by Mel Starr
“How long, you think, before them birds do to this pig’s head what they did to the novice?”
I had asked myself the same question. “Three or four days, I think.”
“Then whoso murdered the lad did not leave ’im in the pond, but put ’im over against the wood soon as ’e was dead.”
“Aye,” I agreed. “So it seems, and ’twould make no sense, I think, to do otherwise.”
“But why leave ’im where someone was sure to find ’im?”
“The lad was last seen last Thursday. That was a moonless night.”
Arthur’s expression told me that he did not follow my thought.
“If his murderer dragged him across yon meadow, there would likely have been enough starlight for the killer to see where it was he was going.”
“Ah,” Arthur said, “I see. When ’e got to the wood all was dark, even with the leaves gone from the trees an’ only naked branches to shut out the starlight. The felon could not see where ’e was takin’ the corpse, an’ was likely stumblin’ about in the shadows, so ’e left the novice there, where the wood became so dark ’e could see ’is way no further.
“Too bad them sheep can’t tell what they seen.” Arthur nodded toward the flock.
I was still not convinced that John Whytyng’s killer would have risked exposure by dragging a dead body through an open field even with no moon to give him away. I thought it more likely that the felon would have kept to the edge of the woodland, near the wall, where his shadow in the starlight would have been black against the trees. I said this to Arthur, and bid him watch for broken branches or twigs while we walked slowly back to the fishpond. Halfway there I saw the fur.
A thick patch of brambles lay on both sides of the overgrown wall, between meadow and woodland. Villagers and birds had long since plucked the berries, and I paid the naked thorns little attention until I saw a tuft of fur caught upon a bramble.
At first even the glimpse of fur did not seize my thoughts. It is not unusual, I think, for a rabbit to lose a bit of fur when seeking refuge from a hawk in a briar patch. But rabbits are mostly grey, and the fur which I plucked from the thorns was a silken brown. Rabbits are small creatures. The bit of brown fur I held was fixed to a thorn higher above the ground than my knee.
Arthur saw me studying my fingers. “Caught on one o’ them thorns, eh?” he chuckled. “Doubt as any man would drag another through there.”
“Not through, perhaps,” I said. “But in the dark he might blunder near before he knew where he was going.”
“What ’ave you found?” he asked.
I held the patch of fur out for Arthur’s examination. He at first thought as I had. “Rabbit got himself caught, I ’spect.”
“I found the fur here,” I said, and touched the knee-high thorn which had captured it.
“So?” Arthur said.
“A large rabbit, to leave a bit of his hide so far from the ground,” I replied.
“Rabbits jump,” he said.
“Aye. But few of them are chestnut brown in color.”
Arthur studied the fur again. “Aye, that’s so. What beast you think got entangled ’ere?”
“Mayhap a beast,” I said. “A hound or fox chasing a rabbit might have left this remnant of his passing, or a deer… or a man wearing a fur coat.”
“What would a knight or franklin be doin’ in a patch of brambles? A man what owns a fur coat would likely send servants to pluck berries.”
I own a fur coat, which Lord Gilbert Talbot gave me as an inducement to enter his service as Bampton’s bailiff. I have often plucked berries and have no servant to command. But ’tis true, I have not sought berries while wearing my fur coat.
“There are other men,” I replied, “who may wear fur coats, or coats lined in fur.”
“Be against the law did they do so,” Arthur said.
“Abbots and priors may wear fur coats.”
“An’ not only abbots an’ priors, I hear,” Arthur said.
’Tis surely true that most Benedictines own more than the two habits and two cowls permitted them in the Rule of St. Benedict. In their defense they remind folk that the esteemed St. Benedict, the founder of their order, lived in Italy, where cold winds blow less frequently and vigorously than in England.
How long would a tuft of fur remain impaled upon a thorn? A few days? A fortnight? Half a year? It seemed to me that if a monk or knight sought berries he would do so when the fruit came ripe – well before such a man would don a fur-lined garment to fend off the cold. The thought caused me to wish that my own fur coat was upon my shoulders rather than within my chest at Galen House.
I placed the scrap of fur in my pouch, stepped carefully to avoid the brambles which had spread to the meadow, and turned toward the abbey. Arthur followed.
We were nearly to the guest house when I saw two women pass through the abbey gate. Our path to the guest house brought us close to these visitors. Close enough that I could identify them as the comely lass and her older companion who the day before had been cutting straw in the wheatfield. Just inside the gate, in the outer court, is the abbey laundry. The women entered this building as Arthur and I watched.
The lay brother assigned to serve us met us at the door to the guest house and announced when he saw us that our dinner was ready. He had been watching the women enter the laundry. I nodded toward the disappearing females and asked the man who they were.
“Juliana an’ Maude.”
“The abbey employs them to do its laundry?”
“Aye… well, not exactly. Simon atte Pond is commissioned for the work. His servants do it, ’course.”
“And these two are among his servants?”
“Servant an’ daughter, which, to Simon an’ his wife Alyce, is much the same thing.”
“Which is which?”
“Juliana Chator is servant. She’s the old ’un with the sharp tongue. Maude’s the reeve’s daughter, wearin’ the fine cotehardie. Abbey’s no place for such a lass.”
“Why so?”
“An ugly old harridan like Juliana’s not likely to cause a monk to lose sleep of a night if he remembers her face when he takes to his bed, but Maude… how does a man, even one who’s taken vows, forget such a lass?”
His point was well taken.
’Twas a fast day. Our dinner was a pike in balloc broth, a pottage of raisins, and a wheaten loaf with honey. The abbot, and perhaps the prior, would dine upon similar fare, but no doubt in the refectory the monks consumed but a bowl of pottage and a maslin loaf, washed down with a pint of the abbey’s foul ale. No flesh of a four-legged animal is to be consumed in the refectory. So said St. Benedict in the Rule. But abbots dine in their own chamber, so do not heed the ordinance, and monks alternate taking meals in the misericord, where meat is not proscribed. So perhaps some few monks consumed pike this day.
As I ate, it occurred to me that, among the monks of Eynsham Abbey, there must be more than a few who hoped that their brothers would choose them to replace Abbot Thurstan when he died, if for no other reason than the reward of dining from the abbot’s kitchen. Prior Philip was likely the foremost of these pretenders.
Consuming the pike caused my mind to return to the fishpond. Simon atte Pond told me that he had heard no poachers near the abbey fishponds since shortly after Lammastide. No doubt such miscreants would keep silence, but casting even a small net into a pond will be heard for some distance on a still night. I wondered if the reeve, no longer a young man, might not hear sounds in the night as well as a youth.
I explained my thought to Arthur, then sent him to the reeve’s house to question atte Pond’s younger servants. Perhaps one of them heard what their master could not. I intended to visit Brother Gerleys.
Not all monks are skilled with a pen or brush. I found the novice-master bent over Osbert and Henry, instructing them in the use of a goose quill. I asked the monk if we might speak privily, and with a final admonishment to Henry to dip his pen less deeply into
the ink pot, he followed me from the chamber.
I bid Brother Gerleys follow me to the kitchen garden, where no man would be this season, even onions and cabbages having been long since harvested. We might speak without violating the Rule where no other man would hear.
Perhaps the monk thought I had some information about the identity of a murderer that I wished to share with him but keep from the novices. I turned to face Brother Gerleys when we reached the center of the garden, but before I could speak, he did so.
“What have you discovered? I have heard that you and your man crossed the meadow beyond the fishponds and visited the place where you found John. Did the murderer leave any clue?”
I had seen no man observe us from either the abbey or the road as Arthur and I investigated the meadow, the wood, the boar’s head, and the bramble patch. But someone did, and told others. Unless I was more careful in my actions, the felon I sought was likely to learn of my discoveries soon after I made them, and mayhap use the knowledge to escape capture.
Perhaps it is thus in all abbeys and priories. Days are the same but for the change of seasons, so any event worthy of gossip, even though the Rule forbids idle chatter, is likely to excite much whispered discourse.
I might have mentioned the tuft of brown fur to Brother Gerleys but decided against it. If I did so, even if I pledged Brother Gerleys to silence, I feared that news of the find would soon fill the abbey. If some monk who possessed a fur-lined habit or coat heard of it I would find it difficult to identify the fellow, for he would surely endure the cold rather than wear the garment and so make of himself a suspect to murder. And word of such a discovery might soon escape the cloister, so that if a wealthy villager slew John Whytyng the man would be forewarned to lock his fur coat away in a chest until I gave up pursuit.
Knowing a thing that other men do not know seldom leads to failure. Even better is to know a thing that other men do not suspect that you know. I left the tuft of fur in my pouch.
“I found the boar’s head,” I said. “Birds have begun to feast upon it, but it will be several days before it will match John Whytyng when I found him.”
“He died the night he disappeared, then?”
“So it seems.”
I withdrew the pewter key from my pouch and handed it to the novice-master. “I have found the lock this key opens,” I said. “The door to the north porch of the abbey church.”
“How would John have come by this?” the monk said.
“The monk’s kitchener told me that a pewter ladle went missing about Michaelmas.”
“Ah,” Brother Gerleys sighed. “John was assigned to the kitchen then.”
“Was he pleased with the assignment?”
“Nay. Said his father had servants for such work.”
“Do not lay brothers perform the menial tasks of the kitchen?” I asked.
“They do… but Abbot Thurstan assigns all novices to such work for a few weeks to learn if they are humble or haughty.”
“The abbot learned then of John’s pride, but did not dismiss him?”
“The lad’s father sent forty shillings with him, which I believe Abbot Thurstan was loath to return.”
“You said that the lad was quick to learn.”
“He was. Abbot Thurstan spoke of sending him to Oxford, to Gloucester College, when he had proven himself.”
“Did Osbert and Henry know of the abbot’s plans? Would they wish to study at Gloucester College also?”
“Osbert might. But to be frank, Henry is too dull for such study, and he knows this… although his hand is better than Osbert’s. He will find a useful life in the scriptorium, I think.”
“Did Osbert or Henry resent John’s wit?”
Brother Gerleys chewed upon his lower lip, then replied, “I know what you’re thinking. Osbert and Henry often suffered sharp rebukes from John when he disagreed with them, but neither would slay him… my life upon it.”
“Think back to their most recent dispute. What was it about? And when?”
“Ah,” Brother Gerleys sighed again. “A fortnight past, I believe. ’Twas about a lass.”
“Novices speaking of a maid? You allowed this?”
“Nay. I came upon them as the quarrel ended.”
“A lass, you said. Was this a maid known to the three?”
“Aye… Maude atte Pond. The reeve’s daughter.”
“What did John say of her?”
“Don’t know. I came upon them as Henry was telling John ’twas not meet to speak so of the lass.”
“But you did not hear what John said which troubled Henry?”
“Nay.”
“What did John reply?”
“Laughed, and said as how Henry was not likely ever to learn how to please a lass. Then he saw me appear and fell silent, as did Henry and Osbert.”
“Osbert is shrewd, you say, and Henry is dull?”
“Aye.”
“When John had dispute with either, did they rebut him or allow his challenges to pass unanswered?”
“Henry soon learned that any reply he might make to John would be turned against him. But Osbert could occasionally parry an attack and respond with a thrust of his own.”
“You condoned such bickering?”
“Of course not. ’Tis my work… ’twas my work, to teach John Whytyng humility and to teach patience to Osbert and Henry. Both virtues are needful in a monk.”
“Did you succeed?”
Brother Gerleys chewed again upon his lower lip before speaking. “Osbert and Henry are apt students. I was unable to persuade John that there were others who might know more than he did. John is… was like the cock who believes the sun rises to hear him crow.”
“What of the monks of the abbey? Had John belittled any of them as he did Osbert and Henry?”
“I think not. Novices have little to do with those who have taken vows, but for Prior Philip and Abbot Thurstan. And even John Whytyng would have held his tongue in the presence of abbot or prior.”
I thought it might be illuminating to discover from Osbert and Henry what it was that John Whytyng had said about the reeve’s daughter. Our conversation in the kitchen garden having ended, I told Brother Gerleys my intention and walked with him back to the novices’ chamber, where Osbert and Henry bent over ink pots and parchment, which had been scraped clean of writing for reuse. A brief glance over Henry’s shoulders confirmed Brother Gerleys’ observation that he might become a skilled copyist. He was, I assumed, the older of the two, but age could not completely account for the difference in the quality of the two novices’ work.
“Put down your pens,” Brother Gerleys said. “Master Hugh wishes to discuss a matter with you.”
The novices did as commanded and peered up at me expectantly. I drew up a bench and sat across the table from them.
“Brother Gerleys has told me that a fortnight past you and John Whytyng were heard in dispute about Maude atte Pond. What did John say of the lass which you took amiss?”
Osbert’s expression did not change, but Henry’s face reddened as if he’d been dunked head first into a vat of madder. Neither youth spoke.
“Come, lads,” the novice-master commanded. “Answer Master Hugh.”
The novices cast glances toward each other, each hoping the other would speak. Neither did. Henry’s visage continued to glow.
Brother Gerleys grew impatient. “Speak,” he said sharply, “or you will spend the night flat upon your faces before the altar, repenting your disobedience.”
I believe Henry would have accepted the penalty and kept silent, but Osbert, after a few moments contemplating how cold the church tiles might be, spoke.
“’Twas unseemly to speak of a lass as John did,” he said.
When he fell silent, I prodded him to continue. “Why so?”
“John often spoke of comely maids he knew, in Wantage, before he came here,” Osbert said.
“How did such talk lead to Maude atte Pond? Had he met the lass?”
“She and one of her father’s servants are hired to wash our clothes,” Osbert said. “After John saw her once he contrived to be nearby on Monday mornings when she came to the laundry.”
“He made conversation with Maude?” I asked. To Brother Gerleys I said, “You permitted this?”
“I did not know of it,” the monk said through thin lips. Turning to the novices, he said, “Why did you not speak of this improper behavior?”
Osbert and Henry were again silent. “They stick together,” Brother Gerleys grumbled, “even when ’tis to protect one who has belittled them.”
“How long past did John begin to seek the lass?”
“He’s not been here long. ’Twas before Lammastide, I think,” Osbert said.
“What, then, did he say of the lass which was ‘unseemly’?” I asked.
Henry sat red-faced, staring at his fingers. Osbert answered.
“John teased us that we’d never kissed a maid, nor ever would. I said there were other things important, especially if a man wished to look upon the Lord Christ when he passed from this life.”
“What did John reply?”
“Said as how I’d change my view of what was worth a man’s notice if I ever kissed a lass. I asked how he could know such a thing, and he began to boast of the maids he’d kissed.”
“And one of these was Maude atte Pond?”
“Aye,” Osbert replied. “Said her kisses were the sweetest he’d ever known.”
“But… but how could such a thing be?” Brother Gerleys spluttered.
“The key,” I reminded him.
“Ah.”
“And ’twas as John was explaining the delights of Maude atte Pond’s kiss that Brother Gerleys came upon you and heard Henry say to John that he should not speak so freely of a lass?”
Osbert silently nodded agreement to my conclusion. Henry remained stolid, speechless, and flushed.
“Did you never ask John how he knew Maude atte Pond’s kisses were honeyed?”
“Once,” Osbert said. “He would not say… just smiled.”
“He left the abbey in the night to meet the lass,” Brother Gerleys said. “Was that what he was about when he was slain?”