by Mel Starr
“None. I know only what Rosamond has told me. He joined those seeking Walter, and has not been heard from since.”
Rosamond, I assumed, was the clerk’s housekeeper.
“The lad might have run off,” I said, “and if it were only him missing from the village, folk might think little of his going. But Simon would not have fled Kencott and his life here. His disappearance speaks to Walter’s vanishing… that the two must be entwined. Whoso has taken them made a mistake when they seized your clerk. ’Twas like announcing to all that Walter was also captured and not a truant.”
“How do you know Simon would not leave Kencott?” the priest said. “He never seemed joyful about his place here.”
“He told me so. I think your clerk is a man who hides his thoughts.”
“Hmmm. Well, more than his thoughts are hid now.”
“Is it possible that your clerk saw trouble ahead for Walter Smith, and himself, and so has hidden himself and the lad ’till he can see some way of escaping his danger?”
“What danger?” the priest said.
“Trust me, there is danger aplenty for them both.”
The priest shrugged. “I’ve a barn on my glebe.”
“Let us search it,” I said. “Lead the way.”
The priest did so, and as we passed the lych gate I motioned for Arthur and Uctred to leave our beasts and follow.
The barn is not so large as the new tithe barn in Bampton, for Kencott is not so large a village. But it is well formed and the thatching will keep autumn rain from wetting the grain stored there for the church’s use, for vicar and clerk and the poor.
“Wait here,” the priest said as we walked behind his house. He disappeared into the dwelling and a moment later reappeared with a large iron key.
The barn was twenty paces behind the vicarage and I could see as we came near the structure that its door was fastened against thieves with an iron bar and lock. “Will a man rob God?” Holy Scripture asks. It seems that men might at least rob their village priest, although some might not consider such theft an offence against the Lord Christ.
Dod turned the key in the lock, loosed the bar, and swung open the door.
“Does Simon Hode have a key to this lock?” I asked.
“Nay.”
“Then we waste our time here,” I said.
Nevertheless, the priest entered the dim barn and shouted the clerk’s name. I was not surprised that there was no answer. But seeing as we were already through the door, I told Arthur and Uctred to inspect the place, and did so myself, peering behind sacks of barley and rye and peas and beans. The priest and his housekeeper would not lack for sustenance this winter. Village tithes and his own glebe lands would provide well for him and his clerk. If the clerk could be found.
The priest seemed disappointed that his clerk had not been discovered crouching behind a sack of barley. He closed the door behind us and fastened the lock, his shoulders slumped in failure.
“I know not where he might be, either hid on his own account, or held by some other.”
“Who would seize him, I wonder,” I said.
I thought the priest might suggest a name or two, but he did not reply. Rather, he stared off past the vicarage to his church.
“St. George’s Church is in Sir John’s gift, I think,” I said. “And if you speak ill of the man and he learns of it, you will be seeking another place.”
Dod did not reply. He did not need to. His silence was answer enough.
“My father was a villein of this place. Paid Sir John well to allow me to seek my living as priest.”
“You are a younger son?”
“Aye. But now I’m the only son. My father an’ sisters died when the great pestilence first come. Then my brother an’ wife and all their children perished eight years past when plague returned. I’ve half a yardland from my brother. Rent it to John Stobbe.”
“Did Randle Mainwaring perform his duties as bailiff to Sir John’s satisfaction?”
“Suppose so. Never heard Sir John complain of ’im. And folk of the village weren’t much pleased with Randle. Probably because he served Sir John’s interests too well, rather than theirs.”
“Did you ever quarrel with Randle?”
“Nay. I’d no cause.”
“But Bertran Muth did?”
“Aye. Bertran sought some other place but Randle found ’im out an’ brought ’im back.”
“Twice, I’m told.”
“Aye.”
“Sir John would have been pleased.”
“That’s so. Sir John’s got land not under plow, for too few souls on his manor.”
“So Bertran slew his bailiff and tried to steal his horse.”
“So ’tis said.”
“You never wondered why Bertran waited more than a month to sell the beast, or where or how he kept it?”
“I’m not employed to question such matters,” the priest said.
“And to do so might bring you trouble,” I said. “Does the Lord Christ ask you to seek comfort or justice?”
“The Lord Christ has no need to live in harmony with the lord of Kencott. Sir John said Bertran was a murderer and thief and had evidence of it.”
“I have found a place in a wood north of the village where a crude pen was built, and has since been dismantled. There is evidence that a horse was kept there.”
“You think Bertran hid Randle’s beast there?”
“Nay, not Bertran.”
“Who, then?”
“Walter Smith was seen many mornings early returning from the place… with an empty bucket.”
Dod again stared across the road to his church, perhaps wondering how he could find another position if he allowed his mind to follow the path I had set for it.
“Sir John employed Walter in his stables. Knew how to care for horses,” the priest said.
“Do you also know that Randle Mainwaring’s grandmother was Sir John’s mother?”
The priest straightened as if I had prodded him in the ribs with my dagger.
“Who told you that?”
“What matter, if it be true? And it is true, is it not?”
Staring at his church seemed to be the priest’s way of avoiding unpleasant considerations, for he did so again, which was answer enough.
“Your clerk and I investigated the documents kept in the church,” I said. “We found several wills which relate to Amice d’Oilly and her heirs.”
“What has this to do with Walter and Simon gone missing?”
“I spoke often to them.”
“Now you speak to me,” Dod said, and glanced nervously about.
“Aye. So, to prevent you going missing as well, it would be wise for you to offer me all aid.”
“I have done so. What more can you need from me… that I know?”
“You are sure that you could not guess where Simon Hode may have gone, if he is away for his own reasons, not under compulsion?”
“Grown men do not go sneaking off to hidden lairs like children at play,” the priest said.
“I suppose not. But sufficiently threatened, they might.”
“You think that Simon saw danger and hid himself?”
“Nay… but ’tis possible.”
“Then why ask this?”
“Because I must sort through all possibilities, even those which seem unlikely, ’till I find the truth.”
“Then you believe he is held somewhere against his will – him and Walter?”
“That is my hope.”
“Your hope?”
“Aye. If not held, they are slain.”
Chapter 16
I bid the priest “Good day,” but I believe he did not consider it so after I had planted in his mind the seed of danger to those seen too much in conversation with me. I bid Arthur and Uctred follow and together we led our palfreys to Sir John’s manor house. I had exhausted other sources of information, so, little as I wished it, I saw no other course but to confront the fellow.
There is a slight curve in the road between vicarage and manor house, and as we rounded it I saw a man leave the distant dovecote. Sir John would have squab for his dinner this day, I thought.
It seemed unlikely that a man of Sir John’s girth ever lost his appetite, but I intended to ask of him questions he would prefer not to answer, and which might put him off his dinner. So I thought.
We tied the palfreys to Sir John’s hitching rail and I bid Arthur and Uctred follow. Some man had observed our approach, for as I neared the manor house door it swung open. A beardless page stood in the opening.
“If ’tis Sir John you seek, he is unwell,” the lad said.
“Master Hugh is a surgeon,” Arthur said with a chuckle. “Mayhap he should sharpen his blades an’ slice away some of Sir John’s troubles.”
To my surprise the page did not frown at Arthur’s wit, but rather said, “Wait ’ere. I’ll see does Sir John want a surgeon.”
I looked to Arthur, astonished at this response. He grinned and shrugged. Perhaps Sir John really was ill and not simply choosing to avoid me.
The page ascended a stairway at the end of the chamber and a moment later I heard voices from the upper floor of the manor house. This conversation was too muted to understand, but a moment later I heard rapid footfalls as the youth descended the stairs, and when he spoke the muffled conversation became clear.
“You are truly a surgeon?” the page asked.
“Aye. Surgeon and bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot.” Sir John might have need of a surgeon, but ’twould do no harm if from his upper chamber he heard a reminder that I served a man more powerful than he.
“Come,” the lad said, and led me to the stairway. I motioned for Arthur and Uctred to follow.
Sir John lay abed, his blanket mounded over his belly as if some man had placed on the bed a wine cask. The knight turned his head upon his pillow to watch as we entered the chamber. This obscured his complaint, for ’twas not his gut which troubled him.
“The lad says you are ill,” I said.
“Aye. He says also you claim to be a surgeon,” Sir John replied.
“Studied in Paris,” Arthur said from behind my shoulder.
“What malady keeps you to your bed?” I said.
“My head,” Sir John replied, and turned away as if to gaze at the wall opposite his bed. The bed curtains had been drawn open, so I could see clearly what was uncovered when the knight looked away.
A reddish-brown stain as large as my hand discolored his pillow. Sir John’s greying hair was plastered to his scalp, crusted with a mixture of blood and pus. Here was the cause of the stain which Arthur had seen upon Sir John’s cap, and perhaps a cause of his surly disposition, although I have known peckish men who had no wounds to blame for their vile temperament.
“How long have you been so afflicted?” I asked.
“Since Candlemas, thereabouts.”
“Have you sought treatment?”
“Aye. Went to Oxford a fortnight after Easter.”
“What did the physician say?”
“Said ’twas a scrofulous sore an’ needed the king’s touch. I’d no wish to travel to London, an’ who knows when Edward might visit Woodstock, him bein’ aged an’ ill?”
“The physician provided no salve?”
“Oh, aye, he did so.”
“You have not returned to Oxford?”
“To what purpose? The sore remains and has grown larger. More pus issues from it now than before I was given the salve. Can you do aught for me, or will this grow and take me to my grave?”
“Ask me in a year and I will give a better answer. If the wound is a cancer, you must be sure of your will. If some other malady is the cause, I can perhaps cure it. But ’tis no scrofulous sore.”
“What? You know more of illness than an Oxford physician?”
“Did that physician cure you?”
“Nay.”
“Then I can do no worse, eh?”
“Unless your prescription kills me.”
“It will not… but to treat an ulcer like yours will cause you some pain.”
“Why so?”
“The sore must be cut away, the wound cleansed and then sewn together, much like my face you see before you.”
I saw the knight shudder as he considered my words and face.
“If this is a cancer, your surgery will be in vain?” Sir John said.
“Aye. But perhaps ’tis not. When the wound appeared, was there a cause?”
“Aye. Struck my head upon a low branch riding through the wood, hunting.”
“You were lacerated even through your cap?”
“Aye. Threw me from my horse. Ribs an’ back so tender for a week, I gave little thought to my head.”
“’Tis not likely that such an injury will result in cancer.”
I saw relief flood the knight’s fleshy face. “Why does my head yet ache so?” he asked.
“The corruption has grown, I think, and will continue to do so ’till it is cut away. Evil is like that. The cutting away is painful, but if ’tis not done the corruption will grow and kill.”
I watched to see if Sir John would react to these words, for I spoke not only of his disease but also of the wrongs which infected Kencott Manor. Perhaps I was too subtle. The knight made no expression nor said any word to betray that he might think I spoke of anything other than his carbuncle.
“When will you do this?” Sir John asked.
“Tomorrow. I must return to Bampton for my instruments.”
“Can you not do so today? ’Tis not so far to Bampton.”
“Nay. I have other business in Kencott today. Walter Smith and Simon Hode are missing and no man knows where they might be. Well, some men may. You have given up seeking them.”
“We were unsuccessful. Walter has run off, I’m sure, else we’d have found him.”
“What of the clerk? He would not run from Kencott. He was pleased with his situation here… told me so himself.”
“Don’t know where he might have gone. ’Tis a puzzle.”
“There is another puzzle in Kencott I’d speak to you about. Three days past Simon Hode and I opened the documents chest in St. George’s Church and discovered a wondrous thing.”
“What did you find?” the knight said guardedly.
“’Tis not so much what we found which was curious, but what we did not find.”
Sir John frowned in puzzlement. I enlightened him.
“Your mother’s first husband was Sir Harold Mainwaring.”
Sir John said nothing. I continued.
“Sir Harold left no will. We found in the chest only a parchment telling of his death. Does it not seem odd to you that the lord of Kencott Manor would not leave a will advising his heirs of how he wished his possessions to be disposed of?”
“Surely he left his lands and chattels in the normal way of things,” Sir John said.
“Then why did you inherit Kencott Manor? Common law says that your mother would receive one third of the estate, and her son, Roger, two thirds. But Roger evidently received nothing, his mother all.”
“There was an enfeoffment,” Sir John said.
“How so?”
“What difference to you?”
“Because if you wish for me to deal with your canker, you will explain cloudy matters upon this manor… and because Lord Gilbert has demanded this of you.”
“’Tis not his estate,” Sir John muttered.
“Randle Mainwaring was found dead in Bampton. How he died, and why, has thus become Lord Gilbert’s concern.”
Sir John lay silent for a moment. “Before Sir Harold Mainwaring died, so my mother said, he called her to him and said he wished to have a charter of enfeoffment drawn, to escape fees and the manor falling to wardship, his lad Roger being but an infant, and great lords willing to pay the King for wardship of the child.”
“But Roger was no orphan. His mother lived.”
“When did such a detail ev
er impede a greedy lord with a king who needed money?”
An enfeoffment would escape not only fees due to the king but also laws of primogeniture. “Your mother, Amice, received the enfeoffment?” I asked.
“Aye,” Sir John said. “The document was kept here; not in the chest at St. George’s Church.”
The feoffee, in this case Amice Mainwaring, was to hold property and chattels for another. I wondered who was named in the enfeoffment. Surely not Amice’s second husband, as her first was not yet dead. Her son, Roger, would likely have been named. No difference from the normal order of things, except that enfeoffment could keep the king’s hands from Amice’s and Roger’s silver, and prevent some greedy lord from seeking wardship of the child, claiming Amice’s incompetence.
But if the document existed and was written as I thought likely, how did Sir John deMeaux become lord of the manor of Kencott rather than Roger Mainwaring, and after him his son Randle? Perhaps the document might explain.
“I would like to see the enfeoffment,” I said.
“Alas, ’tis gone, in the blaze.”
“What blaze?”
“Many years past,” Sir John sighed, “sparks from the chimney set thatching afire. My men pulled down the burning thatch and walls, so most of the house was saved.”
“But the enfeoffment document was kept in the part of the house which was consumed?” I asked.
“Aye, it was.”
How convenient for Sir John and his sons, I thought. And this explained why half of the manor house seemed new. It was.
Did Randle Mainwaring know of the enfeoffment which his grandfather had made? This seemed likely. Why else would his inheritance be in some other’s possession? Had he ever demanded to see the document before it burned, to learn if it named his infant father as the beneficiary of the enfeoffment? I had one last question for Sir John.
“The wood to the north of your meadow… have you gone hunting there recently?”
“The wood just across the wheat field and beyond my sheep?” Sir John replied.
“Aye.”
“No man has gone there since Whitsuntide.”
“Why so?” I asked.
“My command. There are fallow deer in that wood. No man nor beast is permitted to enter the wood from Whitsuntide to Michaelmas. ’Tis fence season.”