepped through the wicket.
‘Do you know if the bursar has gone to his office yet?’ I asked the man.
‘Aye, Master Elyot. Just this minute. You will catch him now.’
I cannot say that the bursar was pleased to see me, or at all willing to part with the college’s money, but clearly he had been given his instructions, either by Philip Olney or Allard Basset. The transaction took but a few minutes. I placed the very substantial sum in my purse and stowed it, together with the purse for Widow Preston, inside the neck of my shirt for safety. The bestiary I drew out of my satchel and laid on the bursar’s desk. As I fear often happens, I was very reluctant to part with it, however good the price.
‘That seems little enough for so much money.’ The bursar gave a disapproving sniff. No doubt he was thinking of the building works, and all that might be done for the same sum.
‘It is a very valuable book,’ I said coldly. ‘See to it that you handle it with care and deliver it to Master Olney as soon as possible.’
‘I will, when I can. He did not spend last night in college.’
This was astonishing information, but I believe I was able to conceal my surprise, for the bursar was not looking at me, continuing instead to regard the book with dislike. I bade him good-day, and returned to my horse. Why had Olney stayed away from college overnight? As far as I knew, he had no family to speak of, only some distant cousins down in the West Country. And he certainly had few if any friends amongst the townsmen of Oxford. Well, it was not my affair, though I remembered Olney hurrying away furtively from St Peter’s after Mass yesterday.
My way took me to Carfax, then up Northgate Street to the town gate. Beyond, past the church of St Mary Magdalen, the road opened out into the wide expanse of St Giles, where St Frideswide’s Fair is held every autumn. St Giles church stands at the far end of this long tree-lined triangular space. Strictly speaking, Oxford ends at the North Gate, but the houses and workshops that run along both sides of St Giles were built before ever I came to Oxford. They are without the security of the town wall in time of trouble, but they make up for it in the size of each messuage here, where extensive land at the back provides enough room to keep a cow and a pig, as well as an orchard and vegetable garden, more than enough for a family. Beyond the houses on my right lay Durham College, beyond those on my left, the Carmelite Friary, both occupying sites much larger than those of the colleges within the town walls. Gloucester College also
lay outside the walls, further away past the Carmelite Friary. It would not be long, I suspected, before more colleges burst out beyond the wall.
When I reached St Giles church at the north end of the fair ground, the road forked and returned to normal size. The left fork led to Woodstock, where earlier kings had a hunting lodge, grown into a palace some two centuries ago. That on the right was my road to Banbury. On my journey back to Oxford I would need to turn aside to the other road, for leading off the road to Woodstock lay the lane to the villages of Wytham and Wolvercote, and between them, Godstow Abbey.
It was nearly thirty miles to Banbury, so I took it steadily, alternating stretches at a brisk canter with a quarter of an hour or so at a walk, to pace Rufus and not tire him. When I reckoned I was about halfway, just past the village of Middleton Stoney, the horse and I had a rest under a broad oak, barely into leaf yet. We both drank from a clear stream, and I ate some of the provisions Margaret had stowed in my scrip. I also took the opportunity to transfer some of the Merton coin to the purse for Mistress Preston, so that she might share in my good fortune in securing a better than expected price for the bestiary.
When I thought Rufus was sufficiently rested, I mounted again and headed for Banbury. There were few people on the road, mostly farmers and villeins about their daily work, for it was not market day in either Oxford or Banbury. The villages I passed through had all the sad, half deserted appearance that was to be seen everywhere in England since the pestilence. In one there seemed to be not a soul left alive, doors hanging open on cottages where no smoke rose from cookfires, and birds nesting in the thatch, where they were busily wearing away the roofs. A few gaunt dogs scavenged amongst the abandoned homes.
Yet for all that, it was a pleasant ride, if one looked away from the signs of human desolation. The hedgerows on either side of the road were alive with bird song, newborn lambs frolicked in the fields, and when, from time to time, we forded the shallow streams that crossed our path, plump trout, gleaming with opalescent sides like jewels, darted away, then hung in the quietly flowing water, waiting for us to pass.