by Ann Swinfen
‘And his business is . . .?’
‘Provided the payment is sufficient, whatever you may wish. Theft, arson, kidnapping, murder.’
‘A man of many talents,’ I said dryly.
‘Indeed. And since it was the merest whisper picked up in Normandy, we have little else to go on. Although it may be that he is meeting someone here in Oxford. There is no better place, for the casual meeting of men who mean ill to others, than at one of these bustling fairs, a place of shifting crowds from many nations, lasting but a few days, then vanished like some passing vision.’
She smiled. ‘As I knew you already, and have seen your nose for a puzzle, I thought I would seek you out and ask you to keep your eyes open. Nothing more than that. Eyes, and ears also.’
‘I might serve you, and your . . . master . . . better, if I knew what I should keep them open for. Can you describe the man? I shall need somewhat more to go on, in the midst of all this.’ I indicated the people milling about, drifting down from the first street of the fair, where most of the expensive goods were to be found, and sauntering along the other less pretentious streets of stalls.
‘That I am afraid I cannot do, nor could those who informed us of the rumour. I cannot tell you anything of his appearance. It may indeed be no more than a rumour, so I do not ask you to waste your time unduly. The man is clever. Although he is known to have been guilty of a number of crimes, he has always managed to escape justice. He can pass himself off in many guises.’
‘Like a merchant of ribbons and laces? I asked.
She laughed. ‘Aye, even as that, though I suspect he would choose a grander trade. He is known for arrogance. It is to be hoped that one day his arrogance will betray him.’
‘But he is French?’
‘Oh, aye, he is French.’
‘Then unless he is also able to pass himself off as Flemish or German, that will narrow the search considerably.’ I rubbed my chin. I had been in a hurry this morning, and I could feel the bristles coming. ‘There are certainly Frenchmen here. I noticed quite a large group yesterday, although I have not seen them today. One is the vintner who supplied the wine to the priory for the prince’s dinner last night. One of the vintners here in Oxford knows him.’
‘If he is a merchant well established in his trade, he is probably not the man we seek, but the man we seek might be in his company. Or it may be that he uses a genuine trade as cover for his crimes.’
I nodded. ‘They seemed to stay together, the Frenchmen, in a group. It could be that they do not feel altogether safe in England, even if the profits to be made at the fair are a temptation.’
‘I must return to my stall,’ she said, getting up, ‘else I shall cease to be credible as a true merchant. I should be keeping a close eye on my own profits.’ She inclined her head. ‘I thank you for the ale, Master Elyot. Your sister is well?’
‘Aye, she and her friends are selling preserves and cheeses here at the fair. They have developed a recent taste for the merchant’s calling.’
‘It can hide much,’ she said seriously, ‘and is an excellent excuse for travel. Give you good day, Master Elyot.’
‘And you, Mistress Walsea. Should I hear or see anything suspicious, I will bring you word. Where do you stay at night?’
She had already taken her first steps away from the table, but glanced over her shoulder. ‘At Tackley’s Inn. In the High Street.’
I supposed it was a compliment to me that Mistress Walsea thought I might be of some assistance to her in this quest for an unknown French criminal, but I felt ill equipped to be an intelligencer for the king. I had forgot to mention the presence of Prince Edward in Oxford, but she was almost certain to know of it, for she had not appeared surprised when I mentioned the dinner at the priory. The prince had been visible to all at the opening of the fair, yet Mistress Walsea might well have known in advance that he was to come this way. I wondered how long he planned to stay. A fair could have little attraction for a royal prince, who could summon merchants to come to him whenever he chose.
Having paid for the ale, I walked slowly back past the stalls and booths until I reached the one manned by my sister. Mary was busy cutting a quarter round from one of her large cheeses, while Margaret was offering a sample of her damson cheese to a burly Fleming who looked as if he would drive a hard bargain. I was about to turn away and head home when I saw Emma coming toward me, carrying her little dog. I stopped where I was and smiled at her.
‘I would guess that amongst the crowds here is no place for Jocosa,’ I said. ‘She will be trodden on.’
‘I do not usually carry her. She is not one of those ladies’ dogs who are no more than an ornament, but you are right, she is hardly safe here. However, during these last busy days, she has formed a bad habit of chewing anything left about in my aunt’s house, so I might not leave her there. And I wanted to see the fair, before it comes to my turn behind the counter.’
‘And have you seen much?’
‘Enough, for the moment.’
‘Then why do we not walk out beyond the fairground? There is a stretch of open meadow beyond, and we can cross a branch of Trill Mill Stream and then Shire Lake Stream by footbridges, and even walk as far as the Thames.’
‘I should like that. And Jocosa can run about. All this mischief comes from being shut away in the house.’
We walked companionably out past the last of the stalls, where the unsullied grass of the meadow lay enclosed by the curve of the stream. There were two of the priory’s lay servants here, to prevent anyone stealing into the fair from this side without paying, but they recognised me and nodded when I said we were going to walk in the meadow.
Once clear of the fair, Emma set Jocosa on her own feet, and the fluffy white bundle raced ahead of us to the first stream, where she planted her feet firmly in the soft mud and lapped at the water as if she had not drunk for days.
‘I hope she will not fall in,’ I said.
‘She has more sense. More sense than I, at any rate. It was not she who fell into the river at Godstow.’
‘Here is the footbridge.’ I pointed ahead, where a narrow plank bridge with no handrail provided a crossing, so that one might reach the lower meadow. ‘Can you manage it?’
‘Certainly,’ she said scornfully, stepping out confidently ahead of me, closely followed by Jocosa.
The bridge over the second stream was sturdier and even possessed a wobbly handrail. Emma displayed her scorn of it by not even laying her hand on the rail. When we reached the wider, rushing waters of the Thames, we looked for somewhere to sit.
‘This fallen branch of the willow will serve,’ Emma said, sitting down with no heed to her dress. Today she wore something a little finer than one of Maud Farringdon’s work gowns, but it was hardly suitable for the heiress to Sir Anthony Thorgold.
‘I have been wanting to talk to you about the next book I should undertake,’ she said.
‘And I. But there has been little chance, with all of you steeped in blackberries and crab apples up to your eyebrows.’
‘Aye, it has been hard work, but I thought it such an excellent enterprise. I am so glad that my aunt has been making friends and starting a new life for herself and the girls here in Oxford. It has been very hard for her, since William’s death.’
I nodded. I realised for the first time what I had not considered before, that Emma’s decision to come back to Oxford might not be simply for her own sake, and certainly not for mine, but out of care for her aunt, who had shown great fortitude since her son’s murder, though his death so soon after her husband’s had left her poor and vulnerable.
‘I think Meg and Mary are glad to befriend her,’ I said. ‘And Beatrice too needs friends, for her position is a very difficult one.’
‘Aye. It is very well for Philip Olney to live comfortably as a Fellow at Merton College, but it demands very much of her.’ Emma smiled a little bitterly. ‘She must be shunned and vilified by many. Why does he not do the honest thi
ng, and marry her?’
‘She has refused him,’ I said. ‘She knows how much the life of scholarship means to him, and will not be the means of robbing him of it.’
She bent down to stroke Jocosa, who had curled up at our feet. Without looking up, she said, ‘You chose to give it up, to marry your wife.’
I plaited my fingers together and looked out over the river. A boat was being rowed up the river, heavily laden with goods. A latecomer to the fair.
‘I was much younger, having just been awarded my Master’s degree. I had not yet taken up a position in the university. Philip did not know Beatrice until he was older, already established as a Fellow and librarius in the college. It was different for him. Besides, I am probably not a true scholar.’
She looked at me slantwise, still bending over the dog. ‘You might have been.’
‘Perhaps. But I am very content as a bookseller. And I have my children.’
‘And Philip has Stephen. The boy needs more than an occasional father.’
I found that I was somewhat annoyed at this.
‘Philip is an excellent father. He spends more time with him than many a married man in the town.’
‘Well, let us not quarrel about it, Nicholas.’ She sat back and laid her hand on my arm. ‘Let us talk about books.’
As always, the touch of her hand sent a shiver through me, and instantly I regretted the sharpness of my last remark.
‘Aye. Have you thought what you would like to make next?’
‘I have. While we were cooking, Margaret mentioned that Walter has been writing down the stories his mother used to tell him. She says he is an excellent teller of tales.’
‘He is.’
‘Does he plan to scribe the book himself? Or Roger? Or do you think he would let me do it, and illuminate it? I should dearly love to, for it would be a fine change after holy books. But I would not want to offend him, if he plans to make it himself.’
‘I will speak to him.’ I was relieved after those few awkward moments that we could speak of books again. ‘Walter greatly admires your artistry, he has spoken of it often. I think he would be pleased.’
‘But perhaps he would wish to scribe the words himself?’
‘He might. You could share the work between you. Only the other day he told me that was how matters were managed when his father was a scrivener in London.’
‘So his father followed the same trade?’
‘Aye, until he went blind. I have just realised that was preying on Walter’s mind.’
I told her about Walter’s recent difficulties with his sight, and his reluctance to try spectacles.
‘But he is reconciled now?’ she said.
‘It seems so. When the merchant assured him that his problem was no more than age, and when he found that the lenses transformed what he could see, I think he believed at last that it was not incipient blindness.’
She plucked a tall seed head from the grass and began to tease the seeds from the stem, so that they flew off, borne by the breeze which was picking up here in the open meadow by the river.
‘How clever they are, these spectacles. It seems like magic, but it is no more than a piece of curved glass, is it not?’
‘Aye, and I think the shape of the curve makes a difference, but I do not understand it. Something the Italians invented, for they have clever ways with glass.’
‘I expect it came about quite by accident.’ She smiled. ‘Someone broke a curved cup or a bottle and it fell on top of a piece of writing. “God be praised!” he cried, “It is magic! The words have been made larger!” Everyone thought he was crazed.’
‘Aye, I expect that is how it happened.’ I smiled back at her. Suddenly she reminded me of Alysoun, who always wanted to know how and why everything had come about.
I shivered, and turned up the collar of my cotte. ‘Come, this wind is reminding us that it is October. Let us return to the fair and find something to eat. I fear Margaret will not be cooking dinner today.’
‘Where are the children?’ She stood up, shaking the fallen grass seeds from her skirts.
‘With John Baker. He has had to close his shop, so he said they could help him scrub out his ovens now that they have been left to go cold. They will be kept busy, and come home grubby.’
She took my arm as we walked back to the fair, the little dog circling round us. The fair seemed more than ever like one of those magical cities Walter described in his stories, seemingly permanent, but illusory. The warmth of her arm against mine reassured me that no permanent harm had been done by that brief clash over the matter of Philip’s unmarried state.
‘Before we met near our booth,’ she said, ‘I saw you talking to a woman.’
I felt a small stab of gratification that she was curious enough to ask.
‘Mistress Alice Walsea,’ I said. ‘We met at Leighton.’
She raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Was that the lady who was fleeing from the manor, after the murder of her cousin?’
‘The same.’
‘And why is she here? I thought she was attached to the court.’
‘Only in a manner of speaking.’ It occurred to me that while Emma was serving preserves, she might have more opportunity than I would of observing any Frenchmen at the fair. Mistress Walsea, I was sure, would not mind another pair of sharp eyes keeping watch, so I explained to Emma what I had been asked to look out for.
She paused on the far side of the footbridge over Trill Mill Stream and frowned.
‘There is very little to go on.’
‘Mistress Walsea knows no more. The man may not even mean any mischief here in Oxford, although he may be meeting someone here.’
‘Well, I shall, like you, keep my eyes and ears open, though for what, I am not sure. Come, Jocosa, time to carry you safely away from all those heedless feet.’
When we had eaten a simple meal at the booth run by the Cross Inn, Emma went to help Meg, so that Mary could return to her cows before late afternoon, and I made my way home. Although the shop must remain closed, there is always work to be done. Walter and I had not completed our inventory of the peciae, and I am always behindhand in writing up my accounts. It was very quiet in the shop, with Meg away at the fair and the children with John Baker, so I was able to finish the inventory and even wrote a whole page in my account book.
The October dusk was drawing in as I went into the garden to feed the hens and shut them away for the night, as my sister had asked me to do when I told her I was returning home. The last of the silly creatures caught and stuffed firmly into the hen house before she could rush off again, I sat down on the bench and pondered the problem of the books which had been offered to Master Winchingham. I had hoped that I might see Canon Aubery today at the fair, but there had been no sign of him. He had not even been with the small group attending Prior de Hungerford at the opening. I supposed it was not surprising. The noise and roughness of the fair would not be to Canon Aubery’s taste, nor would he care much for the profits it might bring to the priory, since such a large portion seemed destined to find its way into the prior’s pockets instead of into the priory’s coffers to pay for the much needed repairs to the church.
The book of hours which Master Winchingham had shown me, I knew, without question, belonged to the priory. Canon Aubery had bought it from me for their library, and I saw no reason why it should have left there. The Bible was unfamiliar, but it had clearly spent many hours in a church during services. Since it now appeared in company with the book of hours, it seemed reasonable to assume that it, also, belonged to St Frideswide’s.
The books were being sold by some nondescript fellow whose appearance suggested to Master Winchingham that they might be stolen, but since the man claimed that he had a whole gentleman’s library to dispose of, our conclusion that he could not have stolen so many books from the priory seemed justified. Therefore, someone at the priory was selling the books, using this man as his agent. Canon Aubery had already told me that he s
uspected Prior de Hungerford was stealing the priory’s gold and silver treasures, which meant he was the man most likely to be behind the sale of the books.
It was a crime, and should be stopped. The books belonged to St Frideswide’s, not to the current prior. However, the crime involved the Church, which always closes in upon itself to protect its own. Reporting my suspicions to the deputy sheriff would be useless. Moreover, with a royal prince now staying at the priory, any interference by a layman like me would be all the more rigorously resisted. It seemed there was little I could do, except to warn Canon Aubery, and the other canons who were not of de Hungerford’s faction, about the theft of the books.
Tomorrow I would send him a message.
Tomorrow evening also, I recalled, Master Winchingham was to dine with us. I would be able to report at least some action on my part.
We were all tired that evening, even the children, although they had enjoyed the messy task of scraping and scrubbing the remains of old fires from John’s bread ovens.
‘You see,’ Alysoun said, ‘it is best to allow the ashes to build up for a little while, Jonathan’s father says. It adds more flavour to the bread. But if it goes on too long, it gives his loaves a bitter taste.’
I saw that Margaret rolled her eyes at this nugget of information. She scoured her small bread oven every day.
I nodded sagely. ‘So the rich folk, who only eat the upper crust of the loaf, and give the bottom, with its ashes, to their servants or poor beggars, are depriving themselves of the best portion?’
‘Aye,’ Alysoun said. ‘I like the bottom crust best.’
So she did. But then she only ever ate Margaret’s bread. The bottom crust, fresh every morning, was crisp and delicious.
I turned to my sister. ‘And how fared your trading today?’ I asked.
Margaret was sitting by the small fire I had lit, not for cooking, since we had eaten a cold supper, but to stave off the autumnal bite in the air. She looked weary and had prized off her shoes.
