by Mel Starr
“So would they provide for travelers upon the road?”
“I can’t say for sure.” The man shrugged. “They likely would. Though they wouldn’t ’ave a hosteller or almoner, of course.”
“Of course.”
I thanked the man for his conversation and bade him “Good day.”
Arthur and Uctred followed me down the lane to the Radcot road and when we came to the thoroughfare I surprised them.
“We will return to Faringdon and seek the Great Coxwell Grange. ’Tis close by, I think, to Badbury Hill.” And indeed it was.
Chapter 11
’Twas but two miles to return through Faringdon to Great Coxwell. The lay brother at Wyke spoke true. An immense stone barn dominates the hamlet. The structure is, I guessed, fifty paces long by fifteen or so paces wide, and the peak of the roof is as high as the barn is wide. A prosperous grange, indeed. And as we approached I glanced over my right shoulder. Less than a mile distant I saw the grove of trees atop Badbury Hill.
“I thought them Cistercians was supposed to be poor folk,” Uctred said, gazing at the massive barn.
A large house, not nearly so large as the barn but having the appearance of prosperity, stood beyond the barn. A dormitory, I thought. The house had a wattle-and-daub chimney from which a wisp of smoke rose. I drew my palfrey to a halt before the building and rapped upon the door. A lay brother opened to me.
“I am Sir Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at Bampton. Are there monks in residence here at Great Coxwell?”
“Nay. How may I serve Lord Gilbert?”
“He has assigned me to assist Sir Aymer Molyns.”
“Him whose wife has disappeared?”
“Aye, the same. You know of the felony?”
“’Tis the talk of the neighborhood.”
“What do folk say?”
“If the lady does not return Sir Aymer will soon find a replacement.”
I did not tell him that such was already the case.
“Do you seek the lady? Is that your assignment?”
At that moment I heard a pounding, as if a man with a mallet was striking a board. A man was. The lay brother glanced over his shoulder in the direction from which the drumming came, then spoke.
“’Tis time for our dinner. We have no guest table, but you are welcome to share our humble meal.”
Humble it was. Barley loaves and an oat pottage flavored with leeks. The ale, as with most monastic houses and their subsidiaries, was fresh-brewed. Arthur, Uctred, and I shared the meal with nearly twenty lay brothers and a dozen or so servants.
“I am Edgar,” the man who had greeted us at the door said as we ate. “If you seek Sir Aymer’s wife, why do you visit Great Coxwell? There are no women at the grange… a few in the village.”
“I do not seek her here, but you may know something of the men who seized her.”
Edgar looked up from his bowl with a puzzled expression.
“About five days past, did two men seek lodging with you for the night? One garbed as a priest, or perhaps a friar or monk.”
“Aye. Two men did so. They came to us late. We were already abed when they pounded upon the door and asked shelter for the night.”
“Did these visitors state their business, or why they came late to your door?”
“Nay, they said only they’d traveled far that day.”
“What names did they give?”
“Hmmm. That’s odd, now you mention it. They never said their names and I did not ask. Perhaps they told some others of the grange.”
When the meal was done Edgar asked the others but neither the servants nor the lay brothers remembered a name.
“They were particular about their beasts,” a lay brother volunteered. “I offered to leave my bed to care for ’em, but one said, ‘Nay we’ll not trouble you.’ He asked the way to the stables an’ saw to ’em ’imself.”
This was hardly surprising. If the two palfreys carried four bags of clanking coins tied to their saddles, the visitors would not want others to know of it.
“Did they, perchance, mention a destination when they departed?”
“Nay. One said to the other that they should arrive before dark, but he never said where that might be.”
“Did you see the fellows leave?”
“Nay. They were up and away before dawn.”
Monks are accustomed to leaving their beds before sunrise, but in the long days of midsummer perhaps not much before. If one of the grange’s guests was indeed a monk perhaps he both arrived and departed in darkness.
Both Didcot and Oxford, to say nothing of Clanfield, may be reached in a day’s riding from Great Coxwell. Indeed, even a man afoot, if he sets a good pace, might be in Didcot or Oxford before sunset.
I thanked Edgar for his hospitality, and with Arthur and Uctred retrieved our beasts and set off once again through Faringdon, past the grange at Wyke, and to Clanfield. We saw few travelers upon the road, and one we did see, near to Radcot Bridge, on seeing us appear over the crown of the bridge immediately left the road, hastened across an oat field, and disappeared into a wood. Perhaps he carried something another man might find worth stealing and feared the losing of it.
Several hours of daylight remained when we entered Clanfield, so I halted before the bailiff’s house. I left Arthur and Uctred with the palfreys and approached the dwelling. A lass answered my rapping upon the door, and when I asked for Skirlaw she said, “Who shall I tell my father wishes to see him?”
“Sir Hugh, bailiff of Bampton.”
I had thought little of Prince Edward’s offer to grant me knighthood when the honor was conferred, but since then I have discovered that folk often judge a man by his title rather than his character or reputation. And a title can be announced in a moment whereas character and reputation in other men’s eyes develop more slowly. And as long as they take to grow, a man’s character and reputation may be spoiled in a moment’s conversation, whereas a title, deserved or not, remains.
The maiden bade me enter the hall and wait while she fetched her father. I heard her voice in the next room, then the sound of a bench scraping across the flags. A moment later Skirlaw appeared, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. Perhaps the bailiff had been enjoying a cup of ale. He offered me none.
“Ah, Sir Hugh. Have you found the missing lady of Coleshill?”
“Nay. Have any of Sir Reginald’s villeins or tenants given evidence of new-found prosperity?”
“Aye. A man of this place has put two glass windows in his house but a few days past. A glazier from Burford came to do the work.”
“Who? Janyn or Henry or Bogo?”
“Nay. None of those. Tis Clanfield’s reeve, Walter Ticknor.”
Folk of a village like Clanfield elect their reeve from amongst themselves, and generally choose well. A man who attempts to cheat his neighbors or browbeat them to his will is not likely to be chosen. In this they are unlike bailiffs, who are selected by the lord of the manor and may be as wicked as a pardoner yet retain their post so long as they please their employer.
“Clanfield’s reeve? Is he a man known for avarice?”
“Aye. Never misses a chance to enrich himself.”
This is not unusual. What man will not seize an opportunity to add a few coins to his purse?
“Why, then, do folk of Clanfield prefer him for reeve?” I asked.
“This puzzles me,” Skirlaw admitted.
“Has he been caught in misdeeds?”
“Nay. Too clever, is Walter.”
Here was information which came near to an accusation. But I sniffed animosity on the part of the bailiff. Did he and the reeve disagree? Likely. If so, what might be the cause? Here were questions which I could not ask the bailiff. Well, I could, but his answers would be predictable.
What of the reeve? Would the man speak plainly to me of his wealth, or lack thereof? Would he tell me the reason for his bailiff’s dislike? If he did so the cause would surely be t
he fault of the bailiff. Who in the village might speak plainly to me? Janyn? Henry? Bogo? Not likely. What of the matron at the well?
“Send word to me at Bampton if your reeve spends more than a reeve ought,” I said, and turned to the door.
“You are not going to seek Walter?”
“If he took Lady Philippa Molyns he did so within your bailiwick. You must deal with the felony yourself. If you suspect him, why have you not already done so?”
“Folk of Clanfield are… uh, confused.”
I understood. If Skirlaw arrested the reeve on such flimsy evidence, residents of the village would rebel against him, Walter being admired, Skirlaw probably disliked. A man whose duty entails collecting rents and fines will not be popular. Sir Reginald would learn of insurrection upon his manor and be displeased. Displeased with his bailiff, whose duty it is to prevent such occurrences. It would not be the reeve who would lose his post.
I left Skirlaw spluttering behind me and told Arthur and Uctred to follow. We led our palfreys past the well, to the lane where I had seen the matron vanish after I spoke to her at the well.
I found the woman in her toft, at the end of a wooden hoe, scratching weeds from a patch of cabbages and onions. She looked up from her work when, from the corner of her eye, she saw us approach, then with the back of her hand wiped sweat from her forehead.
“I bid you good day,” I began. “Do you remember me?”
“Aye. You be the bailiff what’s from Bampton,” she said.
“If you overheard an argument between Clanfield’s bailiff and reeve, which would you believe spoke truth?”
The woman’s mouth fell open and her eyes flicked about as if seeking some village inhabitant interested in her reply. Her gaze finally settled on me.
“You seek to bring me trouble?” she said. “I’ve affliction enough without addin’ Walter or Thomas to the list.”
“Neither man will learn of your reply,” I said.
“You still seekin’ the lady what traveled through Clanfield then disappeared?” she said.
I did not remember speaking earlier to this woman of my assignment. Word of Lady Philippa’s disappearance, I thought, was now no secret in Clanfield.
“Aye, the lady is yet missing.”
“She was in the painted wagon you asked about?”
“She was.”
“Why, then, do you ask of Walter an’ Thomas? You think they, or one of ’em, knows somethin’ of the lady?”
“She vanished, along with her maid, but a few hundred paces north of Clanfield. This is sure. Who better to know of strange business hereabouts than a bailiff or reeve?”
“Father Andrew,” she said.
“The village priest?”
“Aye. Always an ear to the ground, an’ willin’ to tell what ’e knows.”
“A gossip?”
“That ’e is. Most folks don’t confess all to ’im. Sure as sun’ll rise tomorrow he’ll not keep quiet.”
“You know of instances when he has broken the silence of the confessional?”
“Aye. Last year Simon confessed that…”
“I’ve no wish to learn of what Simon may have confessed.”
The woman seemed disappointed that she was not to continue the tale. I decided to visit the priest before I left the village. One of the men who had sought lodging at Great Coxwell was perhaps a priest. But before I would seek the man I returned to my question.
“If I seek the truth of matters in Clanfield will I find it with your bailiff or your reeve?”
As before, the woman hesitated. “What folk do say in Clanfield is likely to be soon known to all,” she said.
“No man will learn of your opinion from me,” I replied.
“So you say.”
I once again reassured the woman that whatever she might say of her reeve and bailiff would remain our secret, but could not convince her to speak. Her reticence was understandable. She must remain in Clanfield; I would leave. What remained of her life would become onerous should she name bailiff or reeve as untrustworthy and the man learn of her opinion. He would not learn of it from me. But knowledge may not always be suppressed. Arthur and Uctred stood behind me and heard the exchange. Did the woman fear that after too much ale one of them might repeat her words? They might, I thought.
But I had learned one thing from the matron. Her village priest had a loose tongue. If I sought him could I persuade him to wag it?
Nay. The priest might speak of village matters to his parishioners but to outsiders he was as tight-lipped as a mussel.
Arthur, Uctred, and I led our palfreys from the matron’s house to the priest’s and when I pounded on the door the priest’s housekeeper opened to me. Her employer, she said, was within and she would fetch him.
She did so. A moment later a ruddy-faced, plump, black-clad, jovial priest appeared in the doorway between living quarters and kitchen. From over his shoulder I saw the housekeeper peering from the kitchen, attempting to hide behind the jamb. If the priest did not relate our conversation to the village his housekeeper likely would.
“Ah,” the priest began. “You’re Lord Gilbert’s bailiff.”
“Indeed. Do you also know my assignment?”
“Aye. You seek a lady who went missing near here some days past.”
“I do. Your duties bring much village news to your ears. Have you heard any folk of your parish mentioned as having to do with the disappearance?”
“People will talk, won’t they?” he said.
And, according to one of his parishioners, so will priests, but I did not say so.
“What do they say… about the vanished lady?”
“Nothing of consequence,” he replied.
“What is said which is of no consequence?”
“That the lady’s husband paid a ransom for her return. Five pounds, ’tis said.” The priest shook his head to indicate disbelief. “Five pounds,” he said again.
“Two pounds,” I said.
“What?”
“Sir Aymer paid two pounds’ ransom, not five.”
“Hmmm. Folk do exaggerate.”
“They do. If a parishioner suddenly has more in his purse than his neighbors think meet, do they gossip about his unexplained wealth?”
“Of course,” the priest said.
“Who is the subject of wagging tongues in the village?”
“Any man who has made an enemy.”
“That might include most of the village, would it not?”
“Indeed,” the priest agreed.
“So the disappearance of Lady Philippa has set villagers against each other?”
“Only those as had disagreements before. It’s just given them another cause to be at one another’s throats.”
“You believe the accusations floating about are groundless?”
“Aye, mostly.”
“I would hear of some which you believe justified.”
The priest made no reply. I waited. Fruitlessly. If the fellow was garrulous at some times he was not now, not with me. Perhaps he also knew that behind him his housekeeper had an ear cocked in our direction.
I knew better than to ask if any man of Clanfield had confessed to him of the felony. Loquacious as he might be, he would not break the seal of the confessional to a man not of Clanfield.
“You will not name any who may be suspect as having to do with the felony?”
“Nay. Because I do not believe any man of my parish guilty. If I name some who are most spoken of you will seek them out. Then folk will talk the more, and you will have wasted time you might have more profitably spent elsewhere.”
’Twas true, I thought. If I appeared before some Clanfield villager’s door, and his neighbors saw, they would assume I had reason to suspect him of the felony. He would be thought guilty even if ’twas not so. On the other hand, it might be so. But the priest was not going to provide me with names, this was clear. No matter how much he might gossip to and about his parishioners, he would
not share village rumors with an outsider.
I thanked the priest for his time and tactfully reminded him that I served a lord greater than his own. This was not precisely true; he served the Lord Christ, than whom no man, even King Edward, is greater. But the lord of Clanfield does not rank with Lord Gilbert, Third Baron Talbot. Lord Gilbert was determined, I told the priest, that Lady Philippa’s whereabouts be discovered. Soon. And my employer would be angry, when the lady was finally found, if he learned that there were men who had obstructed my search. Actually I was not sure that Lord Gilbert now thought it either his duty or mine to return Lady Philippa to her husband. But it would be as well if the Clanfield priest did not know this. The priest nodded understanding. Most men are acquainted with the fury of angry nobles, by word of mouth if not first-hand. Word of mouth is best.
I turned to leave the priest’s house but before my second step another question came to mind.
“Have you traveled from Clanfield in the past few days?” I asked the priest.
“Nay. Why would I do so? My duties keep me here.”
Of course he would say so. Had he been the priest seen at Badbury Hill he’d not admit it. ’Twas a foolish question.
I returned to Arthur, Uctred, and our beasts. As I mounted my palfrey I saw Father Andrew’s housekeeper, bucket in hand, appear from behind the vicarage and stride toward the village well. I raised a hand to my companions to indicate that I wished to leave the place slowly.
The housekeeper walked vigorously, purposefully, toward the well. We followed twenty or so paces behind. I drew near to the woman as she fastened an iron hook to the pail, the hook being knotted to the hempen rope wound about the crank.
I heard the bucket splash at the bottom of the well. The woman waited a few moments for it to fill, then turned the crank. Meanwhile, from the corner of her eye, she watched me dismount and approach.
“You thirsty?” she said.
“Nay,” I replied. And if I had been, I’d not take water from a well I did not know.
“Has Father Andrew’s duty taken him from Clanfield recently?” I asked.
The woman was silent. The only sound was the squeak of the crank as her bucket rose into view.
“He went to Faringdon,” she said as she drew the bucket from the hook.
