Without a Trace

by Mel Starr

  The lass has become old enough that she can carry her part of a conversation. Indeed, she insists upon doing so.

  Bessie has named the doll Agnes. How the name came to her I cannot tell. I know no woman of that name. None in Bampton. I asked of Agnes’s health.

  “She is not well,” Bessie reported.

  “What is her illness?”

  “Her stomach is sore. She will not eat her dinner.”

  “Ah. That is troubling. Perhaps some thin broth might help her recover.”

  “I will ask Ma. You think thin broth would help Grandfather?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Bessie had seen her grandfather’s illness and the malady had registered with her. How, I wondered, should I prepare the lass for her grandfather’s death? If not soon, as I expected, Caxton would eventually die. Would Bessie decide that Agnes must also perish? Who can know the mind of a child?

  My daughter had also heard the reason for my frequent absences in the past several days. “Did you find the lady?” she asked.

  “Nay, not yet.”

  “You will, Mother says. But what if she doesn’t want to be found?”

  “Then finding her will be more difficult.”

  And it would be more difficult to return her to her husband. I did not say this to Bessie, but the thought had troubled me since discovering Osbert’s corpse. I had been persuaded that rogues had carried Lady Philippa away, and the ransom demand brought credence to the theory. Would Lady Philippa demand two pounds of Sir Aymer to finance escape from a tyrannical husband?

  Two men had collected the ransom. If the lady had chosen to escape her husband it was with the aid of men. I was back to Martyn de Wenlock. Why had the scholar fled Oxford, then suddenly returned? And the groom John Cely? Deaf and near blind. Was he so? Blind, aye, the milky appearance of his pupils made this obvious. But so deaf that he would not hear his lady and her maid spirited away? Arthur thought the man may have heard my estimate of his condition. I thought so also. Was he paid to neither see nor hear Lady Philippa’s disappearance? If so, by whom? Martyn de Wenlock? Where would a poor scholar find the coins to do such a thing? Perhaps he was not so poor as I had thought. Would Cely risk his employment for a few coins? Were he a party to the disappearance, when found out he would lose his position. Where, then, would he go? Who would employ a man so infirm?

  I began to notice a change in my thoughts. To this day I had considered Lady Philippa’s disappearance an abduction. The ransom demand made it seem so. Now I began to think of the matter as her disappearance. Not her abduction. This would not explain the ransom. Or would it? Starting a new life with a scholar, poor or not, would require a subsidy. Sir Aymer would be a near source of pence and groats. Where would Lady Philippa or Martyn find another?

  I came back to the present to find Bessie staring at me, Agnes clutched to her chest. The kitchen door swung open on squealing hinges and Kate called Bessie to come to bed. Tomorrow I must grease the hinges. For tonight I would draw from my father-in-law’s chamber the half-barrel I use to bathe.

  Many years past I had found the old cask discarded. I cut the barrel in half with a borrowed saw, paid a smith sixpence to secure an iron band about the open top, and then smeared pine pitch between the staves to make the container watertight.

  I wished to soak away the sweat and dust of the roads I had recently traveled. Kate has two large pots: one of iron, the other of bronze. I placed wood upon the hearth, filled the pots, set them upon the embers, then took our pail to the village well. ’Twas near dark, and past curfew, but Edwin, Bampton’s beadle, would not trouble me.

  Three pails full I emptied into the barrel, and the two pots of heated water. With a cake of Kate’s Castile soap I washed away the grime I had accumulated. After putting Bessie to her bed Kate heard my preparations and decided to join my ablutions. She placed the iron pot back to the fire to warm more water and when I had scrubbed myself clean she bade me leave her, added the heated water from her iron pot to the barrel, and prepared to immerse herself. I would have stayed but she laughed and chased me away.

  Saturday dawned as grey as my mood, which had nothing to do with being chased from the kitchen the evening before. Why is it that failures are more likely to possess our thoughts than success? Perhaps other men are unlike me, and are able to dismiss their defeats and think on their accomplishments. I have enjoyed no little success in past investigations for Lord Gilbert, but these seem to fade before a more recent frustration.

  I broke my fast with half a maslin loaf and ale, then set off for the castle. I needed to speak to Sir Ralph about his visit to Coleshill. He had not sought me yesterday, so I assumed Lady Philippa was yet absent from her home. And I must relate to Lord Gilbert the tale of my fruitless visits to Didcot and Coscote. Not completely fruitless. Gaston Howes awaits the King’s Eyre in Oxford Castle gaol. It may be that justice will be done for Joan le Scrope and her father.

  As I passed under the castle gatehouse I thought I saw Sir Ralph enter the stables. I followed, and found him with a stable page inspecting his horse’s hoof. He turned to see who had blocked the light, saw ’twas me, and spoke.

  “Good day, Sir Hugh. My mare came up lame yesterday upon my return as I neared Radcot Bridge. I had to walk and lead her. I could see nothing in her hoof, and ’twas too dark last night for a close examination. I can find nothing yet this morning, but there’s got to be something troubling the old girl.”

  I moved away from the stable door to permit Andrew and Sir Ralph more light. This was still insufficient, so Andrew led the beast to the stable yard where the morning, albeit cloudy, would allow better visibility.

  Sir Ralph kneeled and raised the mare’s hoof to rest it upon his knee. “Look… what is there?” he said, and pointed to the hoof. Andrew bent low to inspect the hoof.

  “’Tis an abscess,” the stable boy said.

  “What is to be done? The mare is my finest ambler,” Sir Ralph said.

  Andrew did not reply, but stared at the hoof as if in deep contemplation. “I seen an abscessed hoof once,” he finally said.

  “How was it dealt with?”

  “It wasn’t. Nothin’ to be done. The beast died. She ended as food for the hounds.”

  Sir Ralph looked to me. I had been an observer, waiting to speak to the knight when he had concluded his business with Andrew.

  “I should hate to see this horse founder,” Sir Ralph said to me. “Have you dealt with abscesses in men?”

  “I have.”

  “Successfully?”

  “Aye, but for one.”

  “Can you do for this beast what you did for men you treated?”

  I bent low to see the afflicted hoof. The abscess was not large, but oozed a grey pus and when I put a finger to the injury the mare drew her hoof away from the touch.

  “The wound must be opened and allowed to drain,” I said, “and then packed with herbs which will soothe and heal the injury.”

  “You have the proper herbs?”

  “I do. Oil of lavender soaked in goosegrass.”

  “Have you other matters to attend to, or can you deal with the abscess today?”

  “I came here to speak to you about your journey to Coleshill, and to discuss matters with Lord Gilbert. ’Twill not take long to deal with the mare’s hoof. You can tell me of Coleshill while I do. Then there will be time enough to seek Lord Gilbert. I will need to return to Galen House for a scalpel and the herbs. Wait here with your beast. I will not be long.”

  I hurried to Galen House and trotted back to the castle with my herbs and scalpel. I asked Sir Ralph to again raise the mare’s hoof, and told Andrew to search the marshalsea for a discarded sack and a short length of cord.

  The mare was gentle and patient. She did not object to having her tender hoof once again lifted but when I drew the scalpel across the abscess she kicked, and the blow sent Sir Ralph sprawling. The knight picked himself up and grinned sheepishly. “Didn’t much like that, did she? Must you cut
away more?”

  “Nay, I think not. I needed to slice an opening for pus to escape. In a few minutes, when it has done so, I will pack the lavender oil and chopped goosegrass into the cut.”

  “She’ll not like that much, either.”

  “Not likely. I will try to be gentle.”

  Andrew returned with a piece of coarse hempen sacking and cord. I told the lad to stand ready, then asked Sir Ralph to again raise the mare’s hoof. He approached the task gingerly, but the beast cooperated. So long as no man touched her aching hoof she was complacent. But I was about to touch it.

  At Galen House I had placed the chopped goosegrass and lavender oil in a vial, stopped with a cork. When Sir Ralph had the hoof again upon his knee I removed the cork and poured the mixture from the vial into my cupped palm. As gently as I could I pushed the compound into the laceration my scalpel had made. To my surprise and gratification the mare did not object. No doubt Sir Ralph was also gratified. I placed the hempen sacking over the hoof, drew it up above the fetlock, then tied the cord so the sacking would, if the mare allowed, remain over the hoof and protect it from the filth of the stable.

  I had been too intent upon the mare and her sore hoof to question Sir Ralph, but when the work was done and Andrew led the beast back to her stall I remembered why I had sought the castle and the knight.

  “He believes she’s dead,” Sir Ralph said when I asked of any information Sir Aymer might have provided regarding his wife. “He said he thinks she tried to escape her captors and was slain. That’s why she’s not been returned even though the ransom was paid. He said, was she yet living the rogues who took her would either set her free or demand more coin for her release. They’ve done neither, so Sir Aymer believes she is slain.”

  There was logic in Sir Aymer’s view of the matter. ’Twas indeed a puzzle why Lady Philippa had not been released, or no greater ransom had been demanded.

  “Sir Aymer’s squire,” Sir Ralph continued, “believes the knight is about to seek Bishop de Brantyngham to have Lady Philippa declared dead.”

  “Surely he will not do so when the lady has been missing not three weeks,” I replied.

  “Squire said that Sir Aymer is gathering coin to influence the bishop.”

  “How much?”

  “He didn’t say. Probably doesn’t know. Mayhap even Sir Aymer doesn’t know how much the bishop will require – or if he will declare Lady Philippa dead for any amount.”

  I do not know any bishops, but their reputations, like that of bailiffs, precede them. I felt sure the Bishop of Exeter would accede to Sir Aymer’s request, and also sure the cost of his decree would come near to bankrupting the knight. But Sir Aymer desires an heir, regardless of the cost. If he weds another, and the lady does produce a child, the lad or lass will inherit an estate much reduced, the wealth having gone to provide pleasing items of gold and silver and precious jewels for the bishop’s palace.

  Lady Philippa had not been returned to her husband, but neither had a greater ransom been demanded. Felons would hold her, I thought, only if it were profitable to do so. Keeping the lady, but not requiring a greater ransom, would be foolish for such scoundrels. Even rogues would have wit enough to understand that so long as they possessed Lady Philippa the chances of discovery would increase. If she was released, her husband would have less reason to search for her, and in the quest find her captors.

  Then where was the lady? If she was released, did she refuse to return to Sir Aymer? Squire Giles had said her life in Coleshill was difficult, Sir Aymer dealing harshly with her because she could not give him an heir. Would she take the opportunity, if those who seized her had let her go after collecting the ransom, to seek Martyn de Wenlock? The youth had abruptly departed Oxford, then as suddenly returned.

  I left Sir Ralph to deal with his mare and sought Lord Gilbert. John Chamberlain directed me to the solar, where I found my employer with his son. Richard is sprouting and will soon be as tall as his father, although he has the slender appearance of his mother. Does he remember her, I wonder? She perished five years past. Surely he is old enough to have her image fixed in his mind.

  The two were sharing cheese and a wheaten loaf with ale – well watered for Richard. Would Lord Gilbert seek another wife, I wondered? He is yet a vigorous man. Perhaps his mind’s eye is yet clouded with visions of Lady Petronilla so that other ladies are obscured.

  “What news, Hugh? Is Lady Philippa found?”

  I told him “Nay,” and reviewed my visits to Didcot and Coscote, and Sir Ralph’s conversation with Squire Giles.

  “So you have not found the lady, but you have discovered where she is not,” Lord Gilbert said. “Then you are now closer to finding where she is, and who took her, having eliminated Didcot and the felons who took the lass at Candlemas.”

  “Aye, I suppose. There are yet too many places she may be hidden, and too many knaves who may be responsible.”

  “Sir Aymer has given up finding his wife alive, the squire thinks?”

  “So he told Sir Ralph. Do you believe the Bishop of Exeter will grant Sir Aymer’s request to declare him a widower so he may wed again?”

  “I don’t know the bishop well, but most of them can be bought for any purpose if the price be high enough. What think you, Hugh? In your opinion does the lady yet live?”

  “Why would her captors slay her?”

  “Hmmm. Mayhap she could identify them,” Lord Gilbert said, “and the place she was held.”

  “Possible, I suppose. But the captors would have been careless to allow the lady to see them unmasked or the place she was taken. The men who took Joan le Scrope sequestered her in a tiny, windowless closet in a loft, and no doubt she was taken there blindfolded.”

  “This matter frustrates you.”

  “Aye, it does. You have told me that I may leave the mystery to others, and there are moments I am willing to do so.”

  “But you are too stubborn to give the matter over.”

  “Me? Stubborn? Nay, I am a model of pliancy.”

  “Hah! Lady Katherine will tell you what I have said is so. A wife knows her husband. I suspect your tenacity is one reason she was willing to be joined to you. Most women, I think, wish for a husband who determines a course and then adheres to it.”

  “Even when the path leads him where neither he nor she wishes him to go?”

  “Where we wish to go and where we must go are oft different places.”

  “Aye,” I agreed. “Surely the Lord Christ did not wish to go to a cross, but He knew He must, else where would we poor sinners be?”

  “Amen to that! So, you intend to continue to seek Lady Philippa? Where?”

  “Martyn de Wenlock’s behavior puzzles me.”

  “The suitor passed over for Sir Aymer?”

  “The same. He could not have taken her, if his landlord spoke true, but his friends might have, or even if not she may be with him now.”

  “If her captors released her and she went her own way?”

  “Aye.”

  “What do you intend?”

  “I will go to Oxford, in the guise of a scholar, and try to follow de Wenlock. He has seen me, and may remember the meeting. If Lady Philippa has somehow got to Oxford and the fellow knows it, he will seek her as often as may be.”

  “You intend to do this alone?”

  “Aye. Neither Arthur nor Uctred would be believable disguised as scholars.”

  “On the road they would not need to be. As you follow de Wenlock they might follow you. You have already enough scars in my service. I wish for you to add no more.”

  “I have no objection to them attending me, but they may be reluctant. Uctred’s ear is yet tender and Arthur’s ribs bring forth a wheeze now and then.”

  “You will not need to require them,” Lord Gilbert smiled. “They have served me many years and Uctred my father before me. I know them well. They will not allow you to risk the road alone. When they know of your scheme they will wish to be a part of it.”<
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  They did.

  I told Arthur we would travel to Oxford on Monday. We would rest on Sunday, which was God’s purpose for men – one day of the week with no labor – and allow our saddle-sore rumps to recover. And Uctred’s ear and Arthur’s ribs, also.

  When Kate and I walked from Galen House to St. Beornwald’s Church on Sunday morning her father did not accompany us. He had always risen with the sun, but for the past week or so had remained in his bed ’til long after the morning Angelus Bell sounded. This day he attempted to rise but his legs failed him, and Kate, from the kitchen, heard him tumble to the floor. The rushes broke his fall, but he was sorely injured.

  Kate cried out when she found him prone upon the rushes. I had just drawn on my cotehardie, and hastened down the stairs to learn what had caused her shriek. I found her bent over her father, attempting to ask him of his hurt. He could not reply, but gasped something incomprehensible.

  Together we lifted Caxton to his bed, but not without a groan of pain.

  “He has injured himself falling from his bed,” Kate said.

  “Aye… or did the injury cause the fall?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I fear he has broken his hip.”

  Kate’s face lost color at these words.

  “Mayhap his hip broke when he stood from his bed,” I said, “or the fall caused the fracture.”

  “It makes no difference, does it?” Kate replied. “He will soon die.”

  “Likely.”

  “Is there nothing to be done to ease him?”

  “His breathing will be easier if I raise the head of his bed. Perhaps Philip Carpenter will have some scrap I may place under the bedposts.”

  He did, and but a few minutes later I had raised the head of my father-in-law’s bed the length of my hand. When the aged cannot leave their beds their lungs fill and they soon perish. If their heads be raised above their feet this does not happen so soon. But it will happen.

  Kate brought part of a loaf and a cup of ale to her father but he took scarcely a mouthful of the loaf and would have no more. Most of the ale dribbled down his whiskers and onto his kirtle.