The Merchant's Tale

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘You sound as though you have some sympathy with them,’ Jordain said.

  ‘I have. Remember, I too am a merchant, though in a small way, no more than a shopkeeper. I too will lose trade to the fair.’

  ‘I have not been to the fair for years,’ he said. ‘It comes at a bad time of the term for me. I do not remember any booksellers there.’

  ‘The last two years there have been one or two. No great rivals to me, mainly selling rough little books for the pocket, the kind of thing carried by pedlars, but it is a straw in the wind. Nay, I am thinking more of the wealthy merchants who bring their business to the fair. With coin in their purses, they are the kind of men who might spend some of it on my better quality of books, perhaps as a present for a wife or daughter. I’ve had one such customer already, come early to the fair from Flanders.’

  As I was telling him about the cloth merchant Peter Winchingham, we reached home.

  Margaret, so it proved, was happy to leave the heat and steam of the kitchen and sit on our favourite bench under the pear tree to mend Jordain’s gown with neat, invisible stitches, while we strolled about in the cool and the shade of the trees in shirt and hose. Although it was October, this was an unexpected day of lingering summer warmth. The other women soon joined us, all of them red from the heat, although Mary had shortly to leave for her evening milking. I stole a glance at Emma as she sat near Margaret, fanning herself with a large dock leaf. When she had lived as a novice at Godstow, she had been pale, perhaps because the diet was low. Now she was flushed and rosy from the heat, wispy curls breaking loose from her braided hair and gathering softly about her face. She looked even younger, hardly older than Juliana. I turned away, lest she catch me watching her. I wanted to tell her about the desk, but even more I wanted to surprise her with it when it was finished.

  ‘I thank you, Margaret,’ Jordain said, receiving the mended gown and bowing like a courtier. ‘I am forever in your debt.’

  She laughed, tidying away her needle and thread into her sewing case. ‘It was something neglected by the founders of the university, in laying down celibacy for scholars. Who was to take the place of mothers and wives in caring for poor, helpless men?’

  ‘A problem for all men of the cloth,’ I said, thinking privately of Philip and Beatrice. ‘And not only for the lack of seamstresses.’

  ‘In the colleges there are servants,’ said Jordain, slipping his arms into his gown. ‘Even sometimes women servants, who can undertake such tasks. But in a small, poor hall like mine, there is no money for more than a cook and a man for rough work.’

  ‘You could learn to wield a needle yourself,’ she said, standing up and brushing off from her skirts a few dry leaves which had fallen while she was sitting.

  Jordain laughed. ‘I think I am unlikely to live long enough to learn to stitch as finely as you do.’

  I turned to Maud Farringdon, who was sitting at the other end of the bench, while Beatrice and Emma sat on the grass at her feet.

  ‘How goes the preparation for the fair?’ I said.

  ‘Finished,’ she said. ‘All but potting up the last of the preserves made today, and scrubbing down your kitchen. Every surface has somehow become sticky, even where we were not working.’

  I raised my hands in protest. ‘Never call it my kitchen in Margaret’s hearing!’ Nevertheless, I was glad to hear that my home would be returning to normal, although I would no longer encounter Emma coming every day to help. We must discuss the book she should start on next, though I supposed that she would be needed at the fair, before she could return to scribing. They would serve at their booth turnabout, two at a time. Apart from Mary Coomber, I suspected they did not realise how fatiguing it would be, although in truth they had all been on their feet in that hot kitchen for many hours without complaint.

  On a sudden thought, I said, ‘Why do we not all take our supper out tonight? The fellowship of jam brewers deserves a holiday from the kitchen. And Jordain deserves a good meal before weeks of boiled cabbage at Hart Hall. My scriveners can celebrate a return to a bookshop smelling of ink and parchment instead of burnt jam.’

  I saw that Maud and Beatrice looked doubtful, perhaps reckoning up their lack of coin.

  ‘We never burned any jam, Nicholas!’ Juliana protested, but Emma laughed at her.

  ‘Pay him no mind. He said that only to provoke you.’

  ‘I shall treat you all,’ I said, suddenly, magnificently, despite the look of alarm on Margaret’s face. I always felt rich in the chinks at the beginning of the academic year. Besides, I had the feeling I should manage a few more profitable sales to the merchant Peter Winchingham.

  ‘I have heard that Tackley’s food is good,’ Margaret said with caution, eying me anxiously, ‘and not too costly. Walter and Roger eat their dinner there most days.’

  I knew what Tackley’s food was like. Substantial but very dull. I had eaten enough of it as a student.

  ‘Nay, the Mitre,’ I said. ‘It is not much further away. I shall send Roger to be sure they can accommodate us, for they will be much occupied with guests staying, now that it is but two days from this until the opening of the fair.’

  Before any polite objections could be raised, I went through to the shop and announced my plan. The two men looked surprised and pleased.

  ‘I need you to bespeak us room at the Mitre, Roger,’ I said, ‘and on your way back, stop in at the dairy to tell Mistress Coomber what’s afoot. She should have finished the milking by then.’

  I was gratified by the men’s pleased looks, but I had a guilty feeling that I had made my grand gesture more from wanting to see the delight on Emma’s face than from any true spirit of generosity. I could not spend the evening alone with her, but we could at least spend it in company.

  Our supper at the Mitre proved memorable. It was a fine evening, so – as there was such a crowd of us – the innkeeper proposed a table in the garden. Grown reckless, I ordered a course of salmon seethed in cream, followed by goose roasted on a spit, with onions and carrots cooked in the fat dripping into the pan below, followed in its turned by a bowl of late salad greens (somewhat wilted and disappointing, now that it was October). There was French wine for the adults and small ale for the children, and, to finish, honey and fig cakes for any of us who had a little room left to eat them.

  We took our supper early, because of the children and because the inn would be busy at the later supper hour with its many guests, more of whom were arriving as we ate. We were nearing the end of our meal, some of us picking at the honey cakes more from greed than hunger, when a group of three merchants came out to sit at another table in the garden. They were unmistakable from their rich garments and that indefinable air of poise and confidence which marks out the wealthy man who travels from country to country, dealing in large shipments of goods and substantial amounts of money. One of them was Master Winchingham. He saw me, bowed, spoke briefly to his companions, then approached our table.

  ‘I do not wish to trouble you or disturb your meal, Master Elyot,’ he said, bowing to the rest of our party, ‘but I wonder whether I might speak to you briefly?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  I stood up, and we drew aside from the tables. Philip cast a curious glance in our direction, but the others were busy sharing out the last of the wine or trying to stop the children eating too many of the honey cakes.

  ‘It is not for me,’ Alysoun was protesting. ‘If no one is going to eat the last of them, I want to take them back for Jonathan. He helped us with the apples, and he never has treats like this.’

  ‘How can I be of service, Master Winchingham?’ I said.

  ‘We cannot discuss this more than briefly here,’ he said, ‘but will you be in your shop tomorrow’s morn?’

  ‘Indeed I shall.’

  ‘I have been offered several books. Very fine. Exceptionally fine. But I did not care for the man who offered them. He admitted they were not his to sell, but that he was acting for the true owner.’r />
  ‘He came to you here, at the inn?’

  ‘Aye. I only returned yesterday, and I had mentioned here that I had a love of books. That was to the innkeeper, but there were others nearby. It was in the parlour of the inn. Anyone might have heard. Then this man seeks me out this afternoon.’

  ‘Have you seen the books?’

  ‘He brought two with him. A Latin Bible and a book of hours. As I say, they were of the very highest quality. He claims there are more, the gentleman owner is selling his entire library before travelling abroad.’ He paused. ‘I did not believe him.’

  ‘Do you have the books still?’

  ‘Aye, I said I would keep them until tomorrow noon. If I bring them to you, will you examine them, tell me what you think?’

  ‘He is asking too high a price for them?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Nay. He is asking too little. I fear they may be stolen.’

  Chapter Three

  The following morning, both house and shop seemed more peaceful than they had been since our foraging expedition to Headington Hill. Mary Coomber possessed a handcart, which she used for delivering her cheeses and her flagons of milk and cream about the town, and I helped her wheel it across the High Street and in through the gate to our garden.

  ‘I have no need of help, Nicholas,’ she said with a laugh, showing off her muscular arms, from which the sleeves had been rolled up. ‘Milking cows, I’ve been, since I was not much older than your Alysoun, and turning the great wheels of cheese soon after. By the time I was twelve or thirteen, my Ma had me trundling this very cart through the town. So you save your breath and your fine hands.’

  I was aware that, despite her kindly nature, Mary had a touch of scorn for a man who spent his life dealing in books. She, by contrast, had passed her own life barely able to read and write, save for simple accounting, and thought book-learning both a waste of time and a mystery to any sane person living a sensible life. She would sit and listen happily if Walter told one of the tales he had learned from his mother, but she could not understand anyone who might occupy his time ‘ferreting about amongst bits of dried cow skin’, as she so trenchantly put it.

  ‘Nevertheless, Mary,’ I said mildly, ‘I will give you a hand, and also help you and the others wheel it down to the fair ground. It will be heavier then, loaded up with all your goods. Let us hope you will have sold everything before you must wheel it up the hill again after the fair.’

  She gave a scornful snort, but in spite of this I think she was glad of the help. She must be nearing fifty, and the cart was heavy.

  Soon after I had left the women to loading their goods on to the cart, Master Winchingham arrived at the shop. By then we were busy, as usual on these last days before the fair and before most of the university lectures had begun, although Jordain was already at work in the Schools. There was no hope of a quiet discussion in the shop, so I led the merchant through the kitchen to the small parlour which opened off it and overlooked the garden. Master Hadley’s wife had made it her own, but I never met her, for she had died before ever I came to Oxford. My Elizabeth had inherited the chamber for her own, but rarely used it, for she was generally too busy working in the shop, first with her father and then with me. Margaret had always preferred the kitchen. The room had a slightly forlorn appearance, although Margaret always kept it clean and aired. At least here we could be quiet and private.

  ‘Now, Master Winchingham,’ I said, drawing a chair for him close to the window and placing a candle table beside it. ‘Will you take some refreshment?’

  ‘Nay, I thank you.’ He sat down and placed a leather scrip on the table. ‘I am sorry to trouble you with this, and my suspicions may be quite unfounded, but I should be glad of your opinion.’

  He began to unbuckle the straps of the scrip.

  ‘As I mentioned when we met before, it is ten years or more since I was last in Oxford, although I have been in and out of London every two years or so. My business takes me to many countries. France, as I told you. Spain. The German states. I have twice visited Poland. Therefore, although I have bought books here in the past – from your father-in-law – I do not know how prices stand nowadays, not since the Pestilence. The prices asked for these books are considerably lower than they would have been when last I was here. Perhaps matters are very different now. Perhaps books are no longer so highly valued.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ I said slowly. ‘Because there were great losses amongst scribes and illuminators, books have been hard to come by in these late years. There are still enough wealthy men – and women especially – to keep the prices high. I never lack for customers.’

  ‘Well then, tell me what you think.’

  He drew out from his scrip two books and laid them on the table. The Bible was quarto size, with an elaborately jewelled cover, fastened with clasps of gold. A volume which would hold an honoured place in a nobleman’s library, or form a treasured centrepiece for some abbey’s collection of religious works. The book of hours was small, duodecimo, like many designed to fit comfortably in the palm of the hand, or to be carried always by a lady or gentleman to consult for a daily round of prayers, anywhere, at any time.

  I tried not to show on my face what I was thinking.

  First, I examined the Bible. It would be about fifty years old, I guessed. Well read, but carefully. Parchment pages take on a sort of sheen from much handling, but there was no wear, no fraying, no loosening of the spine. It had been used regularly, but with reverence.

  ‘How much is the seller asking for this?’ I said.

  He named a figure and I shook my head. ‘Too little.’

  Then I picked up the book of hours, which nestled in my hand with all the familiarity of an old friend. I turned over the pages, although I had no need to do so.

  ‘And this one?

  Again, too little.

  I laid down the book of hours next to the Bible and looked up at Master Winchingham.

  ‘I have never seen this Bible before, but as you are aware, it is exceptionally fine. You were told that the owner was selling up his library before going abroad?’

  He nodded.

  I picked up the Bible again, raised it to my face and sniffed. I smiled at the merchant’s startled look as I placed it back on the table.

  ‘Incense,’ I said. ‘Unmistakable. This is a Bible which has spent much time in a church during services. It has absorbed the scent of incense into its very pages.’

  ‘So, not a gentleman’s library.’

  I nodded. ‘Not a gentleman’s library.’

  I picked up the smaller book.

  ‘As for this, I can tell you where this has come from. Or at least, I can tell you where it was. I sold this book of hours myself. It must be nearly six years ago now. I had married Master Hadley’s daughter and been taken by him into the business. He put me through all the stages he would expect of a journeyman scrivener, though in a shorter time than a true journeyman would spend. I learned about parchment making and book binding. I was trained in keeping accounts. I even worked at copying peciae. My penmanship is good enough for that, and even for the less important books, though I have not the hand of a true scribe. When he felt I knew enough of the business, Master Hadley allowed me to join him in the buying and selling of books.’

  I ran my fingertips over the little book. It was nowhere near as fine as Emma’s work, but it had a particular place in my life.

  ‘I bought this book from a gentleman’s son. He had inherited a few books from his father, but his tastes ran to horses and hunting dogs, so he was turning the books into coin, one by one. This was the first book I bought myself, and the first I sold.’

  Master Winchingham had drawn a deep breath.

  ‘Six years ago, you say. Do you remember to whom you sold it?’

  ‘Aye, indeed. To a man I know well, who was in my shop just days ago. Canon Francis Aubery, of the Priory of St Frideswide.

  The silence between us stretched out. />
  ‘Do you believe this canon is selling the priory’s books? Through this somewhat disreputable fellow who approached me?’

  ‘Nay, that I do not believe. Canon Aubery would cut off his right hand first. This book he bought not for himself, but for the library at St Frideswide’s. He would never have sold it. Someone else at the priory, however, may be doing so.’

  ‘Or else they have been stolen from the priory. As I said to you, I feared they might be stolen. The low prices . . . perhaps asked by someone who did not know their true value. At this time of the fair, there are many people in and out of the priory, which would not happen in the ordinary way of things.’

  ‘That is certainly possible.’ For the moment I was reluctant to share my own suspicions, which might be quite without foundation. ‘Did you say this fellow told you there were more books?’

  ‘Aye, he did. Though he did not say how many, nor what they are.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. ‘A thief might steal one or two books, but could a thief steal a great quantity without being noticed?’

  ‘It seems very unlikely,’ I said.

  I turned the matter over in my mind. From the garden came the muted cries of the children and the over-excited barking of dogs. Jonathan Baker must be here with his dog, Digger, Rowan’s litter mate.

  ‘Exactly how have you left the business with this man who offered you the books?’ I asked.

  ‘He is to come to the Mitre tomorrow,’ the merchant said, ‘the day before the fair, when I said I would give him my answer.’

  ‘Can you delay your answer? Play him like a fish? You are too much occupied with the business of the fair? You must attend to other matters in Oxford? Also, you wish to examine whatever he might have to offer, before you make a decision, and will wait to see how profitable your dealings may be at the fair. If you do well, you might be interested in more books.’

  Master Winchingham threw back his head and laughed.

  ‘You say that you are but an Oxford bookseller, Master Elyot, but I think you have the head for a merchant’s trade, employing your skills at outwitting the Hanseatic League.’