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

by Ann Swinfen

  She must have caught me staring at her too long, for a faint flush rose in her cheeks.

  ‘You wished to see me, Master Elyot?’ she said again, this time with a slight loss of composure.

  ‘Aye,’ I said, clearing my throat to cover the fact that I had nearly called her ‘Mistress Thorbold’. ‘Aye, Sister Benedicta. I come with word from your aunt, Mistress Farringdon. I fear I am the bearer of sad news.’

  ‘It is William,’ she said. Her voice was calm, but a convulsive movement of those hands betrayed her. ‘Some ill has befallen William.’

  ‘I am afraid that is true,’ I said, ‘but how did you know?’

  ‘He did not come on Friday. He always walks out here on a Friday afternoon, when he has no lectures. If he cannot come, he sends word by one of the carters who deliver to the abbey. On Friday, there was nothing. Is he hurt?’

  I leaned forward. I longed to take her hand, to offer some comfort, but I must not touch a woman of the cloth.

  ‘I am afraid he is dead, Sister Benedicta.’

  She flinched, and her eyes filled with tears, but she struggled to contain them and they did not fall.

  ‘How? He was not ill.’

  ‘Nay, he was not ill.’ I hesitated. Foolishly I had not planned beforehand how I would break the news. This girl looked as delicate as ivory, but I was sure it was deceptive. Underneath she was iron strong.

  ‘He was stabbed in the back and thrown into the Cherwell,’ I said bluntly. ‘Murdered.’

  She looked away, and her fingers began to pleat the stuff of her habit until I heard a nail catch on the rough cloth.

  ‘I was afraid it might be so.’ She looked at me directly. ‘Has he been taken, the man who did this evil thing?’

  I shook my head, for I was speechless. What did she mean?

  ‘You suspected he was in danger?’ My half-formed thoughts had been right after all. This girl might know something which could throw light on the death of her cousin.

  She threw aside her disciplined monastic pose and sprang to her feet, crossing to the window and leaning out, as if she needed to breathe the air outside these confining walls. With her back still turned to me, she began to speak.

  ‘When William came back to Oxford after he had visited his home at Christmastide, he was full of concern for his mother and sister. He knew that most of his father’s pension would be stopped, but hoped that, out of compassion, some might continue to be paid. It seems, however, that the royal coffers have been emptied by the French wars and by the fall in taxes since the Death. The royal clerks cut off all funds as soon as news of my uncle’s death reached them.’

  She turned around and leaned back in the window embrasure. The swirl of her habit clung to her, revealing a slender form beneath all that thick cloth.

  ‘Perhaps if the king had heard of it, he might have continued the payments, for he valued my uncle, but no doubt kings have more important matters on their minds than the fate of one widow and two girls.’

  Two? I wondered. Then I remembered that there was also a small child, left in the care of neighbours.

  ‘William realised that once the rent on the farm ran out on Lady Day, his family could only remain at the good will of their lord, and I know their lord. He is not a man of generous spirit. William knew that once he took up his Fellowship he would be able to provide for his family, but what to do until then?’

  She began to prowl restlessly about the room. ‘I do not know quite how it happened, but it seemed he was overheard one evening in the Swindlestock Tavern, speaking of his need to earn some money quickly. He was thinking of coming to ask you for work. Did he?’

  She gave me a sharp, accusing look.

  ‘Nay,’ I said. ‘I wish he had done.’

  ‘However it fell out,’ she said, ‘it seems that someone at Merton wanted a scribe to carry out some work. Word reached him – again I do not know how – that William had the skills and needed money. This man wanted a personal copy made for him of some book owned by the college, and William agreed to do it. The money offered was generous, although the conditions were strange, and he found them worrying. He was to do the work, not at Merton as he had expected, but in some old deserted building, and he was not to speak of it to anyone.’

  ‘A derelict mill,’ I said, ‘up a branch of the Cherwell.’

  ‘Aye.’ She flashed me a surprised glance. ‘William did not like the secrecy, but urgently wanted the money for his mother. He made a start. Did you know that?’

  ‘We found some pages hidden under his mattress.’

  She nodded. ‘Then somehow he discovered – though he never told me how – that he had not been told the truth.’

  Ceasing her prowling, she sat down again opposite me. ‘The last time he came to see me – that would be the Friday before last – he said that he had overheard some conversation, though not between whom. It became clear that his copy of this valuable book was not meant for the man who had ordered the work. It would be placed in the box where the old book was kept, and the man who was paying for the copy would keep the original. It was clear theft! William was being made a party to stealing the ancient book, and he would not do it. He had very few dealings with the Merton Fellow himself. There were two men who found the mill and provided all his materials. On the Monday after he was here, he planned to tell them that he would not carry on.’

  She pressed her fingers to her mouth, and her voice, which she had kept steady all this time, suddenly broke. ‘He had such principles! He swore he would tell them that he was going to report them all to the Warden of Merton, though I begged him to say nothing. I feared for him! And they killed him!’

  Now the tears did well up again and ran down her face. She ignored them.

  ‘They did,’ I said. ‘So that is why they killed him. We could not understand why they should do it, when they needed him. But if he refused to carry on and threatened them–’

  ‘Aye, that is just what he would do. He would be blind to the danger from such men, angry and justified in his anger.’

  ‘Sister Benedicta,’ I began.

  ‘Please do not call me that. My name is Emma, and I have not taken final vows.’

  ‘Emma.’ I felt uncomfortable saying it, and glanced over my shoulder in case Sister Clemence had returned to end our interview. ‘Did William ever tell you who was the man at Merton?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only that it was a man obsessed with books.’

  Olney, I thought, but did not speak it aloud.

  I thought I could hear footsteps in the distance, crossing toward the guest house. Quickly I said, ‘Do you know what he did with the Irish book? It has not been found.’

  She gave a wan smile. ‘That Friday, the last time I saw him, he brought it with him. I have it in safekeeping. There is a hidden shelf at the back of my prie-dieu. It is there. Shall I fetch it for you?’

  I was flooded with an overwhelming sense of relief. The book was safe, not sunk to the bottom of the Cherwell.

  ‘Nay, continue to keep it with you for the present, until the men who killed William are caught and handed over to the sheriff. It will be much safer here than in Oxford.’

  The footsteps were drawing near. I stood up and moved away from her, so that we should not be seen so close together.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, ‘the ink on your fingers–’ I spread my hand, so she could see the identical stains on mine.

  She gave a wry laughed. ‘I am lettered. They make use of me.’

  ‘I think, by traces of the Virgin’s lapis, that you are also an artist.’

  She inclined her head.

  ‘It was you!’ I exclaimed. ‘You made the book of hours that I saw at the bookbinders! With all the creatures in the margins. It is beautiful.’

  Embarrassed, she flushed. ‘William and I have always loved to draw, ever since we were children. I shall miss him so much.’ There was an ache in her voice, but before I could say more, Sister Clemence was at the door.

&nbs
p; ‘You have had your half hour and more, Master Elyot,’ she said.

  ‘Master Elyot has brought me news of my cousin’s death, Sister Clemence,’ the girl said with steady composure. ‘It was kind of him to come all the way out to Godstow.’

  ‘I am sorry it was on such a sad errand,’ I said. ‘When William’s affairs are settled, may I call again?’ I addressed my remarks to Sister Clemence.

  The nun was clearly a strict woman, but not unkind. ‘Certainly, if there is further news of her family, you may call. I am sorry to hear of the young man’s death. He was to take up a position at Merton College, I believe?’

  She was guiding me towards the door and I knew I could have no more speech with Emma Thorgold now. I had failed to ask her when she would be obliged to take her final vows. It was cruel to think of the cage snapping closed on that bright, restless spirit.

  ‘Sister Benedicta,’ Sister Clemence called over her shoulder, ‘it is nearly time for Vespers. Try to remove some of that ink from yours hands before you attend service.’

  I glanced back. The girl was standing with a submissively bowed head. ‘I will, sister,’ she said. A quick flash of her eyes showed that she knew, as I did, that she could not so easily shed the stigmata of her vocation. Truly, from what I had seen of her work, it was her true vocation, and not this forced monasticism.

  Sister Clemence saw me all the way out of the wicket gate, as if she suspected me of trying to linger within the sacred walls. Before I was even in the saddle, the wicket was closed and bolted.

  Rufus seemed not at all tired after his long journey. Refreshed by his rest at Godstow, he sensed he was nearing home and set off eagerly, ignoring my attempts to give him an easy time for these last few miles. We followed the lane up to the Woodstock road at a brisk trot, and once on the broader highway he broke into a canter. I let him have his head, for my mind was whirling with all I had learned at Godstow.

  It was now clear not only why William had taken on the work of copying the Irish Psalter, but how it had come about, although his cousin had not known exactly how word had reached the man at Merton. Perhaps William himself had not known. The man at Merton. It must surely be Olney, coveting the Irish book for himself, and arranging to substitute a copy. And he was clearly frightened. Allard Basset must somehow have discovered what was afoot, or at any rate he had discovered that the book was missing from its box. However, he cannot have reported Olney to the Warden but agreed to cover up the fact that the book was missing. Why should he do that? I shook my head. I could see no reason for it, but perhaps it would become clear in time.

  And William, in his righteous anger at being made a party to this theft, had gone to meet the two men a week ago at the old mill. Despite Emma’s warning to be careful, he must have threatened them with exposure, so that the bigger man, the one of known violence, had stabbed him when he turned his back. With a body on their hands, they had tipped him in the river, no doubt hoping he would drift away under cover of dark, but the current had been flowing faster than they realised, and I happened to be crossing the East Bridge just at the wrong moment. There had been few people about. Had I not been there, they might have been successful.

  I slowed Rufus as we reached St Giles and walked him quietly into Oxford and along to the stables of the Mitre in the High.

  ‘Here’s a little extra to give him a good feed,’ I said, handing sixpence to the ostler. ‘He has gone very well for me today.’

  I gave the horse a final pat on the neck, then made my way down the High. I had one more thing to do before I went home. As I walked up Catte Street in the gathering dusk, I realised just how tired I was. I was not in the habit of riding so far. Tomorrow I would have the aching muscles to prove it.

  There was light shining from the windows of Hart Hall, which were open to the warm spring evening. I could hear laughter and the chatter of young voices, which made me suddenly sad. It was just a week since I had found William’s body, and already his fellow students seemed to have forgotten him. I stepped through the door without knocking. Jordain and the students were seated round the table, eating their supper, but Jordain looked up and must have seen something in my face, for he swung his leg over the bench and came to meet me. I beckoned him outside.

  ‘I have found the book,’ I said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jordain seized my arm as soon as we were out of the students’ hearing. ‘You have it here?’ he said. ‘The Irish Psalter?’

  I shook my head. ‘I did not in fact see it or handle it, but I know where it is. In a place so safe those scoundrels will never find it.’

  He shook my arm impatiently. ‘Then where?’

  ‘In a hidden shelf, in a novice’s prie-dieu, in Godstow Abbey.’

  He rocked back on his heels and let out a gust of breath.

  ‘You have seen William’s cousin.’

  ‘Aye, I have. It was not too far out of my way, returning from Banbury. They made no quibble about allowing me to see her, and without a chaperone, though the door must be left open at all times!’

  I gave a wry smile. ‘As if they expected an old widowed bookseller to deflower one of their novices.’

  ‘Old? You are only five and twenty. Granted, of course, that you have not the protection of the tonsure, as I have. Perhaps I should be the one to visit her next time, vowed, as I am, to the celibate life.’ He gave a knowing smile. ‘Pretty, is she?’

  ‘Beautiful,’ I said curtly. I found I did not want to discuss Emma Thorgold with Jordain when he was in this teasing mood. ‘She had a great deal to tell me, and it does at last make clear why those men killed William. He threatened them.’

  As quickly as I could, I recounted everything Emma had told me about William’s agreement to copy the book, and his revulsion when he discovered that his copy was to be used to replace the stolen original.

  ‘So we now understand better what happened,’ Jordain said, ‘but we are no nearer finding these two men, foxy hair and the man with the knife. And we have no name for the man at Merton, who is the one behind it all.’

  ‘It must be Olney,’ I said. ‘He had access to the book whenever he chose. He lives and breathes books. I can imagine that he would covet that book above all others, to own for himself. He is clearly frightened of Allard Basset, who must have discovered that the book is missing. And if word reaches the Warden – as it would have done, if William had exposed him – then he would certainly lose his Fellowship.’

  ‘You are probably right,’ Jordain said. ‘I do not know Olney as you do. Would he condone murder?’

  I hesitated. It was the one thing I was not sure about.

  ‘He does not seem to me a man who would condone violence of any kind. He is a sharp-tongued, mean-minded fellow, but I would not have said he was violent, though I suppose any man might be driven to violent measures if his future was about to be destroyed. Of course, we do not know whether he was present at the mill last Monday afternoon. It should be easy enough to find out if he was in college then.’

  ‘So these hired ruffians – we must assume they are hired ruffians – might well have acted from their own fear of exposure, without Olney’s knowledge.’

  ‘That seems very possible.’

  I gave a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. ‘I must away home. I have had a long hard day, though a profitable one, and I am weak with hunger. I shall see you sometime tomorrow and we shall think what to do.’

  ‘Aye. I dine with the Farringdons, but I will come afterwards. You saw the widow in Banbury too?’

  ‘I did. It pleased me to put that purse in her hands. It should prove a help to her and the deaf girl. Sissy, she is called. I wonder whether it was the pestilence that struck her down. Those scars, and deafness – I think it might have been the pox, or the mumps. The scars do not look to me like the scars of the plague Whatever it was, she has suffered for it.’ I yawned again. ‘I must bid you good-night, Jordain.’

  ‘God go with ’ee, Nicholas.’

  I hea
ded away down Catte Street. It was only as I turned the corner by St Mary’s into the High that I realised that I had not told Jordain that Emma Thorgold, or more properly Sister Benedicta, had made the beautiful little book of hours I had seen in Henry Stalbroke’s bookbindery. Well, he had no need to know. I smiled to myself at the thought of those delicate, ink-stained hands.

  Margaret had kept a substantial supper hot for me, and I fell on it hungrily, for the unaccustomed long ride and the fresh air, with very little to eat during the day, had given me an appetite. When she discovered the remains of the loaf protruding from my satchel, she held it up accusingly.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Bought from a baker in Banbury,’ I admitted. ‘He pointed out Mistress Preston’s home to me, and I felt obliged.’

  She gave me a withering look and bore it away. Later, I found she had given it to Rowan, soaked in milk. I dared not tell her that the bread had been excellent.

  When I had finished eating, I looked in on the children, who were in bed, but not quite asleep. Rafe was on the point of it, but Alysoun was sitting up, wide-eyed, watching the doorway.

  ‘Not asleep, my maid?’ I said, kissing the top of her head as she slid down under the feather bed.

  ‘I wanted to be sure that you had come safely home, Papa.’

  I leaned down and tucked the covers round Rafe, curled up in his truckle cot, then I sat on the end of Alysoun’s bed.

  ‘Of course I am come safe home. Why should I not?’

  ‘Jonathan says there are bad men roaming the highways. Outlaws and wild men of the woods. It is a long way to Banbury. They might have attacked you, he said.’