by Mel Starr
“When? How will he come?”
“Tomorrow. Arthur will harness a runcie to one of Lord Gilbert’s carts and we will set out again for Oxford. ’Tis a large cart. Your father’s table, chair, bench, and other chattels will fit, I think.”
“I will clean his chamber, and strew fresh rushes and lavender about.”
“Good. We must do all we can to make him feel welcome. He’ll not find it easy to set aside his living and come under our roof as a dependent. But he is old, Kate, and very ill. You must be prepared to see grave changes in your father.”
“You really believe he is near to death?” Kate asked me, somber again.
“Aye, unless you feed him. I believe his purse is so thin that he does not eat.”
Kate nodded. “He was always a man of healthy appetite.” She paused, considering this a moment, before she moved on to ask: “You will have spent the night at Eynsham Abbey. Did you learn anything new there to lead you to those knaves who slew Hubert Shillside?”
“Nothing. But an odd thing occurred along the road. Just beyond Swinford, both going and coming, our beasts sensed something or someone which caused them unease.”
“You think men lay in wait there for victims? Why did they not attack?” Kate shuddered.
“When we saw the horses troubled we drew our daggers. Perhaps the scoundrels saw us ready for them, or else saw Arthur and decided to await less formidable prey.”
“I wish you were not going back that way tomorrow.”
“Abbot Gerleys is sending a band of lay brothers to inspect the road. If thieves lie in wait there, they will know their hiding place is found out and will likely seek another.”
“Another place along the road you may travel,” Kate pointed out.
“Aye. But remember I’ll be traveling it with Arthur. Come, Kate – don’t look so fearful. Would you attack Arthur, a dagger in his hand withal, whatever size purse he had strapped round his waist?”
“Could you not take another though, also? Just to be extra safe. Perhaps Uctred?”
I did not fear another journey to Oxford, but thought Kate’s suggestion wise. Uctred is no longer young, but he has the ropy muscled arms of a man tried by labor and strife. So I smiled at her in reassurance. “I will go to the castle and inform Uctred that he will travel with me and Arthur tomorrow.”
Most men prefer not to travel, but Uctred, when I told him why I desired his company next day, grinned with pleasure. Like Arthur, he does not shirk an opportunity to crack the skulls of felons and miscreants.
Arthur had greased the cartwheels with lard, so when we crossed the Bampton Castle drawbridge next morn the only sounds were the clatter of three horses’ hooves and the rumble of the cartwheels. No squeal announced our departure.
The runcie Arthur selected was capable but slow, so ’twas past the third hour when we came to Swinford. The cold river water seemed less unpleasant this day, for a south wind brought warmth to the land, a token of the summer to come.
Uctred knew to be prepared after we had passed the ford, so like Arthur and me had his hand upon his dagger as we traveled beyond the river. The stone walls either side of the road offered ideal hiding places for villains, but none appeared, nor did our beasts indicate any apprehension about their security.
Nevertheless, I kept a hand close to my dagger ’til we reached Farmoor. Perhaps a band of sturdy lay brothers, I thought, had persuaded any rogues to seek their quarry elsewhere. I would ask Abbot Gerleys upon our return.
We saw nothing of Hamo Tanner and his entertainers as we traveled the streets of Oxford. Evidently he had left for Banbury or some other place unwary young men might overestimate their strength and cleverness.
’Twas well Uctred had come along, as he proved helpful carrying Robert Caxton’s goods from shop to cart. Last of all we placed pots of ink, gatherings of parchment, and books in the cart and when we’d looked round the bare shop and given Robert’s key to the candlemaker, we set off for Canterbury Hall. Caxton glanced back from his perch upon the cart aside Arthur as we turned the corner from Holywell Street through the Smith Gate to Catte Street. He was leaving the home he had known for twenty years, since he had arrived from Cambridge to set himself up in the stationer’s trade, but if he was troubled at this departure he hid it well. His glance to the shop was fleeting, and I saw no tear upon his cheek.
By the time we left the ink and books with Master Wycliffe my stomach was growling. We detoured past the Hind and Hounds for ale, barley loaves, and a roasted leg of mutton, then departed Oxford across Bookbinder’s Bridge. I fervently hoped I need make no further journey to the city any time soon.
The runcie drawing our cart began to tire, and no wonder. It was heavy, with my father-in-law sitting by Arthur and all his possessions piled behind. Our pace slowed until I began to feel misgivings lest the beast lacked the strength to haul his load up the far bank at Swinford. Arthur could dismount to lighten the burden, but Caxton would be swept away in the current if he quit the cart.
I worried about this as we approached the ford, and because my mind was thus distracted I did not notice when my palfrey laid her ears back as before. And, I suppose, as we had passed the place in the morning with none of the beasts taking notice, I was of the opinion that whatever had caused equine concern was no longer present.
The runcie drawing the cart shied to the side of the road and would have dropped the left wheel into the ditch between road and stone wall had not Arthur yanked mightily upon the reins to hold the frightened beast on course.
Uctred immediately drew his dagger and looked wildly about, ready for an attack. But no men appeared. I had no plans to pass this way again soon but even so, the mysterious uneasiness of our beasts at that spot would cause me sleepless nights unless I discovered the cause. I reined in, determined to get to the bottom of this, and Arthur and Uctred stopped with me, looking at me askance as I sat deep in thought.
As I turned the thing over in my mind, I recalled that when we passed by in the morning the breeze was from the southwest, and warm. But now, past the ninth hour, the sky had become cloudy and the wind blew chill and from the north. Was there something beyond the stone wall to the north of the road which would not alarm beasts when the wind came from the southwest, but would frighten them when the scent came to them on a gust from the northeast?
I dismounted, giving my palfrey’s reins to Uctred, for I feared the animal might dart away if she thought she was unrestrained, then unsheathed my dagger and approached the wall. I did not look back, but I heard Arthur unsheathing his dagger.
Beyond the wall lay a field sown to hay. I carefully peered over the stones, seeking some place where I could both see over the obstruction and be sure to avoid the nettles. I found such a place, stepped upon a protruding stone, looked over the wall – and then I saw the corpse. Mystery solved. ’Twas the stench of death had startled our beasts.
The dead man lay on his stomach, arms thrown up above his head. The cause of his death was apparent. His cap and shoes were gone, and the back of his head was black with blood where he had received a stroke which stove in his skull.
I remembered then that Abbot Gerleys had spoken of a prosperous tenant of Wytham who had gone missing on the road to Abingdon with a cartload of barley.
But the corpse could not be him. This man had been dead a few days only, not more than a fortnight. Who had gone missing hereabouts in the past few days?
Henry Harcourt had been taken, but he was held for ransom. Surely his abductors would not slay him and lose the expectation of ten pounds. Was the dead man young? I could not see his face, but his form was slender, as lads often are.
The dead do not decay so rapidly when the weather is cool. Perhaps it was indeed the tenant of Wytham who lay before me, shaded from the sun by the cool stone wall. And perhaps he was not slain when taken, but held captive for a week or so.
&nbs
p; All these thoughts flashed through my mind more quickly than can be told. Arthur saw me hesitate atop the wall and cross myself. “What is there?” he called. “What have you found?”
“A dead man. Leave my father-in-law with the reins and come.”
Arthur dropped from the cart and hurried to my place at the wall. ’Twas more difficult for him to see over the obstacle, being nearly a head shorter than me. But he placed a foot upon the jutting stone, hauled himself atop the wall, and looked down at the corpse. A brief glance was enough for him. He stepped back to the road and crossed himself as I had.
“We must take the fellow to the abbey,” I said. “Wait here while I climb over the wall and hoist him up. Don’t worry about him being scraped against the stones. He will not care.”
The wall was mercifully free of nettles. I found several foot and hand holds and was soon standing beside the corpse. Before I lifted the fellow to Arthur I examined the soil about the dead man to see if anything could be learned. I found nothing incompatible with the verge of a hayfield.
I then studied the man’s head and back. I found no other injury, just the broken head. Perhaps if I turned the corpse I might find some other wound. This was odious work, but must be done. There was no other wound. The man had died of a blow to his skull.
Because he lay face down, no carrion crow had plucked at his eyes. I gave thanks for small blessings.
The dead man wore brown chauces of wool of good quality, and a cotehardie of russet wool – also of worth. This was more than a tenant farmer, even a prosperous one, robbed and slain upon the road to Abingdon. Was this indeed Henry Harcourt? Mayhap, for the dead man was youthful. But it still seemed to me unlikely that a man whose life was valued at ten pounds would be murdered.
Within a short time after death men become stiff, but after a day or two the rigor fades and their limbs are flexible again. When I lifted the corpse to the top of the wall the head and arms fell all askew. The man was not newly slain. But our beasts had told us that two days past.
Arthur reached over the stones, grasped the corpse under the arms, and hoisted him over the wall. I heard the horses snort and prance about as the dead man appeared to them, and hoped that Caxton could control the runcie.
He did so. I clambered back over the wall, skinned a knuckle in the process, then told Arthur to take the feet whilst I lifted the dead man’s shoulders, and together we would place him atop my father-in-law’s pallet in the cart.
The runcie was skittish and disapproved of this. Rather than mount the cart Arthur grasped the beast’s bridle to restrain it, and make its labor less arduous when we reached the ford – which lay in sight now, just a hundred or so paces ahead. Beyond Swinford, above the greening branches, I could see the spires of Eynsham Abbey church and the village church of St. Leonard’s.
Uctred’s palfrey and my own were not pleased to follow the cart, so we went ahead, waiting beyond the ford to be certain that Arthur, the runcie, and the cart were able to climb the riverbank. They did so, but only because Arthur hauled mightily upon the beast’s bridle, thus persuading the animal to exert itself. Given the option, I think it might be still standing there in the ford.
Brother Watkin greeted us as we clattered in under the abbey gateway. “This time you are four,” he said.
“Nay, we are five, but one needs no service of you,” I said. “Seek Abbot Gerleys. He must be told of this corpse we found not half a mile from here.”
The river was cold and Arthur, wet from waist down, stood shivering in the chill breeze. “You know where the guest house is,” I told him. “Go there and dry yourself. Perhaps a fire will be lit.”
Arthur needed no urging and trudged off toward the guest quarters. He was barely out of sight beyond the abbot’s lodging when Abbot Gerleys appeared from the west door of the church, the guest master following close behind. The abbot had a heavy black cloak wrapped about him, yet it seemed to me he shivered, as if ‘twas winter, not spring.
“Brother Watkin said you found a corpse this day,” the abbot said as he came near. “Who is it? Do you know the man?”
“Nay. Is the man missing from Wytham yet absent his village?”
“Aye, he is.”
“Perhaps he is found. How old was this missing tenant?”
“I’m not sure – but he had a wife and four children, and the oldest near to full grown, so folk are telling me.”
“Then this is not his corpse,” I said. “This man is not nearly old enough to have a son or daughter of twenty or so years.”
The abbot was silent for a few moments, then turned to speak to the hosteller.
“Find Brother Bernard. Tell him of this corpse and have him fetch a bier to the church altar. Then seek Brother Oswin to assist you in washing the dead man. Save back his clothing. Mayhap ’twill be the way we can identify the fellow.”
“I told you two days past of the skittish behavior of our beasts beyond Swinford,” I said. “’Twas this corpse agitated them so. They scented death.”
“Hmmm. The lay brothers I sent to inspect the road were lax.”
“Their noses are not so keen as a beast’s. I found the man lying hard against the wall opposite the road, where no man could see him unless he climbed up to peer over.
“The dead man lays in yon cart, where also sits my father-in-law.”
“Ah… the stationer?”
“He has left that business and will live with us in Bampton.”
“Well, you know where to find our guest house. Take him and your man there, and Brother Watkin will soon deal with your needs.”
“I must leave the abbey for an hour or so. If the hosteller will provide for these, and a man I have sent on ahead to the guest house so to dry himself, I will join them shortly.”
Abbot Gerleys responded with a puzzled frown. I explained.
“I may know the identity of the corpse. You remember that Henry Harcourt is taken from his manor and held for ransom?”
“Would rogues slay a man they held for a price?”
“Mayhap he tried to escape them,” I said.
“But even then, why slay him?”
“If he learned the identity of his abductors they could not allow him to live.”
“Ah,” the abbot agreed. “Just so. They would then have slain him even if his father paid the ransom. So you ride now to Stanton Harcourt?”
“Aye. I will return with Sir Thomas as soon as may be.”
When I told my need to the abbey stables a lay brother assigned there offered one of the abbey beasts.
“Your animal has traveled many miles already this day,” he said. “I’ll have a horse saddled and bridled for you in a trice.”
From Eynsham to Stanton Harcourt is two miles, no more. Traveling there alone was of some risk, but I decided to hazard the road for the importance of the task. And Sir Thomas would accompany my return, with perhaps a groom or two.
The lay brother provided me with the abbot’s ambler, so my journey to Stanton Harcourt was swift and pleasant, with no mishap along the road. Folk in Sir Thomas’s manor house were eager for news of Henry, I think, for the manor house door opened nearly instantly when I rapped upon it.
I told Walchin I must speak to his master, but the groom had no need to seek Sir Thomas. The knight was at the door immediately when he heard my voice.
“Do you bring word of my son?” he asked.
“I may. If so, ’tis an evil day.” I hastened to explain. “A corpse was found a few paces to the east of Swinford. ’Tis a young man. The corpse now lies before the altar of the abbey church at Eynsham.”
“When was the dead man found?” Sir Thomas asked.
“This day. I found him on our road home from Oxford. The man is unknown to any in the abbey, and the only man of any place nearby reported as missing is too old to match the corpse.”
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sp; “You believe this may be my son?”
“That men would slay a captive worth ten pounds to them seems senseless, but I know of no other man missing. If you will view the man we’ll know at once whether or not ’tis your lad.”
“Walchin!” Sir Thomas said. “Go to the stables and saddle three horses. We travel to Eynsham. Tell Alan he is to assist and will accompany us. Make haste.”
Walchin did so, and shortly we four were upon the road to Eynsham, the low sun warming our backs when it appeared between clouds. Sir Thomas spurred on his beast, and I gave thanks for the smooth gait of Abbot Gerleys’ ambler.
We were expected, so the porter had not yet closed the gate when we reached the abbey.
“The dead man lies before the church altar?” Sir Thomas asked bravely as he dismounted – but I think I detected a tremor in his voice.
“Aye. Come. I will show you.”
The knight squared his shoulders and followed on. The sacristan had set cressets upon stands surrounding the corpse, although these were not yet necessary for identification as enough light from the setting sun slanting through the church windows made all things visible. Two monks stood silently by the bier: one at the head, another at the feet. Sir Thomas strode up the aisle, crossed himself before the bier, then drew the shroud from the corpse.
I watched as the knight staggered back, as if the cadaver had risen and slapped him across the cheek. I knew then, without a word from Sir Thomas, that Henry lay dead before us.
“Why would they slay him?” Sir Thomas whispered. “I was near to raising the ten pounds.”
He fell silent, gazing upon his son’s countenance, then spoke to the corpse. “You will be avenged,” he said through tight lips. “The men who did this will die. This I promise.”
As Sir Thomas made this pledge Abbot Gerleys came beside me. “As you feared,” he whispered.
Sir Thomas had heard the abbot approach, although ’tis not likely he knew who it was until he turned.
“I beg of the abbey a cart to take my son home,” he said.
“This evening?” Abbot Gerleys asked.
