by Mel Starr
“Ah… good news, I trust?”
“Nay, m’lord. Well, perhaps. I am Roger atte Wood, in Sir Aymer’s service. He bids me tell you that this morning a message was received demanding two pounds for Lady Philippa’s safe return to him.”
“Hmmm. Two pounds. A large sum but surely within Sir Aymer’s competence. Will he pay?”
“Aye, m’lord. So he intends. But I am sent here to tell you that the villains require the ransom be delivered by some man not of Coleshill. Sir Aymer asks if Sir Hugh will be that man.”
“What terms are required?” I asked.
“A man is to travel alone to Badbury Hill with the coins in four sacks. No coin greater than a quarter-noble, and no more than ten pence in farthings.”
“Am I to be met upon this hill and exchange the coins for the lady?”
“I don’t know the particulars. Sir Aymer will tell you more if you agree to the task. The message demands that a man appear with the money on Sunday, no more than an hour before sunset. I don’t know more than that.”
“Where is this Badbury Hill?” I asked.
“Near halfway between Coleshill and Faringdon. Folk dislike being near the place after dark. There are ruins of an old fort atop the hill, and men do say the ghosts of them that once lived there roam the hill to drive away any who would claim the place from the spirits.”
I saw Roger shudder as he spoke.
“You must go, of course,” Lord Gilbert said. Then, to Roger, “Has Sir Aymer enough coins on hand that he can meet the required amount?”
“He has requested of his tenants that they pay their rents early. He will remit a farthing per acre to those who will do this.”
“His tenants agree to this bargain?” I asked.
“Some have not the coin on hand to do so, more’s the pity. But enough have come to him that, with the means he has at hand, he has told me to assure you that your efforts in this business will not be in vain. The commons of Coleshill thinks highly of Lady Philippa.”
“Sir Aymer is a man who wants his wife returned,” Lord Gilbert said.
“Aye. He dearly wishes for an heir. He will enter his forty-third year shortly after Lammastide.”
“Few men become new fathers at such an age,” Lord Gilbert said. “More likely grandfathers.
“Go to the marshalsea and tell Andrew to have two palfreys ready for you on Saturday at dawn. Take Arthur. He, according to the ransom demand, cannot accompany you to the hill, but you’ll not want to return from Coleshill alone. If there are felons about who would steal a lady from under the nose of her husband, they would not scruple to seize a solitary man traveling. And Sir Aymer’s squire and grooms may as well return to Coleshill with you. This sorry business seems near to conclusion and there is nothing they can do here.”
I notified Andrew, Lord Gilbert’s page of the stables, and Arthur, then hastened home to Galen House. Kate had dressed the door and ground-floor windows with green birch branches, in honor of the season to come, which has already come, according to Bacon and other men who study such matters. The calendar, they claim, is much out of joint since the Romans devised it.
Kate guessed that on my return from Clanfield I would be ravenous. She and Adela had prepared hanoney for our supper. ’Tis a dish I favor, but so famished was I that I would have gladly attended to a simple bowl of oat pottage.
Our Bessie had been told a few days past of the great bonfire with which Bampton – as all villages within the realm – would welcome the arrival of summer. Her grandfather had explained to her the event and its significance. Now, as we departed Galen House my father-in-law took the hand of his excited granddaughter and led us north, past the Church of St. Beornwald, to the meadow and the pile of oak and beech limbs which would soon be set ablaze.
John Prudhomme was in charge of touching a flame to the mound of brush and limbs, but as befits his name did not do so ’til he saw Lord Gilbert and his guests pass the churchyard. The previous fortnight had been dry, so the tinder and then the heap of wood kindled rapidly. Sparks lifted to the dark sky and small boys darted about extinguishing those which were yet glowing when they fell to earth and threatened to set ablaze the bishop’s meadow.
Kate held John, and I watched the red glow illuminate his face and glisten in his eyes. How many more Midsummer’s Eve fires would those eyes see before he joined me, Kate, Bessie, and Sybil in St. Beornwald’s churchyard? Midsummer’s Eve is to be a joyous affair, but this wayward thought brought gloom. I did not share it with Kate. My spouse was intent on describing to our son the brilliant event before him. He was not old enough to understand. Next year he might be, if I could keep him safe from the many pestilences which beset children.
The fire burned low. John tired of the scene and his head dropped to Kate’s shoulder. My father-in-law had seen many Midsummer’s Eve blazes and so was ready to seek Galen House and his bed. Only Bessie was yet entertained by the dying embers, so it was with some difficulty that I persuaded her ’twas time to leave the celebration. I foresee the child, in a decade or so, developing a disposition which will hold my opinions in small regard. If so, she will be much like me at a similar age.
No men roused me from my bed Friday morning to announce that bones were found in the cooling pile of ashes which remained of the fire. Such a thing had happened two years past, and identifying the dead man and his slayer had left me with scars to remind me of the business. I have also scars which remind me of dealings with other felons.
My Kate had cheese and a maslin loaf ready with which I broke my fast Saturday morning. After a cup of ale I kissed Kate and Bessie, charged my father-in-law with their care, and set off for Bampton Castle.
Arthur, Giles, and Sir Aymer’s grooms awaited me at the stables. ’Twas a dark, gloomy morning, so ’twas well to be off before rain might muddy the roads and dampen our garments.
Our mounts were fresh, so we arrived at Coleshill before noon. We passed Badbury Hill as we neared our destination and Giles pointed out the spot where, on the morrow, I was to deliver Lady Philippa’s ransom. It looked a foreboding place. Perhaps the low clouds and mist encouraged such an appraisal.
Sir Aymer and his grooms and valets were ready to take their dinner when we arrived. Although I desired to know more of the ransom demands and see the document, I also desired to fill my belly.
Sir Aymer’s cook presented him and his gentlemen guests with a pottage of whelks and rice moyle. Arthur, with the knight’s grooms, was served a porre of peas, but he seemed content with the fare. As we dined, Sir Aymer told me of the discovery of the ransom demand.
Thursday morning the village priest had gone to the church to ring the dawn Angelus and found upon the door a scrap of parchment. The message was written in English and addressed to Sir Aymer. As Roger had said, he was to pay two pounds for Lady Philippa’s return, and some man not of Coleshill was to deliver the coins to Badbury Hill one hour before sunset on Sunday.
“As you have had to do with this matter,” Sir Aymer said, “and are not of this place, I have asked for you to deliver the ransom.”
“Does the writer say when and how your wife will be released from her captivity?”
“Nay. And the lack of such a promise concerns me. I am simply told that Lady Philippa is held and her freedom will not be restored until I pay two pounds.”
“You have the sum? Your man said that the felons demand no coin greater than a quarter-noble and no more than forty farthings included.”
“Perhaps Roger told you that I have remitted a farthing per acre of rents for tenants who will pay fees now that are due at Michaelmas. I have seven quarter-nobles. I have also a handful of groats, and the forty farthings. Near two hundred pennies make the total.”
“Roger said the ransom must be delivered in four sacks. ’Twill take four stout leather sacks to do so,” I said. “And I am to deliver the coins alone? I have but two arms. I should like to see the ransom note.”
“You shall. ’Tis in my chamber.
I could learn nothing from it, but perhaps you might.”
I did.
After the void Sir Aymer bade me follow him to his chamber. From a small casket upon a desk he produced a fragment of parchment about as long and wide as a large man’s hand. The writing was in a small script, the lines even, and the ink clear and not smudged. I have rendered the message as I remember it:
“Sir Aymer; A wife is a valuable possession. Yours should be worth to you two pounds. The coins must be delivered in four leather sacks, deposited between the highest and second rings of Badbury Hill Fort, upon the east side, no more than one hour before sunset upon Sunday next. It is our requirement that no coin be greater than a quarter-noble, nor shall there be more than forty farthings. Furthermore we require that the four sacks be carried to Badbury Hill by a man not of Coleshill. Do not fail to heed these instructions.”
“What think you?” Sir Aymer said when I lifted my eyes from the document.
“The script is fine. Whoso wrote this is likely a scholar, skilled with a pen. See how delicate the letters are. This may be a woman’s hand.”
“A woman? How many women can write?” Sir Aymer scoffed. “Especially a woman who would consort with felons.”
“Could Lady Philippa read and write?”
“Not well. She’d not put words together like this, if that’s your meaning. The rogues who have her could not have forced her to write this,” he said, and waved the parchment about.
“Miscreants who would steal a lady would not likely themselves be able to write,” I said. “So perchance required some woman of their acquaintance to write for them. If, indeed, this demand is in a woman’s hand. Mayhap ’tis not.”
I took the message from Sir Aymer again and examined it more carefully, not attending to the words, but to the ink and parchment. ’Twas then I saw, faintly, that the parchment had been scraped clean before the ransom demand was written upon it. Likely the discarded parchment had been used for some other purpose before being fixed to the door of All Saints’ Church in Coleshill.
Sir Aymer’s chamber has glass windows. I took the parchment to one of these and pressed it against the pane. I sought some remnant of the writing which might have resisted the knife. Faint shadows of what had been written were visible. Between the lines of the ransom message, so that they were not much obscured, I saw the words “Johannes autem cum audisset in vinculis” – “When John had heard in prison.”
I knew this phrase. I have read it several times in my Bible. ’Tis from the eleventh chapter of St. Matthew’s Gospel. A scholar had indeed written upon this sheet of parchment at some time past. Who else would know Latin?
Neither Bogo nor Henry nor Janyn would be able to write, I was sure. And if they could, where would they find a scrap of parchment which had been previously used by some scholar?
Could Thomas Skirlaw read and write? Surely. Could he procure a fragment of disused parchment? Possibly. I must not be too quick to discard men of Clanfield from a list of possible evildoers.
Would such men require Lady Philippa’s ransom be paid many miles from Clanfield? To secure four bags of coins, hide them, and transport them from Badbury Hill to Clanfield would require much effort. It would be more convenient for the knaves to demand the ransom be paid closer to Clanfield. Perhaps they considered that, and decided such a requirement might cast suspicion upon them. Whereas prescribing the coins be left at Badbury Hill might cast suspicion upon men who resided close to Coleshill.
Sir Aymer, it seemed to me, was only mildly troubled that his wife was taken and the scoundrels who had her demanded two pounds for her return. If some malefactors seized my Kate I would not sleep ’til I had found them out. Could it be that one or two of his trusted servants would collect the four bags of coins after darkness had come to Badbury Hill? The coins would be returned to him, the ransom message a fraud? Why would Sir Aymer do such a thing? If he knew more than he was willing to tell of his wife’s disappearance, the demand for ransom would deflect any suspicion which might in the future be directed at him. By me, for example. Is this why I was asked to deliver the coins? To make me unlikely to suspect Sir Aymer complicit in Lady Philippa’s disappearance?
Was the lady yet living? Sir Aymer was displeased with her – this I knew. Did he wish her dead so that he might wed a third wife and with her seek the heirs he had thus far failed to sire?
Would the bishops grant him permission to wed if there was no proof that Lady Philippa was dead? Perhaps. But perhaps not. To be sure of the bishops’ acquiescence a corpse would be necessary. Or more sacks of coins delivered to a bishop’s palace.
All of these thoughts passed through my mind as I peered at the ransom demand whilst it was yet pressed against the window.
“What do you seek?” Sir Aymer said as he peered over my shoulder.
I pointed to the faint Latin script and explained that the parchment of the ransom demand had been used previously for another purpose. While I spoke I observed Sir Aymer for any sign that he feared he had been caught in subterfuge. I saw no such token.
Sir Aymer had consumed his dinner with no sign of sorrow for his missing wife ruining his appetite. Likewise, at supper he consumed a dish of stewed herrings and showed no evidence that his loss might cause him to waste away.
Chapter 5
Next morning, after mass in All Saints’ Church, Arthur approached me as we departed the churchyard.
“I’ve been keepin’ me mouth shut an’ me ears open,” he said, and glanced about to be sure no man was near. I assumed the glance and the announcement meant he was about to tell me of something he had learned which I might find compelling. He was.
“That squire what rode with us yesterday from Bampton – Giles. ’E’s downcast. ’Ave you noticed?”
“Aye. He seems troubled. Lady Philippa’s disappearance has distressed him, I think.”
“Mayhap, but I’ve ’eard one of Sir Aymer’s grooms say ’e’s more troubled ’cause Lady Philippa’s maid is gone, too.”
“Aye. I’ve spoken to Giles. His words indicated a fondness for the lass.”
“More than fondness, I’m thinkin’.”
“How so?”
“I ’eard Brom say Giles wears a silver chain about ’is neck with Milicent’s ring upon it.”
“Nothing unusual about a lass giving a lad a token,” I said.
“It ain’t the ring nor chain what’s interestin’; ’tis what she said when she gave ’em to ’im.”
“What was that? And how does Brom know her words?”
“The maid told Giles to keep the ring, but hid, to remember ’er. How could ’e forget a lass ’e was likely to see every day?”
“How, indeed? Did Brom overhear this?”
“Nay. The scullery maid did.”
“And the lass told Brom?”
“Aye, so ’e said.”
“Brom has not told anyone else of this? He has not told Sir Aymer? And Giles? What of him? Did Brom say if the squire has told Sir Aymer?”
“Nay. Brom said Sir Aymer ’as eyes for the lass ’imself. Most in Coleshill know it. Mayhap Lady Philippa knows also. He wouldn’t be pleased to know Milicent an’ Giles was sweethearts. If an’ when Lady Philippa an’ Milicent come home Giles might find ’imself sent away was Sir Aymer to know of this.”
I suspected that Brom and the scullery maid may share kisses as well as overheard conversations. Likely Brom would prefer Sir Aymer not know of that, either.
After dinner I met with Sir Aymer to plan for my evening task. We decided Giles and Arthur would accompany me to near the foot of Badbury Hill. If some men knew what I was about and what I carried, I did not wish for them to discover me alone upon the road. Brom and Maurice would also attend, with Lady Philippa’s wagon. If she was released she would need carriage home to Coleshill. About two or three hundred paces from the hill I would dismount, leaving my palfrey with the others. The wagon would wait there also. This would be far enough from the summit of Badbury Hill that t
he felons awaiting Sir Aymer’s coin should not fear our presence and take flight, but close enough that, if I bawled out for help at the top of my lungs, I might be heard in the still evening air. And Lady Philippa and Milicent, if released to me, would have but a short way to walk to the wagon. At the back of my mind was the thought that the ransom demand had made no promise of their immediate freedom.
“There is one other thing I would like to do to prepare for delivering the ransom,” I said.
“What is that?” Sir Aymer replied.
“If you seek your farrier and bring a hammer and a shoeing nail, I will show you.”
The knight studied me with a puzzled expression, but did as I asked. In a few moments he returned with the hammer and the nail.
“Now, bring the sacks of coins and I will mark the coins so that forever they may be identified.”
“They are in my chamber. I will return with them anon.”
He did so, and ’twas but a matter of an hour, perhaps less, to take each coin, place it upon a table, and with the hammer and iron nail rap each coin smartly so as to leave a pronounced dent. I made the mark at the same location on each coin, at the base of the king’s head.
“Coins are made to be spent,” I said. “If one or more of these coins appear we may discover whence they came, and discover the felons who took your wife.”
From two poles I made yokes with which to carry the bags, one sack tied at each end. Sir Aymer counted out the coins – he had done so several times, he said – to be sure of the amount, and we filled the leather sacks to be of equal weight and balance on the poles I would carry upon my shoulders.
I had little appetite for supper. Would the felons who seized Lady Philippa hesitate to strike me down if they suspected a trap? Would they strike me down simply because of my presence, trap or not? Such thoughts do not lend themselves to enjoyment of a hearty meal.
