Without a Trace

by Mel Starr

  We four mounted our beasts and were shortly in Southbourne. I knew which house was Thomas Mowrey’s and as there were but four others in the village which appeared occupied, I halted before one of these and rapped upon the flimsy door. An underfed matron opened it.

  “I seek Randall Attewell,” I said. “Which house is his?”

  The woman’s eyes were wide in her sallow face. When a strange gentleman seeks a poor villager, the cause or result is likely to mean trouble for the commoner. She assumed Randall was in trouble. She was correct.

  “Just there,” she pointed. “House near to the well.”

  Of course. How else did the man receive his name? Probably his father and grandfather before him had resided within the same house, or upon the same plot of land. I thanked the woman and bade her “Good day.” From her gaunt appearance I thought she enjoyed few good days. Perhaps she was a widow, trying to survive working the few acres her husband had left her, delving and planting with her children, hoping from one harvest to the next to endure for another year.

  Or perhaps she had a husband. A cotter, and he was employed this day upon some other man’s lands. Or mayhap he was away thieving to keep body and soul one for himself and family. If caught at a felony he would die for the crime. Perchance he would die if he did not commit some theft. And his wife and children, also, if such there were within the dim, smoky house.

  We led our beasts from the woman’s hovel to the house she had identified. Before I could approach the door Randall appeared from behind the house, making for his toft and its rows of onions and cabbages. He caught a glimpse of us and stopped, holding the hoe before him as if it could be a defense against four armed men.

  “Have you seen Osbert this day?” I began. “Or yesterday?”

  “Nay. You said ’e was with Gaston.”

  “No longer. Gaston is in the Oxford Castle gaol. Osbert is in a shroud.”

  “Shroud? Dead? Who…?”

  Randall peered at his feet as his voice faded.

  “Who slew him?” I said. “Likely some companion in villainy.”

  “Not me,” the fellow said vehemently. “He was fine when I…”

  “When you what?” I said.

  Randall’s response was silence.

  “When you saw him last? When was that? Yesterday? This morning?”

  “I didn’t slay ’im!”

  “He was well when you last saw him? Did he seek you, or did you seek him?”

  “’E come ’ere last night. After dark. Gave me a start, poundin’ on the door. What honest man goes about in the night?”

  “Indeed. What did Osbert want of you?”

  “’E wanted to know why ’e’d not been taken along with us when we seized that lady you been seekin’.”

  “He wanted to know of Lady Philippa’s taking?” I found it difficult to contain the surprise in my voice.

  “Aye. ’E wanted a share of ’er ransom. So I told ’im we’d not seized the lady.”

  “He thought you intended to cut him out of her ransom?”

  “Aye. ’E sounded right bitter about it. ’E wouldn’t believe me when I told ’im Gaston an’ Thomas an’ me wasn’t them what took the lady.”

  My theory of Lady Philippa Molyns’ abduction dissolved. Osbert did not have the lady. He had never had her. He had not known where she was. Randall could be lying about this conversation with Osbert, but I thought not. His fear of the noose had made him truthful in the past.

  “If he believed he was being denied his share of the loot, did you convince him otherwise?”

  “I doubt it. Said he’d seek Thomas. They was always mates.”

  “He was hale and hearty, then, you claim, when he left you?”

  “As fit as you be.”

  It must be, I thought, that when Osbert found Thomas the two fell out over Osbert’s assertion that he had been cheated of a share in Lady Philippa’s ransom, which he mistakenly assumed Gaston, Randall, and Thomas had hidden from him. I had planted this seed of suspicion in his mind. I had been wrong. Osbert thought I knew what I was about. Did this cause his death?

  I bade Randall “Good day,” and led Arthur, Uctred, and Sir Jaket to Thomas Mowrey’s house. My companions had heard Randall’s words and now knew as well as I that Osbert did not have Lady Philippa, nor had he to do with her abduction. Nor, apparently, did Gaston, Randall, or Thomas. Then who did? Who came to Badbury Hill in the night and collected the two pounds?

  Thomas Mowrey’s wife again answered the door when I rapped upon it. Thomas, she said, was hoeing weeds from a field of dredge. I would find him behind the house, near the hayfield. We followed her directions and found the fellow. He had discarded his cotehardie and worked in chauces and a sweat-stained kirtle. He saw our approach and leaned upon his hoe, perhaps pleased to be required to halt his labor for a time.

  I bade the fellow “Good day,” and before I could ask of Osbert he spoke.

  “I know why you’re ’ere,” he said. “I seen you come from Randall.”

  “Osbert accused you, Randall, and Gaston of cheating him of a share of a lady’s ransom,” I said.

  “That’s right. I tried to tell ’im we’d naught to do with the lady – like I tried to tell you.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  “I don’t know.” Thomas shook his head. “I think so.”

  “In his anger did he attack you?”

  “Osbert? Nay! ’E’d not assail me. We been mates too long.”

  “Where did he go when he left you?”

  “’E didn’t say, did ’e? Back to Coscote, I s’pose. They’d need him. ’E cares for Sir John’s beasts an’ sleeps in stable, does Osbert.”

  “No longer,” I said.

  Thomas scowled. “Has Sir John give the job to another?”

  “He will, for Osbert is dead, slain. A dagger was thrust through his heart.”

  “What? ’E was set upon along the road to Coscote?”

  “Nay. You and Gaston, Randall, and Osbert had a hut in the forest near to Coscote where you might hide if trouble came to your doorstep. I found him there a short time ago, slain.”

  Thomas shook his head again, as if in so doing he could reject this knowledge.

  “Why would he be murdered soon after speaking to you and Randall?” I said.

  “I cannot say. I don’t know.”

  I believed him. For a few minutes.

  “Osbert had nothing worth taking. What did he know that some other man wished him to take to his grave unshared? What other felonies have you and he, Randall, and Gaston committed? I know you seized Joan le Scrope at Candlemas. It’s become common knowledge. He was not slain to keep him from telling me of that felony.”

  Thomas was silent. So was I. I have learned that men with guilty consciences are oft best left to consider their sins without further questions from me.

  “’E said Sir Thomas offered ’im coin.”

  “Sir Thomas – le Scrope?”

  “Aye. Now that Gaston’s in Oxford Castle gaol, Sir Thomas ’as little to fear of ’im – or of us. ’E said if Osbert would testify before the King’s Eyre of what Gaston and Sir John ’ad done, ’e’d pay ’im ten pence an’ see to it ’e come to no ’arm. Osbert told me if ’e didn’t get a share of the lady’s ransom, ’e’d do as Sir Thomas asked, and me an’ Randall could ’ang along with Gaston, if Sir John’s cousin couldn’t save us.”

  “When he left you last night was he yet convinced he had been cheated of a share in the lady’s ransom?”

  “Mayhap. I told ’im ’twasn’t so.”

  “Perhaps he went from here to Coscote to confront Sir John?” I suggested.

  Thomas shrugged. “’E’d get no different answer than from me an’ Randall. Unless Gaston took the lady without us, an’ Sir John knows of it.”

  Such a deed on Gaston’s part seemed unlikely. The man had not worked his evils alone in the past. But the thought could not be entirely disregarded. Yet how would one man overwhelm Lady
Philippa and her maid without creating a din which others in Sir Aymer’s party would hear? Even John Cely, blind as he is and as deaf as he may be, could have heard, if not seen, such a clamor. The thought took me back to Coleshill and the last time I had seen the aged groom. Arthur’s suspicions that John heard more than he let on had proved well founded. Exactly how sharp was his hearing, I wondered? Was it even impaired at all? And why, if Gaston Howes or some such rogue took Lady Philippa, would Cely not tell what he might know of the felony? Had he been paid to close the eyes already of small use to him, and feign a deafness beyond his real state?

  If Gaston indeed took Lady Philippa, acting alone, where was she now? Hidden away where only Gaston knew her location? He protested no involvement with her abduction. If he spoke falsely, the lady might be without sustenance and perhaps dead by now. Nay, for Gaston took a lass or lady only for the profit such wickedness might bring. He had no intention of doing murder. Dead captives cannot be ransomed.

  Unless the victim is thought to be alive.

  I could see little more was to be learned of Thomas Mowrey Likely there was much more I would care to know, but aside from stretching his limbs upon the rack – a tactic reserved to the sheriff and his serjeants – I knew of no way to force truth from the man.

  Chapter 15

  I bade Mowrey “Good day,” with a reminder that he would soon be required to repay Sir Thomas le Scrope his share of the ransom collected for the lass, Joan. I was uncertain if this threat of mine could be carried out. If Lord Gilbert or Prince Edward would not compel the scoundrels to repay Sir Thomas, there would be little I could do to enforce forfeiture. Sir Thomas might recoup some coin from Gaston, Thomas, Randall, and perhaps even the priest of Didcot. Would Sir John and his scurrilous cousin, the judge, be required to return their portion of the ransom? I had my doubts, despite Lord Gilbert Talbot’s encouragement and reassurance.

  If Sir John wished to know who had slain his groom, he had his own bailiff to whom he could assign the matter. I had already a duty beyond my own bailiwick. I desired no other. We rode past Sir John’s manor house, left Coscote behind, and turned our beasts toward Bampton. When we arrived, Sir Jaket, Arthur, and Uctred continued to the castle with my exhausted palfrey while I dismounted at Church View Street and made my way to Galen House. I was pleased to walk. And I did not want to rest my rump in a saddle again for many days. Lord Gilbert had other thoughts.

  I always feel some apprehension when I approach Galen House after an absence. Will I find my Kate and babes well? I have seen so much of untimely death, whether through accident, violence, or the plagues that stalk the land. I long to see both my children grow to maturity unharmed.

  A year and more past, Robert Caxton was on the verge of starvation, his stationer’s shop in Oxford near bankrupt from theft and loss of custom after plague had taken so many scholars. With some difficulty I had persuaded my father-in-law to remove to Bampton. He had not wished to burden me and Kate, but when I at last convinced him that we needed his aid in the many times Lord Gilbert’s business called me away, he agreed to come to Bampton.

  Caxton greeted me when I entered the house. I thought his voice seemed reedy, but when Kate heard our words, left her kitchen, and greeted me with a kiss I forgot my father-in-law’s quiet welcome.

  I was becoming accustomed to missing my dinner. Nearly. My nose caught the scent of supper. Perhaps Kate saw my twitching nostrils, for she announced that she had held back some of the meal in anticipation of my return.

  “There is a dish of beans yfryed,” she said, “and chewits of herring.” In reply to this announcement my stomach growled loudly. Bessie heard, and laughed. I am a fortunate man that within my house hunger causes laughter, not sorrow.

  My Kate was willing to see me fed before interrogating me regarding the journey to Didcot.

  “Will Uctred’s ear be restored?” – her first question. No doubt she remembered Sir Simon Trillowe and his misshapen ear. I was not responsible for the blow which nearly severed the knight’s ear from his skull, but I was responsible for the crude attempt to stitch the appendage back to the place God intended. ’Tis onerous work to sew an ear to its proper location, and not taught in the year I spent studying surgery at the University of Paris. An ear is tough, constructed of oddly shaped gristle, and difficult to penetrate with a needle. So when I had finished with Sir Simon’s ear it protruded from his head so that ever after he wore his cap with the liripipe covering the unappealing sight. For this he blamed me. He also blamed me for wedding Kate. He had had intentions toward her himself, although I am sure marriage had not been among his designs. So when his ear healed badly I was not much chagrined for my untidy work. May the Lord Christ forgive me, for we are to do good to those who use us badly. Well, I did my best for Sir Simon. The practice I gained may help Uctred’s ear to heal less objectionably.

  “You believe justice will be done in the matter of the lass whose father ransomed her?” my father-in-law said when I had told the tale of capturing Gaston Howes and delivering him to the Sheriff of Oxford.

  “Who can predict,” I replied, “what a judge will decide? It may be Sir William Willoughby will sentence the fellow to hang so as to silence him, or mayhap he will feel loyalty to a man who has contributed coins to his purse, and set the rogue free.”

  “Especially if the felon has a few more coins he can send to the judge,” Kate offered. “If the rogue is freed he may then continue his wickedness, and the evils will then continue to profit Sir John and his cousin judge. Would a corrupt judge cut off such a flow of pence and shillings?”

  “If he thinks Lord Gilbert and Prince Edward have taken an interest in the matter, he might.”

  “Have they?” Caxton said. He spoke so softly that I could scarcely hear him.

  “Lord Gilbert has. And if I bring the matter to the prince’s attention I believe he will require that justice be done. He is disturbed about the condition of the realm.”

  “’Twould be a marvel,” Kate sighed, “to see justice done in England.”

  I agreed with Kate, but silently. Bessie is of an age where she repeats much of what she hears. I prefer that Lord Gilbert not know of my concern for the state of the kingdom. Bessie would not speak of the criticism to Lord Gilbert, but words spoken in darkness will oft travel to the light. The old king, once a great warrior and leader of men, is now infirm. Some – silently for fear of being thought traitorous – wish the man would abdicate for his son. Or die. But I have seen Prince Edward’s weakness. Were he to become king in his current condition, the realm would have no more energetic a ruler than now. What then? The boy, Richard, Prince Edward’s surviving son, become a child king? Avaricious counselors would surround him. Could Queen Joan fend them off, particularly Prince John, and protect her son? A woman would govern England. Could the land be worse administered than now? If justice is done anywhere in England it is left to sheriffs and local knights to see to it. Sheriff of Oxford, Sir Roger de Elmerugg, is known to be a fair man, as is my employer. I must thank the Lord Christ that I live and work in Bampton, and not in some troubled shire or village where malefactors hold sway.

  “Is Lady Philippa lost?” Kate said, breaking in upon my thoughts. “If you cannot find her, who will? You have never yet failed when Lord Gilbert asked you to bring light to some dark evil.”

  “Mayhap this matter will be the first,” I said. “Indeed, my mind is empty of thoughts concerning the lady. She has vanished and I can discover neither the place she is held nor who has her. But defeat is often temporary. Only surrender is permanent.”

  “Then you will continue the search?” Kate asked. “Someone has the lady – and Sir Aymer’s two pounds, as well.”

  “Perhaps more than two pounds now. I sent Sir Ralph to Coleshill to learn if Lady Philippa had been freed. He was to seek me at Coscote if she was. He did not, so tomorrow I will go to the castle and ask him of Sir Aymer and what, if anything, he learned in Coleshill.”

  As Kate and
I spoke I saw my father-in-law’s head drop to his chin. He slept. But the movement brought him jerking to wakefulness. Kate also saw, and gently suggested that he seek his bed. He needed no urging. He swayed to his feet, gathered himself, then tottered off to his chamber. This was upon the ground floor, a room I had previously used for storage, and as a surgery when folk came to my door after doing themselves some injury – or having it visited upon them by some other. ’Twas well Caxton’s chamber was not in the upper storey. As I watched him depart the kitchen I thought it unlikely he could manage to ascend a flight of stairs.

  Kate sat silently watching her father’s laborious progress toward his accommodation. When she heard the door close behind him she spoke.

  “He is ill – to death, I fear.”

  “What is his complaint? I have been away and have not observed him.”

  “He does not eat. When he does he has great unease, and belches foul breaths. Yet his belly grows apace and is as round as a pig’s bladder.”

  When I did not immediately respond she spoke again. “Your silence betrays you. He will not live long, will he?”

  “I cannot tell. Mayhap there is a cancer in his belly.”

  “Are there no herbs which will cure such a thing?”

  “Nay, none.”

  “He is sometimes in pain, I think. I have seen him clutch at his stomach and bend over. But if he knows I have seen this he will force himself erect and pretend all is well.”

  “He does not wish to worry you,” I said.

  “No doubt. But he does. If ’tis indeed a cancer he will soon go to St. Beornwald’s churchyard.”

  “Aye, he will,” I agreed.

  “I am prepared,” Kate said softly, and glanced to a basket in the corner of her kitchen. It was filled with oak galls.

  John cried from his crib for an evening meal, which ended, for a time, our conversation. Kate climbed the stairs to our bedchamber whence came the wails and I went out through the rear door to the toft, where Bessie was playing with the doll her grandfather had made for her from scraps of fabric and a broken tree branch.