by Mel Starr
That business must wait. The sun came out next day, the snow melted, and the road to Oxford turned to mire. I decided on a bath.
I had at Galen House an old barrel I had sawn in half, the seams of which I then smeared with pitch. But at Galen House I had no opportunity to put this tub to use. Now I would. I sent Uctred and his son to retrieve it, and had them place it in the midst of my apartment.
I required of Cicily six buckets of hot water, which, with raised eyebrows, she agreed to provide. Both eyebrows were lifted. It is as I thought: elevating one eyebrow is a noble trait.
Alice was assigned the honor of fetching the buckets. As she hauled the third bucketful through the hall to my room, Lord Gilbert entered from the solar. He watched her labor under the steaming load, then, his curiosity aroused, asked what I was about. I told him.
“A bath?” he said incredulously. “It’s winter, man! You’ll die of…of…of something.”
“I stink,” I told him frankly.
“So do we all. What of it?”
“I stayed three nights in verminous inns.”
“Ah, yes, I forgot. But still, you will catch your death, bathing in winter. A corpse smells worse, you know, than either you or I alive.”
“I will live,” I assured him. He flashed the uplifted eyebrow at me, as if to say, “You have been warned.”
“Very well, but just in case, who do you recommend as bailiff in your place?”
I laughed. It was a good joke. Lord Gilbert, however, was not laughing. “I will think on it,” I replied, “while I soak the dirt away.”
Alice had overheard much of the conversation as she made her way between my room and the kitchen. She grinned broadly as she dumped the fourth and fifth buckets into the barrel. I thought to remonstrate with her for lack of respect, but decided against it.
Next day Lord Gilbert and his retinue departed on muddy roads for Goodrich. I was on my own now. I watched the party – Lord Gilbert, Lady Petronilla, Richard, Lady Joan, their valets and grooms, horses, wagons, and carts – pass through the castle yard to Mill Street and east, then north, through the town. There was much jangling of harnesses, squeaking of cart-wheels, and stamping of horses as they got under way. The silence when they were gone was as complete as the noise of their departure.
Lord Gilbert had delayed his move until the issue of the bones found in his cesspit was resolved. Although there had been no trial and no finding yet of guilt, it was clear to me that he assumed these were but a formality. To Lord Gilbert, Thomas Shilton was already a dead man.
Not all the castle residents departed with Lord Gilbert. Some must remain to work the manor in his absence. An hour later I took three of these – John, Arthur, and Uctred – as my escort and we four made our way through the mud to Oxford. The Stag and Hounds was beneath my new position, but I knew the place, and it was convenient. I took rooms there and stabled the horses.
I left Arthur and Uctred with their ale, and with the reeve sought the king’s sheriff at Oxford Castle. He did not wish to be found. The evening Angelus bell was ringing from Christchurch Cathedral before, in an exchange of messages, he was convinced that Lord Gilbert’s bailiff did indeed have important business with him. By then it was too late to discharge my duty. Sir Roger would see me at the castle at the third hour on the morrow. It was back to the Stag and Hounds for the night; back to cheap ale and miserable fare and verminous beds. I would need another bath.
Oxford castle commands the west side of the town. The old, disused keep rises above the other structures as it has for many centuries. Within the walls are newer buildings, and it was to one of these that I was shown next morning to meet the king’s sheriff.
Sir Roger de Cottesford was an orderly fellow. He wanted the particulars of the case and the coroner’s verdict in plain language. I presented what I knew, and what I suspected, in unadorned speech. Sir Roger asked few questions. I was done within the hour.
“Lord Gilbert,” he said, “has done well to send me this suit. This matter must be for the king’s eyre and a jury to decide. I commend you also, Master Hugh, for your diligence in pursuit of justice. Sir William Barnhill is holding court this day, and will do so until the term’s work is done.”
Sir Roger called a clerk from an anteroom and consulted him briefly. “I will send an officer and company to apprehend this Thomas Shilton tomorrow. His trial will be next week Thursday, if Sir William agrees. You must return to give evidence, of course.”
I nodded understanding, bowed, and with John made my way back to the inn. At least I would not need to spend another night in that place. Until the next week.
Six days later, this time with Arthur my only escort, I made my way back to Oxford. I did not sleep well the night before my departure. I reviewed in my mind the evidence I must give, seeking some late insight which might incriminate or reprieve Thomas Shilton.
Next day the trial was done and verdict rendered before the ninth hour. The clerk called for my testimony, which I spoke as concisely as possible. I was nevertheless on the witness stand for more than an hour. The finding of the coroner’s jury was read to the court. Then Thomas Shilton was permitted to speak in his own defense. He related the same account he had thrice told me, and again protested his innocence.
I thought that, mindful of his mortal danger, he might offer new proofs of his guiltlessness. He did not, or could not. He did, as was permitted, bring testimony of three men of Shilton to his upright life and blameless character. I watched the jurymen, substantial citizens of Oxford all, lean forward in their box to hear the words of Thomas’ advocates. They were successful and prosperous men, who knew when to trust, and when not to trust, the words of another. It seemed to me they gave credence to these witnesses and I thought, from the expressions on the jurymen’s faces, that Thomas might soon be on his way back to Shilton, guilty or not.
Some on the jury must have believed Thomas and his defenders, for it took two hours and more for them to return to court with their verdict: guilty.
Sir William pronounced sentence: Thomas Shilton would be taken from court to his cell at Oxford Castle. On Saturday at the sixth hour he would be hanged in the castle yard. A cloud at that moment obscured the sun and the courtroom went dark.
Chapter 12
I never had much appetite for the fare offered at the Stag and Hounds, and this night less than usual. I desired food for my soul, not my body. I bid Arthur farewell at Cornmarket Street and set my feet for Balliol College while Arthur made his way down the High Street to fill his belly at the Stag and Hounds, a thing he might later regret.
The porter remembered me. It was his business to remember faces of those who had the liberty of Balliol College. I enquired of Master John Wyclif, if he had the same rooms as when I was a student. He did. As I made my way across the college yard I saw a lamp glowing dimly from his window.
Master John remembered me. I was uncertain whether or not this was a good sign. It seems to me that a master must recall most readily those scholars who perform in extraordinary fashion, either well or poorly. I did not want to consider which might be my circumstance.
He bid me enter heartily, and asked if I had supped. I had not, so I lied. I pray God will forgive me this. As He has other, more serious infractions of mine to consider, I think it sure He will.
Master John was finishing his own meal, a bowl of pottage and part of a loaf at one hand, and an open book at the other, beneath his lamp.
“When I saw you last you were considering the profession of surgeon,” he said as he brushed crumbs from his beard. “Did you follow that path?”
“Aye. I am practicing surgery…in Bampton. At Lord Gilbert Talbot’s request.”
“His request for you to practice surgery? Or to do so in Bampton?” Master John inquired.
“Oh, in Bampton. I sought custom here in Oxford for a time.”
“Do you find enough work there?” he asked. “’Tis not so large a town, I think.”
“Aye, enough.
Not overmuch, but I am recently appointed Lord Gilbert’s bailiff for the manor there.”
“Then you will be well occupied.”
“I trust so. It is my employment I would speak to you about.”
“Ah, my lad, I know nothing of collecting fines or surgery, and very little of the human body, but that my own seems to perform as God intended…most of the time.”
I told him that surgery was not the topic of concern to me, then related the tale of my assignment to identify a decayed body and discover a murderer.
“And so,” Master John concluded when my account was done, “you have seen justice done for the girl at the trial today.”
I could not answer. To say “no” would be to implicate myself in a great injustice. To say “yes” would be to voice a certainty I did not feel. No fool ever became Master of Balliol College. Well, not to my knowledge, anyway. Master John saw my hesitation and knew what it signified.
“You think this Thomas of Shilton wrongly convicted?”
“No…that is, there is no other who had both cause and opportunity.”
“No other you know of,” Master John said while he chewed his last bite of bread, “so he must be culpable, in the absence of any other.”
“Aye. Lord Gilbert will see justice done for the girl. I would see it done as well.”
“And so long as someone hangs, justice will be done?” he asked.
“So all seem to believe.”
“And you, Hugh, what do you believe?”
“True justice requires precision, I think. Else when murder was done we should not raise the hue and cry for the guilty. We should simply seize and hang the most convenient sacrifice. A life for a life, who would care which life, unless it was your own?”
“You have sought the truth about this murder for many weeks, yet you cannot be easy in your soul about your conclusion?”
“No,” I admitted, “I cannot.”
“Why have you come here? You wish me to offer some absolution? To tell you that your good intentions will suffice in exchange for an innocent life…perhaps innocent?”
Master John could be hard when he chose. Not out of disdain or anger, but because he wished his pupils to think for themselves rather than wait upon his wisdom. I knew when I approached the college that such words from him might come. I relished them, as a monk wears a hair shirt. But Master John’s harsh questions would not expiate my sin if my error sent an innocent man to the gallows two days hence.
Nevertheless, I complained, “Your words are severe.”
“So is hanging. Have you seen a man hang? The lad’s face will swell and grow purple. He will kick and struggle while students shout imprecations at him. He will lose control and soil himself. And the last sound he will hear will be accusations of his villainy, as perhaps he should, be he a true villain. But if not, he will die innocent of murder but perchance with another crime on his soul; hate for those who have misused him so. Is it worse to go to God the doer of a foul deed, or the thinker of foul thoughts?”
He awaited my answer in silence. I saw that his was not a rhetorical question. He expected an answer.
“I think there is no difference to God,” I said finally.
“You speak the truth. What did our Lord say about speaking ill of another?”
“Those who call their brother ‘fool’ are in danger of hellfire,” I replied.
“A punishment equal to that awarded murderers, regardless of what our brother Dante might say,” he added.
“So if Thomas is a guilty man, he will, unless he confess his sin to Christ before the morrow, see the torments of hell,” I reflected. “But if he be innocent, but brims with anger for me and others who destroy him, he will also die in sin?”
“I fear so. Unless he can forgive with a noose about his neck.”
“Then I have put him in an impossible position. His only escape to heaven may be that he is guilty and will confess it so.”
“Or,” Master John said softly, “to forgive you your error…if error it was.”
“Then I must visit him in the castle jail. Do you suggest it?”
“I think for your good, and the good of his soul, you must. But I would share a pint with you before you go this night.”
Master John went to a cupboard, opened it, and drew forth a pitcher which he shook resignedly. “I forgot ’twas empty,” he said.
When Master John got his mind into a book, either his own, or another’s, he overlooked sometimes both food and drink.
“There is an inn close by on Broad Street. We will go there,” he announced.
I asked Master John later, when this business was resolved, if God had a hand in his forgetting to purchase ale that day.
“I am what God made me, and what I have made with the material he provided. But, you ask, can God use my flaws, which he is in no way responsible for? They are my own burden. The answer must be ‘yes’, if we allow. God will use all we permit him to have. If we give him our weaknesses, he will use them as well as our strengths. The key is in giving them up…as I pray daily I may do.”
I resolved to make that prayer for myself. It is difficult to do, for such a prayer reminds a man that a weakness may, with effort, be cured, rather than only used, if God is granted permission to work the remedy. Most, I think, would rather escape the effort and hope that God is satisfied with them as they are.
The inn held a crowd of students from the nearby colleges. Those who took the time to look up from their ale recognized Master John and bowed in greeting. The place smelled of spilled ale, stale food, and unwashed bodies. It was much like the Stag and Hounds. The noisy gathering quieted some as we made our way through the throng to a bench along the opposite wall.
“Would you rather drink in peace?” he asked. “We might take a flagon back to Balliol.”
I shook my head “no.” The clamorous conversations and conviviality refreshed me for the call I must make on the morrow.
Over the din of contending voices I could occasionally pick out a word. The hanging scheduled for Saturday noon seemed a popular topic. Little did these students know it was me they might thank for their entertainment.
Master John finally caught the wench’s eye and asked for a gallon and two tankards. I withdrew my purse to pay, but he would not permit me. “You are my guest. Perhaps some day I shall take a day in the country; you may entertain me at Bampton.” I told him this would please me greatly, and meant it so.
Master John thanked the wench, which seemed not to startle her. He must, I thought, frequent the place often, for no one else in the room took notice of her to thank her for her labor. The only comment most made to her was to remark indecently on her condition, which, I could see as she approached with the ale, was advanced pregnancy.
The wench seemed to give as good as she received, although I could hear little of her rejoinders as she passed through the mob about her duties. She responded with saucy air, a shake of her chestnut curls, and a flash of dark and sparkling eyes. “Maggie,” one in the crowd named her within my hearing.
I do not remember Master John’s topic as we sat in the corner with our ale. Indeed, he did the talking, fleshing out a theological argument he wished to present to his students the next week. I listened, or pretended to. Mainly I thought of what I might say to Thomas Shilton while with dull eyes I observed the carefree students before me.
The wench plied her way busily from counter to tables, but I noted that she did so with a small limp. The strain of her pregnancy, I assumed. Meanwhile Master John rambled on, lost in a proposition.
I was sitting with elbows on my knees, occasionally raising tankard to lips, muttering occasional agreement to Master John’s points, when in a lull in the din I heard again a call for the wench’s service: “Maggie!”
“Maggie…” Margaret! A broken foot which “troubles her now and again.”
I sat up so abruptly that I smote the wall behind me with the back of my head. Master John peered at me across his tankard
, hesitating in his conversation. He was puzzled, perhaps, that I should react so vigorously to his logic.
I turned to him: “Do you come here often?” I asked.
“Aye,” he answered. “’Tis closest to my rooms.”
“The lass; has she served here long?”
“Ah, since Whitsuntide, I think. They come and go. Find a husband and gone…although this girl,” he chuckled, “did not find one soon enough, I think.”
“You noticed her first about Whitsuntide, or shortly after?”
“Hmm…aye, about then. Why do you ask?”
I did not reply, but rose from the bench and pushed my way across the room. I called the girl’s name and asked if she would attend Master John and me when it was convenient. A few minutes later she approached. “More ale?” she asked.
Master John stared quizzically at me, and the girl likewise when I shook my head. I bade her be seated.
“I cannot,” she answered. “My master forbids me sitting with patrons. He wishes it known he operates a respectable house.”
“Certainly no one will make improper inference from sitting with Master John Wyclif?” I replied.
The girl looked down at the Master of Balliol, and he, as if to answer the question, slid away on the bench to make room for her. She looked at me once again, then sat warily between us.
“What’s this about then, if you need no more ale? ’Tis late for the kitchen, but I suppose somethin’ might be found.”
I decided to voice my suspicion plainly, with no prevarication.
“Margaret Smith, of Burford, your father, Alard, the smith, ages daily, before men’s eyes, because he has lost you.”
The wench’s hand flew to her mouth. She stood and protested my mistaken identification, but I knew from her startled eyes that I was right. So did Master John. She began to move from us, but he reached out a hand to her elbow and gently drew her back to the bench.
“Maggie,” he said, “this is Master Hugh de Singleton, surgeon in Bampton and now bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot. A body…that of a young woman was found at Bampton Castle these four weeks past. As you disappeared in spring, and no others from the place are missing, ’twas thought to be you.”