by Mel Starr
The journey to Hornsey did tire Prince Edward. After supper he forsook the hall. Shortly after, I was summoned to the privy chamber. Lady Joan and the child Richard were also present. The prince waved to a bench and bade me sit.
“You have done me good service,” he began. “You have found who slew my loyal companion, and have eased my bellyache. You will be rewarded. I intend to grant you a knighthood. You shall henceforth be Sir Hugh, not Master Hugh.”
“This is an honor I do not seek.”
“Hah!” Prince Edward turned to Lady Joan. “A modest man.” He then turned to me. “Will your wife not be pleased to be Lady Katherine?”
“Aye. I suppose she will.”
“Good. There is no time like the present to begin the ceremony. Tomorrow is All Hallows’ Eve. You may seek the chapel. I will have my chaplain make ready. In the morning you will bathe and I will complete the rite.”
So it was that I spent that night in prayer, prostrate before the altar on the cold tiles of Kennington Palace Chapel. Prince Edward was true to his word, and at dawn I was led, stiff with cold, to the prince’s copper-lined tub, where I could wash filth from my body just as I had swept impurities from my soul before the chapel altar.
I no longer needed the authority of Prince Edward’s livery, so I donned my own chauces and cotehardie for the investiture. The prince and Lady Joan wore their finest robes, of gold cloth, and the chapel was crowded with knights and their ladies as Father Lawrence spoke the mass. I was offered bread and wine, then brought to kneel before Prince Edward to receive his sword upon my shoulders. I felt no different from the man I was a day, even a year, before – but now I was Sir Hugh.
Amabil was the daughter of a knight, and Sir Geoffrey was a knight, so neither faced a noose for their felonies. Amabil was permitted to enter the nunnery at Rosedale, in Yorkshire, where she would awaken each morning aching with cold to remember her sins. Sir Geoffrey went to the block upon Tower Hill. As for Sir Thomas Jocelyn, he was able to convince the King’s Eyre that, whatever part he had played in the business of Sir Giles’s death, he had the right of hamsoken and could not be charged with the death of Arnaud Tonge. Thomas Poer was absolved as being the unwitting accomplice of men who used his simple-mindedness for their own purposes. Perhaps my testimony before the judges and jury helped spare the lad’s life.
I remembered to speak to Prince Edward of Randall Patchett, and he took the lad into his service as a squire.
As there was now no heir to Sir Giles Cheyne’s estate, his lands – but for one manor the revenues of which were given to Rosedale Priory for the maintenance of Amabil – reverted to the crown. As a reward for my services to his son, King Edward assigned a sixth part of the revenues of Sir Giles’s remaining lands to me. I am sure Prince Edward had influence in the matter. No doubt the prince thought this a great favor to me. But the Lord Christ said that ’tis difficult for a wealthy man to enter His kingdom. Has the prince done me a favor, or harmed me? Surely he believes the former. All men, I suppose, wish for greater wealth than they possess. Would they if they thought the coins would send them to hell? Perhaps they believe that their wealth can be used to hire priests and monks to pray them out of purgatory. The Lord Christ said nothing of this – that a man’s wealth might save him rather than condemn him.
The prince retained William Blackwater as his physician, but only after Blackwater humbly promised to provide tansy, thyme, cress, bramble leaves, and oil from the root of fennel for the prince’s wine each day.
Prince Edward decided to depart Kennington Palace for Berkhampstead Castle. Kennington, he said, reeked of calumny and death, and he wanted to be away from the odor.
As Roger de Clare was dead he could not name the men he had hired with Amabil Cheyne’s money to accost me upon the road. They were never found out, nor did I seek them. Doing so would have kept me in London – a place I had no wish to be. I even lost interest in the scoundrel of the bright blue cotehardie. The Lord Christ may deal with him!
Arthur and I mounted our palfreys on the eleventh day of November and set off for home. Prince Edward’s grooms and valets were busy dismantling his household for the move to Berkhampstead as we departed.
At Stokenchurch we halted before the house of the babe whose wound I had stitched. ’Twas well healed, and as I had half suspected might be the case, the child’s father had not dared cut away the silken threads. I did so, the little lad protesting the business mightily all the while. ’Twas but a matter of minutes to accomplish this and did not much delay our return to Bampton.
We spent the night with the Cistercians at Thame Abbey and rose early from our beds, both of us eager to be at home. Where Church View Street meets Mill Street I dismounted, sent Arthur on to Bampton Castle with the beasts, and walked to Galen House with my instruments bag over my shoulder.
My Kate was as pleased with my return as I had hoped she would be, and Bessie hugged my knees while bouncing with joy. Infant John was unimpressed with my appearance and slept through the greetings and questions and replies.
’Twas a fast day, so only a pottage of peas and beans bubbled upon the hearth. But I thought it a meal fit for a king. Or for a knight.
Afterword
Kennington Palace was located in what is now the Vauxhall area of London, in the triangle between Kennington Road, Sancroft Street, and Cardigan Street (see map).
From the late 1340s to 1363 Prince Edward built a hall at Kennington, with a chamber and wardrobe, a kitchen, bakehouse, and pastry cook’s house. The hall was oriented east-west, and measured approximately eighty-eight feet long by fifty-three feet wide. An undercroft was sunk about three feet under the hall; a stone-vaulted roof supported the floor of the hall which was about six feet above ground level. In 1531 Henry VIII demolished most of Kennington Palace to provide building materials for his new palace at Whitehall.
The main parts of Kennington Palace, including the hall, great chamber, kitchen, and stables, were excavated between 1965 and 1968.
Prince Edward did not live to become King Edward IV, dying in June 1376, before his father. His second son, Richard, became king when yet a child. Edward was known in the fourteenth century as Edward of Woodstock (his birthplace), or as the Duke of Cornwall, not the “Black Prince.” That name was not commonly used for him until the Tudor era. The “Black Prince” sobriquet was supposedly given to Edward because of his black armor, although there is no contemporary evidence for this. His crest featured an unusual black background, so may have been the source of the nickname.
Historians differ as to the nature of Edward’s lingering and debilitating illness. Amebic dysentery and malaria are usually at the top of the list of suspected maladies. Dysentery seems the most likely culprit.
Bampton Castle was, in the fourteenth century, one of the largest castles in England in terms of the area contained within the curtain wall. Little remains of the castle but for the gatehouse and a small part of the curtain wall, which form a part of Ham Court, a farmhouse in private hands. The current owners have done extensive restoration work, and even restored a part of the moat.
Many readers have asked about medieval remains in Bampton. St. Mary’s Church is little changed from the fourteenth century, when it was known as the Church of St. Beornwald. The late May Bank Holiday is a good time to visit Bampton. The village is a morris dancing center, and on that day holds a day-long morris dancing festival.
Village scenes in the popular television series Downton Abbey were filmed on Church View Street in Bampton, and St. Mary’s Church appeared in several episodes. The town library was transformed into the Downton Hospital.
A scrofula is a tubercular swelling of the lymph system in the neck and these seem to have been not uncommon in the fourteenth century.
An extract from the twelfth chronicle of Hugh de Singleton, surgeon
Chapter 1
June and July are hungry months. Hogs slaughtered and smoked and salted at Martinmas have been consumed, and unless a man i
s adept at setting snares to poach his lord’s coneys and hares he and his family will go without flesh upon their trenchers.
In the June of 1373 corn was also in short supply. The harvest had not been bountiful the last year, so most folk in Bampton village had lived with hollow bellies and prayed for an abundant harvest this year.
Two of my Kate’s hens had gone missing since Whitsunday, so we were without their eggs to feed ourselves, Bessie and John, and Kate’s father. I was angry that some villager had made off with the fowls, but what would I do if my babes were crying with hunger? Would I steal to spare them? Or to keep them alive? I pray that I may never be brought to such an impasse.
Men sometimes wonder how they might conduct themselves in a crisis. Such a question can only be answered when a crisis visits. It is better, perhaps, to never know the answer to such a question, for to know means that evil has come.
No man had made off with Kate’s rooster, so the creature awoke me as he greeted the dawn on Tuesday, June 21. I remember the day well, for before the sun dropped below Lord Gilbert’s wood to the west of Bampton Castle my employer, Lord Gilbert Talbot, assigned me the most vexing task I had yet undertaken in his service.
I am Hugh de Singleton – Sir Hugh, since Prince Edward saw fit to award me a knighthood for my service to him some months past – surgeon and bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his Bampton manor. My post often requires that I seek out miscreants who trouble the peace of Lord Gilbert’s villeins and tenants. As I have had success in such duty, Lord Gilbert has sometimes seen fit to charge me to assist friends who require the services of a sleuth to unravel some knotty trouble.
I broke my fast with a fragment of stale maslin loaf and a cup of ale, then set off for John Prudhomme’s house. John has been reeve of Bampton Manor for several years, and this day we must divide our duty: one to oversee haying, the other the ploughing of a fallow field of Lord Gilbert’s demesne. I sent John to watch over the ploughing, to be sure that the ploughmen turned the sod deeply so that the roots of weeds were exposed, and went to observe the haying.
Ten of Lord Gilbert’s villeins, with their wives and older children, arrived at the meadow shortly after the sun had dried the dew. The men set off with their scythes while the women and children followed, turning the hay to ensure that it dried evenly. My presence as observer of this labor was not really required. A successful hay crop means that more animals can be kept over the next winter for fresh meat, or breeding stock, or sale. So the men at their scythes swung them close to the ground, and the women and children were careful to leave no clumps which would mold if the weather turned wet.
The day became warm, so that the haymakers had stripped to their kirtles by the fourth hour, and sweat mingled with dust upon their brows when the Angelus Bell rang from the tower of the Church of St. Beornwald, signaling noon and a break for dinner. The work was arduous, but the laborers grinned as they went to their meals. The hay crop was good.
As I turned from Bridge Street to Church View Street on the way to my own dinner, I saw Adela walking ahead, returning to Galen House from the baker with three loaves in her arms. Adela’s father is a poor cotter of the Bishop of Exeter’s lands in the Weald. My service to Prince Edward last year included discovering who had slain Sir Giles Cheyne, the prince’s companion at the Battle of Crécy. For this labor I had been made Sir Hugh, and also awarded a sixth part of the revenues of the murdered knight’s lands. I was prosperous enough that I could hire a servant to assist my Kate, who was now Lady Katherine to the folk of Bampton and the Weald.
Dinner this day at Galen House was a porre of peas and loaves yet warm from the baker’s oven. Kate had found some bits of pork to flavor the pottage.
“Have Lord Gilbert’s guests arrived?” my father-in-law asked as we ate.
“Nay, but Coleshill is not far distant and the roads are dry. Sir Aymer should arrive before supper.”
The care and feeding of guests at Bampton Castle is not part of my duties to Lord Gilbert, but his instructions for the cook, chamberlain, valets, and grooms regarding the forthcoming visit of guests were soon known to me and most others in the village.
Sir Aymer Molyns, the expected guest, was wed to Philippa Felbridge, cousin once removed to Lady Petronilla, Lord Gilbert’s wife. Lady Petronilla had succumbed to plague when the disease reappeared four years past. The Lady Philippa was Sir Aymer’s second wife; his first bride, Lady Alyce, having also perished during the return of plague in 1369.
A man with a scythe is expected to mow an acre of hay in a day. As there were ten men at work in the hayfield, and the field was little more than half a yardland in size, the work was nearly complete when, at the ninth hour, I saw riders, two carts, and an elaborately painted wagon approach the castle from Cowleys Corner. Here, I thought, are Sir Aymer and Lady Philippa.
A painted canvas stretched over hoops covered the wagon. As this had been a day of bright sun I assumed the Lady Philippa was travelling under the canvas so as to keep her complexion pale. Most gentlefolk consider this a mark of beauty. And status. A tanned visage is the mark of a woman of the commons, who must labor in the sun. My Kate is usually tanned by Michaelmas, but this does not diminish her beauty. Not to me. Why is it, I wonder, that the summer sun will cause skin to grow darker and hair to become lighter? Here is another question for my mystery bag to be opened when the Lord Christ welcomes me into His kingdom. Surely He will know.
When I first came to Bampton in Lord Gilbert’s employ I was surprised to learn of a practice which I had not seen before. At the end of a day of haying, men are permitted to take for their own as much of the lord’s hay as they can carry from the field upon their scythe. But they must not be overly greedy. If any hay falls before they carry it from the field, all they have piled upon the scythe is forfeit.
I watched as the villeins stacked remarkable mounds of hay upon their scythes and carried the fodder away, then departed the hayfield and walked to Bampton Castle forecourt. Lord Gilbert’s visitors had but moments before passed under the portcullis and into the castle yard. Arthur and Uctred, two of Lord Gilbert’s grooms, who had in the past been of service to me in seeking felons, were among the servants who took Sir Aymer’s beasts in hand as he, his squire, and a dozen or so grooms and valets dismounted.
I had no business at the castle, no reason to greet Lord Gilbert’s guests, so I was about to retrace my steps to the forecourt when I heard raised voices. I did not at first comprehend the words, but as I turned to see from whence the din came I heard Sir Aymer roar, “Empty, by heavens! Where is she? She entered the wagon this morn. Why is she no longer within?”
The knight addressed these shouted questions to an elderly, wispy-haired man who had, until a moment earlier, been mounted upon the first of the three runcies which drew the wagon. The fellow was frail, and glanced from Sir Aymer to the wagon with an open mouth and a startled expression.
Lord Gilbert drew aside the canvas enclosing the rear of the wagon, and as I watched he peered inside. The roads were dry. The wagon was closed front and back to keep out dust. When my employer withdrew his head his bluff features registered puzzlement. Apparently Sir Aymer’s wife – for who else would travel in such a conveyance? – was nowhere to be found.
This disappearance soon had tongues wagging. Sir Aymer’s grooms and valets put their heads together, and Lord Gilbert’s servants did likewise. Meanwhile, Lord Gilbert stood, arms akimbo, studying the wagon, while Sir Aymer continued to berate the hapless postilion rider.
The curious spectacle caught my attention. I stood near the castle gatehouse to watch and listen. How could a lady disappear between Coleshill and Bampton, a distance of but nine miles? This question was about to be assigned to me, for as I watched Sir Aymer berate the wagon driver Lord Gilbert’s eye fell upon me. A moment later he gestured vigorously that I was to approach him.
“Here is a puzzle,” Lord Gilbert said over the clamor of competing voices as various folk pronounced opinions regarding the
vanished lady. “The Lady Philippa and her maid went into the wagon this morning at Coleshill, but are no longer within. I fear some evil has befallen the lady.”
Sir Aymer, meanwhile, left off castigating the hapless postilion and stalked over to where Lord Gilbert and I stood.
“My wife has been taken,” he concluded. “My men and I will ride back the way we came to see if Lady Philippa may be found.”
“I will join you,” Lord Gilbert said. Then, to me, “You come also. Arthur, Uctred, saddle my ambler and three palfreys. We four will accompany Sir Aymer.”
Arthur and Uctred hurried to the stables to do Lord Gilbert’s bidding, while my employer hastened to his hall. He returned a moment later buckling a sword to his belt.
“If there are felons about who stole the lady ’twill do well to be armed. Have you your dagger?”
I touched the hilt of my weapon in reply.
Sir Aymer, his squire, and five of his grooms and valets, along with Lord Gilbert, Arthur, Uctred, and I clattered across the castle drawbridge a few moments later. We rode past Cowleys Corner, across Radcot Bridge, and beyond Clanfield, all the way to Faringdon. We saw no trace of the missing lady, nor any sign that any felony had taken place along the road. Sir Aymer often called Lady Philippa’s name. Silence was the only reply.
We occasionally saw men working late in fields along the road, and once passed two travelers afoot. None had seen a lady and her maid. At Clanfield we questioned several folk. A woman of the village remembered seeing Sir Aymer and his party pass by earlier in the day. Lady Philippa’s wagon would naturally be remembered. Since then, she said, only a cart and men afoot had traveled the road before her house.
’Twas near to midsummer’s eve, so we had ample light to inspect the road and verge. Nothing was amiss. Lady Philippa and the maid had vanished.