by Ann Swinfen
‘He was afraid of Basset, certainly,’ I said, ‘but for quite another reason.’
We looked at each other, but by unspoken consent we knew we should not reveal to anyone else what we had discovered by a shameful act of spying.
‘Basset has had a hold over Olney,’ I said. ‘If he revealed everything to the Warden, Olney would have lost not only his livelihood but his beloved books. Basset took the Irish Psalter and Olney kept his mouth closed. No wonder he sweated with fear when I wanted to see it.’
‘And Basset wanted that book for himself,’ Jordain said, ‘enough to hire Frowike and Gidney to act as his go-betweens, for he could not be seen himself buying parchment from Dafydd Hewlyn, or hunting out a scribe to do the copying. He is far too well known in Oxford.’
‘Aye,’ I said wryly. ‘Far too well known. One of our greatest scholars. Yet he forgot himself so far as to come to my shop and warn me off.’
‘It must have been a moment of panic, since you were showing too much interest in the book. Since then he has kept well out of sight. If the Psalter was discovered to be missing before the copy was ready, it was Olney who would be blamed.’
‘A very successful plan. We were convinced it was Olney behind it all.’
‘William’s cousin,’ Margaret said, ‘Sister Benedicta. She said that William had discovered that the copy would be placed in the box, and the Merton man who had devised the plot would keep the original for himself. How could he expect to succeed? Would no one have noticed?’
‘He could never have succeeded,’ Walter said emphatically. ‘Anyone who knows books would recognise it at once as a fraud. It was madness.’
‘Aye,’ I said, slowly and fearfully. ‘There is a kind of madness at the root of this. And this madman has Alysoun in his hands.’
They looked at me in shocked silence. A madman might do anything. Madness is unpredictable.
‘Surely,’ Margaret said, twisting the stuff of her skirt in her hands, ‘surely he cannot be mad? He is a respected scholar. A Fellow of Merton. A senior man in the university.’
‘Not mad as the wild men of the woods are mad, Meg,’ I said. ‘Gibbering and foaming at the mouth and running naked. Mad with an obsession to possess some beautiful object. Some men will run mad to possess a beautiful woman, seeing that woman as an object they must own. And if they cannot, they would rather kill her than let any other man possess her. Men have run mad to possess great jewels – the largest pearl ever found, the most perfect ruby. To such a man, anything that stands in his way will be swept aside. It is a mote in his eye. A hindrance to his perfect vision.’
‘So William was murdered,’ Jordain said. ‘We thought that those two ruffians acted on their own, in a moment of panic. Now I am not so sure.’
‘I think now that Basset, too, was there,’ I said. ‘Out at the old mill, where William met his death.’ I swallowed with difficulty. ‘And now this man has Alysoun.’
A stifled cry broke from Meg, though she pressed her fists against her mouth.
I felt cold. So cold. Yet at last I was thinking clearly. I knew what I must do.
‘At dawn tomorrow – or is it today? – I shall ride out to Godstow and fetch the Irish Psalter from Sister Benedicta. I should be back in Oxford well before midday. I shall then go to the castle in the hope that the deputy sheriff has returned. With his help, Frowike and Gidney may still be captured, but only after Alysoun is safe. He must not arrest them before, for that will endanger her life. I do not trust that thick-headed captain to understand the need to hold back from the arrest. I have already given him their names and lodging.’
‘You will exchange the Psalter for Alysoun?’ Jordain said.
‘If I must. My girl’s life is more precious than any book, even that book, but I will deceive them if I can. Once she is safe, I shall go to Warden Durant and tell him of Allard Basset’s treachery.’ I pointed to the scrap of parchment. ‘This alone is proof. Durant may not know the man’s hand as well as I do, but there will be plenty of examples for comparison. Basset has a particular flourish that he gives to the tails of the letters that fall below the line. It is unmistakable. See.’
They all leaned over the note to study it.
‘In his arrogance, he has not even attempted to disguise his hand. I was his student for many years. He must know that I would recognise it. Because he holds my child, he thinks he is invincible.’
‘Perhaps he is,’ Margaret whispered.
‘He shall not be.’
I was sure of myself now, filled with a cold anger which sustained me.
‘I will write a note to these villains,’ I said, ‘which I want Walter to take to the innkeeper of the Swindlestock at eleven o’the clock, and bid him make sure they receive it at once. They must bring Alysoun with them, to the small back parlour of the tavern, and at midday I will come with the Psalter. I will not hand over the Psalter until I have Alysoun. They are desperate for the book, and what use is a dead child to them? I will say in my message that if any harm comes to her, I will throw the Psalter on the fire.’
‘Will you? Jordain asked.
‘Oh, you may be sure I will.’
Margaret gave a great sigh. ‘It might succeed.’
‘It will. One other thing. Have we more of that cloth that we used to wrap the Meditations? And the tape? Once I have the Psalter, I shall wrap it so that the two will look as much alike as possible.’
Roger had been listening to all of this is silence, but now he spoke. ‘Will you be able to tell them apart, if they are wrapped identically?’
‘Aye, the bands on the spine of the Meditations are not nearly as thick as those on the Psalter. I shall be able to feel them through the wrapping.’
‘You still hope to pass off the Meditations?’ Jordain said.
‘If I can. I would not endanger the Psalter unless I must, nor will I hesitate to burn it if they harm my child.’
It had grown very late, but none of us could sleep. Walter found me more of the cloth and tape, which I stored in my satchel with the wrapped Meditations. I was impatient to be away, but I could not hire my horse until dawn brought the stable lads at the Mitre from their beds.
Margaret had disappeared into the kitchen, but now she called all of us to come through.
‘You may think you do not wish to eat, but the day will demand strength from you and you will do no good, any of you, fainting from hunger.’
We followed her obediently to find that she had laid out a great spread, half supper, half breakfast – soup and bread and cold bacon and porridge and the remains of an apple pie, with a jug of thick cream. Roger looked shy to be sitting at table to eat with us, but Walter pulled him down on to a bench next to him. Jordain carried the great pot of soup over to the table. Rowan, subdued and penitent, was pushing her empty bowl across the floor.
I had thought I could not face food, but found suddenly that I was ravenous. Margaret was right. Strength would be needed for all that I must achieve this coming day. And now I knew who was my enemy.
As I rode out of the North Gate on Rufus, the sky was gradually flooding with a curious grass-green light of dawn. Most of the world was still asleep, so that I seemed to pass through a kind of dream world, where the horse and I were the only living creatures, apart from the birds who filled the air with morning song which sounded more intense than usual, while the strange light gave the buildings the flat appearance of shapes cut from paper.
I had hoped to hire a horse with a greater turn of speed than Rufus, but none was to be had today at the Mitre and I could not spare the time to hunt round the other stables. At least Rufus knew me and would do as I bid. Once we were through the gate and into the wide expanse of St Giles, I gave him his head, urging him first to a canter, then a gallop. The rain of the previous week had laid the dust of the road and the surface had now dried firm, the best for riding, so we made good time, although every moment seemed to fly past, as the sun rose. By the time it was overhead I would have Alysou
n safe, or I would have failed.
The distance to Godstow must be about six miles, but parts of the road to Woodstock were in poor repair, forcing me to slow the horse to a walk, so that we could pick our way around holes and fallen branches. It was worse when we turned off down the lane and through the woods to Wolvercote. I had not noticed the poor state of the lane before, but I had not been in a hurry then. Every delay was maddening. And what if I reached the abbey, only to find that I would not be allowed to see Sister Benedicta?
It was worse. I arrived just as the bell was ringing for Terce. I would be forced to wait until the service was finished. Now I would barely reach Oxford in time.
The lay porter recognised me and greeted me pleasantly.
‘Will you not come into the gatehouse, sir? You may wait here until the sisters have finished their devotions.’
‘I thank you,’ I said resignedly, and joined him in his little room.
‘I am here on most urgent business,’ I explained. ‘Sister Benedicta has been caring for a book which is the property of Merton College, and it must be returned by midday today. No blame to her. Her cousin rescued it from the thieves. But now, if it is not returned in time, a life will be in danger.’
The man stared at me, mouth agape. No such alarm surely ever disturbed this tranquil place. I wondered whether he would believe me, but he appeared sympathetic.
‘I do not even need to visit Sister Benedicta,’ I said, ‘if a message could reach her, to bring the book to me here, as soon as the service is over?’
‘I will do my best for you,’ he said. ‘It is not a long service.’
It felt long, sitting there, with the time slipping away, but at last he seemed to recognise the end of the service in the music and the nuns’ voices raised in song, for he gave me a cheerful smile and walked away briskly across the courtyard to the church. I watched as he approached one of the senior nuns, who came first out of the church, perhaps the abbess herself. She stopped and looked across at me. She must have given her consent, for he waited until the novices emerged at the end of the procession and spoke to one. From this distance they were difficult to tell apart in their habits, but Emma Thorgold was tall, almost as tall as I, and this girl was tall. She inclined her head, left the procession and moved slowly toward the dortoir.
Hurry, hurry, I urged her silently, but I understood that she would not be permitted to run, at any rate within sight of the senior nuns. However, she must have run once she was out of sight, for she reappeared quickly, and she was carrying something. With a glance over her shoulder to make certain that all her sisters were now within doors, she flew across to the gatehouse, her habit billowing out behind her.
‘I was as quick as I could be,’ she said, pressing the book into my hands. ‘The porter said someone’s life is in danger.’
‘My daughter. She is six years old and these villains have taken her.’
‘You have a daughter?’
Her expression was difficult to read, and I knew I must leave at once, but I said, ‘A daughter of six and a son of four. My wife died in the pestilence.’
She laid her hand lightly on my arm. ‘I am sorry. So many died.’
I nodded. What words were there that could be spoken?
‘I must go.’ Yet I lingered.
‘Go, go. May God keep your daughter safe. But please,’ she hesitated, ‘will you come to see me, and tell me how it all ends?’
‘I will. We know who killed your cousin.’
She nodded, then she was gone, walking demurely the way the other women had gone, into the refectory.
I barely glanced at the Psalter before slipping it into my satchel to join the Meditations, then I mounted Rufus, called my thanks to the porter, and headed back across the bridge and through the woods.
Shortly past the village of Wolvercote I reached a clearing, where I dismounted and threw the reins over a branch. I needed to wrap the Psalter before I returned to Oxford. When I drew it out of my satchel, I turned it over in my hands, and opened it to look again at the illuminations which I had not seen since a few weeks before I married Elizabeth. In the soft green light of the woods the pictures glowed as brightly as ever. The pages were unmarked, the binding firm. It had taken no harm from the time it had spent away from its ivory inlaid casket. It was beautiful, but it was only a book. William had died for it. Olney had suffered for it. And Alysoun?
I found a fallen tree to sit on, drew out the piece of cloth and the tape, and did my best to wrap it as much like the other book as I could. Running my thumb down the spine of each, I could detect a distinct difference.
My heart was pounding faster as I stowed the two books in my satchel and mounted again. If only I could reach the tavern in time!
The ride back to Oxford was torment. Every fallen branch, every broken hole, meant more delays. At last, nearer the town, the road improved, and I set Rufus flying down St Giles, past market stalls and angry customers, nearly crashing into a flock of geese but swerving and slowing to a slithering halt at the North Gate. Rufus snorted, as if baulked of entertainment, and danced sideways as I tried to coax him through the gate. Only the length of Northgate Street now, and there was the tower of St Martin’s church rising ahead of us, across the street from the Swindlestock Tavern.
Then I realised what had caused Rufus to hesitate. Directly in front of me was a solid group of horsemen, clad in half armour. At their head, Cedric Walden, the deputy sheriff. Perhaps at last God was looking favourably on what had seemed like a hopeless task. I edged Rufus round the group of soldiers and drew in next to Walden. There must have been twenty men with him and by the look of them they had been putting down trouble somewhere in the shire. I had thought I had been left with no time to go to the castle for help, but now help was delivered into my hand.
‘Sheriff Walden,’ I said, reaching out to touch his arm. ‘I am in urgent need of assistance from you and your men, in a case of murder. And now a child’s life is at stake.’
He turned to me courteously, a man of a very different calibre from his captain of the guard or the pompous fools guarding the castle gate.
He reined in. ‘A case of murder?’
‘The murder of William Farringdon. The inquest was held last week.’
‘I know of the case.’
‘The men who committed it will be in the Swindlestock Tavern at midday. I am to meet them there, to hand over a valuable book in exchange for a child. My daughter, whom they have seized and hold as hostage.’
As quickly as I could, mindful of the minutes slipping away, I explained what was afoot.
‘If you are right that they will be there,’ he said, ‘then we can surround the tavern and arrest them. From your descriptions, they should not be difficult to pick out.’
‘But you must wait until I have my daughter safe!’ I had him by the arm and was shaking it.
‘Aye, we’ll proceed with caution.’ He gave a small smile, and I thought that he was enjoying himself. He did not have a child caught up in this dangerous game.
‘Best if we are not seen approaching the tavern,’ he said, ‘or our birds will be flown before ever you reach it. Go you on ahead. I will hold back my men, then come around by the back alleys to Great Bailey and approach that way. We will stay out of sight, but cover all the ways in and out. Once you have your daughter safe, go to the door of St Martin’s and wait there. I will watch for you. When you are clear, we will move in.’
I nodded. ‘I understand. Should they slip past you, they will almost certainly be making for Merton.’
His lips tightened in a grim smile above his beard. ‘They will not slip past us.’
He signalled with his hand to the men, and they began to melt away to the right. I turned back down Northgate Street. Some precious minutes had been lost, but a great deal gained. As fast as I could, in despite of the crowds, I headed toward the square tower which showed above the other buildings. Past the Cross Inn, past a row of shops, with customers impeding my
passage, and then I was at Carfax. I drew a deep breath and slid from Rufus’s back, hitching him to one of the rings in the wall of the tavern and gripping the strap of my satchel tight against my side. After his final gallop he needed to be walked and rubbed down, but he would have to wait. As I opened the tavern door and stepped through, St Martin’s bell struck midday.
I had chosen the small back parlour of the tavern for our meeting partly because I knew that they would not transact any business with me in the public room, and partly because I knew that the innkeeper always had a small fire burning there so that guests who wished could mull their wine. I wanted a fire, so that I could make it quite clear that I intended to carry out my threat to burn the Psalter if they harmed Alysoun.
There was a sharp pain in my chest as I threw open the door to the small parlour. There was no one there. I left the door open, but stayed close to it, half hidden. As I hoped, there was a small fire lit on the hearth, no more than two yards away. Feeling sick, I wondered what I should do if they did not come. They might not have received my message with the meeting place and my terms. Or Alysoun – I must face it – might already be dead.
Then I heard footsteps approaching along the passage from the public parlour and two men entered, with the small figure of Alysoun between them. Her gown was torn and muddy, there was a bruise on her cheek, but she was not crying. She looked defiant. She saw me before they did, and I pressed one finger quickly to my lips. She understood at once and looked away.
The men swung round and saw me. The dark-haired one, Pierson Gidney, clamped his great fist over Alysoun’s thin arm. She winced, but did not cry out. I saw that the backs of his hands were indeed covered with thick black hairs. I moved a step or two closer to the fire as the other man, the ginger-haired Robert Frowike, rubbed his hands together and smiled, showing small sharp teeth, which gave him even more the appearance of a fox. I saw why Dafydd had not mentioned the beard. It was a pathetic wisp of a thing, the sort young boys try to grow in the hope that it will give them the appearance of men, while it only serves to make them look feeble. Somehow that sparse fringe of hair gave me a boost of courage.