The Tainted Coin

by Mel Starr

  I walked quietly and warily to the rear of the house. I did not really believe that some man was in the house, thinking my imagination or some play of light and shadow responsible for the apparition in the opening between shutters.

  The window, missing the ripped skin which had closed it, was open to the cool breeze. It was also open to sounds. My cautious steps were silent, but not so the person inside the house. I neared the open window and heard soft sobbing from within the place.

  I crept near the window and peered through the opening. The broken window covering and the cracks between closed shutters provided enough light that I could see the chamber and its inhabitant clearly. A woman sat upon the floor, her back to a wall, and wept into her apron. I felt guilty for intruding upon her grief.

  Here, I thought, is one of John Thrale’s sisters. I was wrong. My error did not trouble me much when I learned of it, as I am become accustomed to the blunders, great and small, I make while investigating felonies upon Lord Gilbert’s lands.

  The woman seemed to sense that some man looked upon her. She lifted her head abruptly, peered at the window, and drew a startled breath when she saw me gazing down upon her.

  The situation required that I speak first. “Pardon me. I did not mean to encroach upon your sorrow,” I said through the window.

  The woman scrambled to her feet, wiped her eyes again, and asked in a quavering voice, “Who are you?”

  The woman who spoke was perhaps near thirty years old, and comely for a woman of her years.

  “I am Hugh de Singleton.” This announcement would mean nothing to the woman, so I continued, “I am a surgeon, and bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his manor in Bampton. And you,” I added, “must be Edith or Julianna?”

  The woman’s eyes opened wide. “Nay,” she said. “No sister.”

  She was silent for a moment, as was I, having had my assumption of her identity so demolished. “No sister,” she repeated softly. “What does a bailiff from Bampton seek in this house?”

  “Thieves and murderers,” I replied. This was a blunder, but when speaking to females I seem often to find the wrong thing to say, and say it before considering the consequence. Some men seem not to have this affliction. I envy them.

  The consequence in this case was a renewed flood of tears. As I had already spoken unwisely, I thought it prudent to say no more for a time. I held my tongue, and when the woman was able to contain her weeping she again spoke.

  “Do you know what has become of John?”

  The answer to that question should not be delivered through a window, I thought. “Aye,” I said, and went to the door, which had remained unlocked since felons had ransacked the house.

  “John Thrale,” I continued, when I stood before her in the house, “lies in a grave in a churchyard near to Bampton.”

  “Dead? John is dead?”

  The woman began to sway unsteadily. She seemed likely to swoon, and I made ready to catch her before she toppled to the rushes. But she steadied herself, choked out a great sob, then spoke again.

  “What has befallen my John?”

  Her John? The pepperer’s wife said the chapman was not married.

  “Did he take ill upon his rounds? He was well when he set out. Did some sickness strike him down?”

  The woman thought of more questions as she spoke. “Why does a bailiff visit his house? And why,” she glanced about the room, “is John’s house so ruined? Some felons have done hamsoken while John was gone. Do you seek them? Why does a bailiff from Bampton seek villains here, in Abingdon? John is dead?”

  The woman fell silent, and then stumbled to the chapman’s ruined bed, where she sat and renewed her sobs.

  “You spoke of John Thrale as ‘My John.’ A neighbor said he was not wed.”

  The woman seized control of her emotions and answered, “The banns was to be read at St. Helen’s Church soon as John returned. Said he’d be home today. I came to greet ’im, and found all this ruin, an’ no John. Was about to begin to try an’ set things right when you came.”

  “So many tears for a broken table and chest, and torn mattress and pillow? Did you guess some harm had come to him?”

  “Nay. Thought he’d be home soon.”

  “Why, then, such sorrow?”

  The woman looked from me to the corner where fragments of the larger chest were mixed with pieces of the small chest and the table leg which had been used to batter it open. “Stolen,” she sniffled. “Wealth we was to use to repair the house.”

  “Ah… you wept for the silver coins and jewelry Thrale had locked in his chest?”

  My greatest success in this interview seemed be in regularly causing this woman’s eyes to open wide in wonderment, followed by a renewed flow of tears.

  “How did you know what was in John’s chest?” she sobbed.

  I sat on the ripped mattress beside the woman and explained my presence there. I told her of John Thrale’s death (leaving out that information which could only cause her more sorrow), my discovery of his cache of coins and jewelry, the attack upon my wife and child, and the theft of the chapman’s hoarded wealth.

  “You knew of the silver and gold Thrale possessed,” I concluded. “Where did he come by it?”

  The woman’s tears had begun again when I told her of the chapman’s death, but by the time I concluded the sad tale she had composed herself again.

  “Didn’t tell me. I asked. Said as how he knew women like to gossip. If I didn’t know where his wealth come from, I couldn’t tell another, he said. All I know is, when he come home from makin’ rounds to sell goods, he’d have more coins an’ such.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Amice… Amice Thatcher.”

  “You never wed?”

  “Nay. I’m a widow. Husband dead three years now, an’ two children to feed.”

  “How do you live?”

  “Brew ale. Keeps me an’ children alive.”

  “John Thrale was older than you, was he not?”

  “Aye. But a good man is… was John.”

  “And with the supply of Roman coins he had found, he could ease your life.”

  “’Tis hard for a widow. You’d not understand.”

  She spoke true. It is difficult to put one’s self into another’s place. From what I knew of the chapman, and what I’d seen of his corpse, he was a decade older than Amice Thatcher, perhaps more. Unlikely he would have attracted a comely widow if he yet lived near the tanners on Ock Street and drew his tiny cart about the shire harnessed to it like a beast.

  “Did you keep company with John Thrale upon Abingdon’s streets?”

  Amice frowned at the question, and I explained. “The men who overturned this house, and who threatened my wife and child and stole the coins I took from this place, they will not be content until they know where John found the treasure. They may seek you, and will not be satisfied if you tell them you know not where John discovered the hoard.”

  “They would deal with me as they did poor John?”

  “Aye, and threaten harm to your children if you do not tell.”

  Amice shuddered, as well she might. “What am I to do? I cannot tell what I do not know. Perhaps these men will not find me.”

  “Perhaps. But was I you, I would seek safety until the villains are found out.”

  “Where am I to go? I cannot leave off brewing. I have little enough to feed my children as is.”

  “I will think on it. Meanwhile I will see you to your house. When I have devised some scheme for your safety I will seek you.”

  “I live in the bury, with other poor folk… beyond the marketplace.”

  I had begun to see foes everywhere, so when Amice and I left the house I peered cautiously into the street to see if two men – one slender and wearing a red cap, the other stout, wearing a blue cap – were upon East St. Helen Street. A monk, perhaps the almoner, seeking poor folk, walked the street, followed by two men. Only later did it occur to me that poor folk would not
likely be found on East St. Helen Street.

  We hurried away to the marketplace and the New Inn, where Arthur awaited. I called to him to join us, and together we escorted Amice Thatcher to her house. I told her to remain there until I returned. She agreed readily, having had time to consider what trouble might come if John Thrale’s assailants found her.

  There is much poverty on the lanes beyond the marketplace. Little wonder Amice was eager to wed if the sacrament would take her from the bury to East St. Helen Street. Her tears had been for John Thrale, I suppose, but perhaps also for shattered hopes of escape.

  Arthur and I returned to the New Inn and between mouthfuls of pottage I related the morning’s events to him. While I explained, a way to provide for Amice Thatcher’s safety occurred to me.

  ’Tis but a few paces from the New Inn to St. John’s Hospital. I found the hospital porter and asked that he fetch the infirmarer. The man looked down his nose at me, or tried to, but as I stood half a head taller than him, this he found difficult to do. He did make a manful effort. At last he deigned to reply.

  “The New Inn, just beyond the gatehouse, serves travelers.”

  “Aye, and we are lodged there. It is accommodation for another I seek.”

  The porter made no reply. I believe his instructions were to permit as few folk as possible to enter the hospital. When Amice Thatcher was safely in the hospital, this hostile reception might serve to protect her – if she was first permitted to enter the place.

  “I am Hugh de Singleton,” I said. “Surgeon, and bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his manor of Bampton. It is Lord Gilbert’s business which brings me here.”

  “Lord Gilbert wishes lodging in the abbey? I will send for Abbot Peter. He will wish for Lord Gilbert to be his guest. When shall I say Lord Gilbert will arrive?”

  The sullen porter was suddenly willing to please. I could fit in no word till he had stopped for breath and had begun to turn from me to send for the abbot.

  “Nay, ’tis not Lord Gilbert who wishes lodging in Abingdon.”

  “You said you are here on Lord Gilbert’s business,” the porter scowled.

  “Indeed. There has been theft and murder done upon Lord Gilbert’s lands. One who may know something of the felony needs a place where she may be safe from those who might do her harm so as to silence her and escape my investigation.”

  “She?”

  “Aye. A widow and her two children.”

  Another silence followed. I would not plead with the porter, and he could think of no reason to deny my request that he seek the hospital infirmarer.

  “I will fetch Brother Theodore,” he finally said, then turned and slowly entered the hospital.

  Arthur and I stood before the porter’s chamber, shifting weight from one foot to another, for nearly an hour before the porter reappeared with two elderly monks following. If Lord Gilbert Talbot’s name could generate so little haste, it is sure that Master Hugh, surgeon, would have found even less regard in this place. Here was not the first time I had found it convenient to mention my employer’s name when I needed something from men who might otherwise be loath to provide for my need.

  One of the grizzled monks who followed the porter held a linen cloth over his mouth and nose. When he came close I saw that this fabric was stained with blood and a yellowish effusion.

  “Brother Bartholomew,” the porter said, “here is… Hugh, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot. Brother Bartholomew,” he turned to me, “is infirmarer at the abbey and hospital.” The elderly monks bowed slightly, and I returned the greeting.

  “You require lodging for a woman, I am told,” the infirmarer said. Arthur, who had been standing near, displaying Lord Gilbert’s blue-and-black livery to add emphasis to my request, now spoke:

  “You’ve injured yourself?” he said to the other monk. It was impolitic for Arthur to interrupt so, but he is accustomed to speaking his mind, and voiced but what I had thought.

  “Nay, no injury. A fistula which will not heal.”

  “Master Hugh can deal with such as that,” Arthur said confidently. “Seen ’im put a man’s skull back together after a tree fell on ’im.”

  “You are a physician?” the monk asked.

  “Nay, a surgeon. Is there no brother in the abbey, trained in medicine, who can help you?”

  “Brother Bartholomew has prepared salves, but none will cure me. I will go to my grave with this, I think. I have prayed the Lord Christ to ease my affliction, and the saints, also, but as with St. Paul’s ‘thorn in the flesh,’ He has chosen not to do so.”

  “Some afflictions,” the porter said, “serve to bring us to God. As we suffer now, He will requite it of us in purgatory. Brother Theodore’s suffering will release him from years of misery to come. And Brother Bartholomew possesses much knowledge and skill. If he cannot deal with Brother Theodore’s complaint, ’tis sure no other can.”

  Arthur rolled his eyes, shrugged, but remained silent. He recognized that the porter was not a man who suffered lightly any contradiction, especially from the commons. The monk, however, saw no need to agree with the porter.

  “You made a man’s broken head whole again?”

  “Aye.”

  “An’ he walks now near as good as ever,” Arthur found his voice again.

  “Do you have salves which might help me, some ointment Brother Bartholomew does not know of?”

  “Nay, no ointment will remedy your hurt.”

  “See,” the porter said, “there is nothing to be done if Brother Bartholomew cannot work a cure.”

  Brother Theodore turned to me and said, “Is this so?”

  “Nay. Such a fistula can be repaired. I saw it done in Paris.”

  “Paris?”

  “Aye,” Arthur said. “Master Hugh studied surgery in Paris.”

  The monk looked from me to the porter, then slowly dropped the linen cloth which had covered his disfigurement.

  “Can you deal with this?” he asked.

  The fistula was between his nose and his right eye. I believe it had vexed the man for many months, perhaps even years, for it was of great size and oozed constantly a fluid of pus and blood.

  I approached close to the sufferer and studied the lesion carefully before I made reply. “Aye, I can. I must tell you, however, that such surgery as I must do to mend you will be painful.”

  “But after the pain I will have relief?”

  “Aye, I believe so. An unsightly scar will remain.”

  “No more unsightly than this wound I now bear.”

  “Nay, not so bad as now.”

  “When can you deal with this affliction?”

  “I have no instruments with me. I must return to Bampton for them. While I do so you and the infirmarer may find a chamber for a woman who needs a place of safety for herself and her children. Felons who have done theft and murder may seek her out to do more villainy.”

  “I am Brother Theodore,” the monk said. “Hosteler to the abbey. Brother Bartholomew and I will see that the woman is safe in the hospital.”

  I left the abbey pleased that I would be able to help a troubled man, and pleased also that when I did so, I would have a friend inside the abbey walls.

  Chapter 6

  So it was that the infirmarer of St. John’s Hospital, Abingdon, was pleased to find a place for Amice Thatcher and her children. Perhaps the porter, had he some infirmity I might have mended, would also have been willing to see Amice sheltered there. As it was, he showed his displeasure with a scowl and in every way but by words.

  Arthur and I left the abbey and returned to the crowded alleys of the bury. Amice Thatcher’s door was open for custom, and a bushel was raised upon a pole above her door, to tell all that here was fresh-brewed ale. The narrow lane was swarming with residents, both adult and children. Their numbers would keep Amice safe in the day, but for the dark of night I was well pleased that she would be within St. John’s Hospital.

  I saw fright in Amice’s eyes as my shadow dark
ened her door. She was, I think, unwilling to shut out customers, but fearful of those who did enter her ale house. I told her of the sanctuary provided her at the hospital and saw her features relax.

  “I brewed five gallons of ale fresh yesterday,” she said, “and have sold but a gallon this day. It will go stale. Must I remain long at the abbey, you think?”

  “Perhaps the hosteler will have need of fresh ale for the guest hall. I will ask it of him.”

  I was confident that, to retain my good will, Brother Theodore would purchase four gallons of ale. He did, and offered six pence (which price Amice was much pleased to accept), and sent a lay brother following Amice’s directions to fetch the cask and bring the ale to the abbey.

  When the sacrist rang the abbey church bell for nones Amice Thatcher and her children were safe within St. John’s hospital. So I did believe.

  In my travels about Abingdon I had seen several blacksmith’s forges. There was yet nearly three hours till dark, so I set out with Arthur to learn if any smith had recently plied his trade upon a horse with a broken shoe. None had, but I left each smith with a promise that, should he do so, and then report the labor to me at the New Inn, he would be rewarded.

  Next day Arthur and I, after a dinner of stockfish and wheaten loaves, wandered the town searching the streets for the mark of a broken horseshoe. We saw none.

  Thursday morn, after a pint of ale at the ale house across the marketplace from the inn, Arthur and I started for Bampton. There was little more to learn of John Thrale in Abingdon, and the sooner I could apply my skills to the hosteler’s fistula the sooner I would have a friend in the abbey.

  I must learn to be more observant. We had crossed the Thames at Newbridge, more than halfway to Bampton, before I looked to the muddy road under Bruce’s hooves and saw that we followed the track of a horse with a broken shoe. I called to Arthur to bring his palfrey to a halt, dismounted, and squatted in the road to see better if the marks there seemed to be the same as those made by the beast which carried a man who had threatened my Bessie. They were, and Arthur, peering over my shoulder, was able to see clearly now the imprint he had before known only by my description.