by Mel Starr
Chapter 10
I acknowledge that I had hoped Walter Mapes to be guilty of slaying Hubert Shillside, and hoped also that I might discover evidence of his complicity in the robberies of Alain Gower and John Prudhomme. This would send a vile and repulsive man to the scaffold and conveniently clear the mysteries troubling Bampton and the Weald. Mapes might call on the testimony of friends to place him at St. Beornwald’s Church when John Prudhomme’s house was looted, but could he be sure such fellows would be willing to risk placing their own necks in a noose to exonerate him of a murder?
The trail of Hubert Shillside’s slayers had, after twenty-eight days, gone very cold. I could question Wealdsmen about Walter Mapes’ activities during Holy Week, but I doubted any would remember. Unless Mapes had done something quite out of the ordinary – or a man I might question had assisted Mapes in slaying and robbing Shillside, in which case he wouldn’t be regaling Lord Gilbert’s bailiff with the tale. But if the man had slain Bampton’s coroner, he had not spent any of the stolen coins. Mapes seemed as poverty-stricken now as he ever was.
A man as poor as he, now in possession of ten shillings, would be tempted – even forced by life circumstances – to spend some of his new wealth. I resolved to pay close attention to Walter and his home. The thatching of his roof was rotten and no doubt leaked in a hard rain. Would he soon replace it? His wife cooked on a hearth stone in the middle of his house, the smoke – some of it – passing out through vents at the gable. Would he have a fireplace built to rid his house of the reeking fumes? Like most cotters Mapes rented oxen from more prosperous men to plow his fields. Ten shillings would purchase an ox. Would he soon expand his barn to accommodate such a beast? Or would he hire an even poorer man than himself to assist when the time came to cut hay or harvest oats and barley? I am a patient man, willing to wait and watch. I resolved to avoid the man so much as possible, that he would not suspect my eye was still upon him.
But what if he did not slay Hubert Shillside? What if the haberdasher’s death was at the hands of felons nearer Oxford? Men who wore black robes, or sometimes a green cotehardie or particolored chauces and a blue cap with long liripipe. Mapes may have known Shillside was to travel to Oxford, but other men might have come upon him by chance.
Through that Monday morning I pondered deep on such puzzles until Kate returned from the baker with warm maslin loaves with which we broke our fast. During her confinement this was one of my duties when in Bampton. Kate did not seem displeased that the task was now once again hers. Resting for forty days in a darkened room, unable to leave Galen House, was, she claimed, the most objectionable part of bearing a child. A week, or perhaps a fortnight, to recover from the experience, she said, would be welcome. But forty days?
Since joining us at Galen House my father-in-law had recovered his appetite. But his stomach would not bankrupt me, and I rejoiced to see color return to his cheeks. If he continued to consume Kate’s cookery with the ardor of these recent days, he would soon show a paunch under his long cotehardie.
We sat at the table consuming the warm loaves with last week’s ale which was beginning to go stale. Kate has oft volunteered to brew our own, but the baker’s wife brews well, and the village taster has never required of me that I fine her for watering her ale.
Robert Caxton enjoyed talking of his days as a prosperous burgher of Oxford. Good days of years past are pleasant to remember. More recent times filled with affliction not so much, and so his conversation generally visited the past. There were, to be sure, unpleasant topics of days gone by upon which he touched from time to time – the death of Kate’s mother being one of these – but such a subject was uncommon for him. Caxton is not a morose man.
“Business was poor enough,” he said between chewing his loaf and downing ale, “but being robbed thrice was more than I could deal with.”
“Robbed?” I said. “You never mentioned such. Did you seek a constable?”
“Oh, aye. Went to the castle to make complaint. Did no good. If a man of Oxford wishes to be secure in his possessions, ’tis his own strength and wit must make him so. Seeking justice of the sheriff will do him little good.”
“What happened? Did men break down your door in the night?”
“Nay. Happened in the day.”
“All three times?”
“Aye. The first time young scholars came to the shop, enquired of parchment and ink, and when I produced what they sought they seized it from me and ran. I followed them out with no delay, shouting the hue and cry, but they were lost amongst the black-clad scholars always thick upon Holywell Street.”
“Have other shops also been plundered?”
“Aye.”
“Were the proprietors young men or old?”
“Hmmm. Most I know of were aged fellows, like me.”
“The candlemaker who purchased your shop. Had he been robbed?”
“Nay, I think not. He never spoke of it.”
“Is he young or old?”
“Your age nearabouts, I think.”
“Young enough to chase and apprehend a fleet-footed scholar, you think?”
“Aye, mayhap.”
“Three times this happened? When was the first?”
“Last autumn, a few days after Martinmas. After the theft I had little coin to purchase more skins, and the rogues took nearly all of my gatherings. That’s when I sold the shop. Custom had been poor for some years.”
“You did not seek a loan?”
“I did, but the fees were ruinous. I’d not enough custom to pay the interest, much less the debt.”
“You would have lost the shop, either way?”
“Aye,” Caxton replied softly.
“When the thieves made off with the parchment, how many took part in the theft?”
“Four the first time. Next time, just before Candlemas, there were three. Then, a fortnight before Easter, four did the felony.”
“You could not recognize any as those who had robbed you before?”
“Nay. They came late in the day, when ’twas near dark. I’d lit neither candle nor cresset, to save the expense.”
“Yet the streets were busy so they could lose themselves in the throng,” I said.
“Aye, and the dark.”
“What would scholars do with so many stolen gatherings? How many were taken?”
Caxton rubbed his whitened whiskers, did some mental calculations, then answered. “Eight gatherings first time. Not so many when the second and third thefts happened. Five then, but two of the last were of finest calf. And the first time I had two rolled skins, also.”
“They were taken as well?”
“Aye, and five books taken before Easter. I tried to stop the fellows when they seized the books, but they knocked me down and were off before I could rise to my feet.”
“Five books? What titles?”
“Set books. I dealt in such because I could be sure of selling them. Two of Aristotle, RHETORIC and CATEGORIES. One of Lombard, called SENTENCES. And Euclid’s ELEMENTS. Also Boethius’s TOPICS, the fourth volume.”
“Were the books new?”
“Not RHETORIC. Others were.”
“Was RHETORIC blemished or marked in any way that it might so be known? Had some scholar written his thoughts in the margins?”
“Aye, so ’twas. Some careless fellow had stained several pages with spilled ale, or some such drink.”
“Careless, or drunken,” I said.
“Aye, perhaps.”
I did some calculations of my own. “Your loss was more than ten pounds, then.”
“Aye. I had not enough custom to acquire more skins and hire more scribes to replace my lost books and recover the loss.”
Would scholars who risked a noose find use for so much parchment, or would they seek to sell it to monks and friars and other scholars
of the university? And did they indeed risk a noose, or could they plead benefit of clergy if caught? I thought such fellows would prefer coins, to exchange at an alehouse, over having their own vellum for copying rented manuscripts.
“Why did you not tell me of these thefts when I first came to you a month past? Your loss was great. I might have used my position to enquire.”
“Aye. Mayhap. I hadn’t thought your arm would reach as far as Oxford.”
My obligations increased. I needed to discover who had slain Hubert Shillside. I must find who had done hamsoken against John Prudhomme. And now I felt a duty to see justice done for my father-in-law. I resolved to visit Master Wycliffe, to learn from him of any recently offering to sell parchment or books to him or his scholars at Canterbury Hall.
I sought out Arthur later in the day, instructing him to ready two palfreys for the morn, when we would once again set out on the Oxford road. He seemed less than overjoyed at the prospect. One journey to Oxford might be a diversion. More than that in six months was wearisome.
Nor did Kate look pleased, even though I explained my purpose was to seek justice for her father.
“If you find the felons, what then? Will their discovery mean my father can regain his stolen goods?”
“Nay. The rogues will have sold their loot and spent the coins.”
“So they will hang, and that will serve as justice for my father?”
“Justice cannot be made perfect,” I replied. “If we fail to seek it because it will be blemished when we find it, nothing remains but to quit the search and give villains free rein to do whatever evils take their fancy.”
“I suppose,” Kate sighed. “But when you seek justice you seem to put yourself in the way of men who work injustice.”
She reached out her hand and touched the scar upon my cheek, engraved there by those who assaulted me two years ago in my search for whoever had slain a man and left him to burn in Bampton’s St. John’s Day blaze.
I could not fault her logic. Evil men cannot be discovered and apprehended from a distance.
Arthur and Uctred appeared before Galen House Tuesday morn shortly after dawn, riding two of Lord Gilbert’s palfreys and leading a third.
“Too much wickedness about,” Arthur explained, seeing my surprise at Uctred’s addition to our party. “I thought a third dagger might persuade peevish folk to seek easier prey. Lord Gilbert agreed.”
My escorts had already broken their fast at the castle kitchen, so I drank a cup of ale, took from Kate a fresh barley loaf, and mounted to the saddle of my beast.
In little more than an hour we reached Stanton Harcourt, where I sought Sir Thomas and information of his son’s death, if any was to be had.
When I rapped on the manor house door, a servant directed me to a stable behind the house where, he said, Sir Thomas was attending a mare which was ready to foal.
“Oswald has scratched his head and belly but neither of these exercises has found who slew Henry,” he said when I enquired after any new knowledge in the matter.
He patted the mare’s head as he spoke, then turned and spoke to another man behind him in the dim recesses of the stable.
“Edmund, here is Master Hugh, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot in Bampton – the surgeon who drew my rotten tooth.”
The youth stepped forward, bowed, and greeted me politely; a handsome lad of perhaps eighteen years. This, then, was the scholar who had brought friends from Oxford to feed at his father’s table. The Trinity Term had begun, but Stanton Harcourt being so near Oxford I did not wonder at his presence at his father’s manor. Sir Thomas explained anyway.
“Henry, my oldest, is slain, so Edmund will inherit. He has enjoyed small success as a scholar, so he has given up his studies to return here and assist me in manor business.”
Light from the open door was obscured, and we three turned to see who had entered, blocking the sun. ’Twas the village priest.
“Has Rohese given you a foal yet?” the priest asked.
“Nay… but ’twill be soon. Tonight or tomorrow, I think. We’ll leave her to peace an’ quiet ’til then,” Sir Thomas said, and motioned us to the stable door.
I had learned what I wished to know. Henry’s slayers had not been discovered. I bid Sir Thomas “Good day,” and left him to deal with his sorrow and his pregnant mare.
At Oxford we once again made our way to the Black Boar to take our dinner. The inn this day served capons in gaucelye, a pleasing dish, and we ate our fill before leading our beasts on to Canterbury Hall.
Master Wycliffe, the porter said, would likely be found in his chamber. I left the palfreys in his care and sought the master, Arthur and Uctred following. I found him concluding his own dinner, a simple pottage and a loaf. He rarely dined with his scholars, proclaiming that a morsel in silence was worth a banquet in the hall of a king. I might have felt guilty for enjoying my own tasty meal, but remembered that Master Wycliffe cares little for the pleasures other folk enjoy. So long as he has his books and a simple meal he is content.
Wycliffe had left his door open, the better to enjoy the warm spring day. Elsewise the stones of the chamber would retain the cold of the previous night.
I rapped my knuckles on the doorpost and the scholar looked up from his book, spoon halfway from bowl to lips. My shape was black in the doorway, sunlight behind me, so Master John did not at first recognize me. But when I spoke a greeting he rose from his bench.
“Ah… Hugh. ’Tis you. Come in. You are here to learn if I have sold your father-in-law’s books?”
“Aye, and to learn if any man has approached you or any of Canterbury Hall’s scholars seeking to sell parchment or books.”
“Hmmm. I was about to tell you that the three books you left with me have not found buyers, and now you ask if some other has offered to sell books to me. Why so?”
I explained the thefts my father-in-law had suffered which contributed to driving him from Oxford and his business. Master John listened quietly, then when I had finished the account turned from me, walked to a cupboard, and from a shelf lifted two gatherings of parchment.
“These,” he said, “I purchased from a ragged scholar near a fortnight past. He asked but fourteen pence for two gatherings. A bargain, so I thought at the time.”
“But no man has presented books he would sell? Have you heard of others being offered books?”
“How long past? This is Oxford. Scholars are always buying and selling or trading books.”
“The five set books were stolen near to Easter.”
“What titles?”
I told Master Wycliffe the titles of the stolen books, and he promised to watch for any of the five being offered, especially if the price was lower than might be expected.
“Books a man might have paid twenty shillings for in years past now bring little more than half that,” Wycliffe said. “The plague has taken so many scholars, there are fewer to seek books and the knowledge they contain. But books do not perish of plague. There are as many now as ever there were, and scribes make more, so we who love books find our expenditure much reduced.”
“Books may be transported with ease,” I said. “Mayhap my father-in-law’s books have been sold in Cambridge.”
“Aye, it could be. ’Twould help identify the stolen books if there was some mark by which one might be known – some man’s name inscribed, or notes written in margins.”
“There is. Aristotle’s RHETORIC is stained. Ale spilled upon some pages. The other books were new, unmarred, so no man had misused them or written his thoughts in the margins.”
“Hah. I forget that you have seen my books. Men who come after me will know my mind, even though I will have returned to dust, for the scribbles I have written, my opinions of the author’s thoughts. No doubt whoso inherits my books when I am in my grave will rue my scratching. Pristine books, unsullied by
my notions, would be of greater worth.”
“Perhaps not. There are scholars today who would give much to know your thoughts. Surely there will be like men in future years.”
“Perhaps, when I feel death near, I will burn my books, or ask some friend to do so. Then my thoughts will go with me to the grave.”
“Never! What if Boethius or Aristotle had done such a thing? Think of the loss to scholars, to all of mankind.”
“You place me with Boethius and Aristotle? I had thought you a wise man, but I see now you lack judgment.”
“I am wise enough to know a sage when I meet one.”
“Did you think so when you sat under my tutelage at Balliol College?”
“Probably not. You seem to have grown wiser as I have grown older. Or mayhap ’tis the other way round.”
“Aye, it may be. Well, I shall be alert for an ale-stained RHETORIC.”
I visited seven stationers and booksellers that day. In their shops I found two new copies of SENTENCES and ELEMENTS, which I suppose might have been once shelved in my father-in-law’s shop. Of this there was no way to know. The proprietors both claimed the works to have been commissioned by them from copyists who earn a living in Oxford bent over their desks, reproducing such volumes. All of the shopkeepers promised to keep a sharp eye for an ale-stained copy of RHETORIC. I held out little hope they would do so.
Chapter 11
The Eynsham Abbey hosteller was not surprised when the porter’s novice called for him to wait upon us. I had become a regular visitor to the abbey, spending nearly as many nights there as in my own bed at Galen House. This did not please me, but duty is often onerous, which is why, I suppose, men so regularly seek to evade their obligations. This is not merely my own conjecture – it is laid down in Holy Writ – for does not the apostle warn us, “Have no fellowship with the unfruitful deeds of darkness”? And he goes further than that. It is not enough that we merely abstain. To turn away will not suffice. “Rather, expose them.” So says St. Paul. And what he wrote to the Ephesians speaks also to my conscience. I cannot escape it. So, to expose deeds of darkness to the light I must find myself all too often upon the roads, sleeping away from my Kate, risking felons and knaves, seeing to it that the deeds of darkness do stay unfruitful.
