by Ann Swinfen
To be certain, we cast our eyes back and forth all the way, but there was no sign of anyone lying in the street.
At the inn, we enquired from the innkeeper for Master Winchingham.
‘The gentleman from Bruges, Master Elyot?’ he said. ‘Why, he set off to come to you more than an hour ago. He should surely be with you by now.’
‘That he is not.’ I was beginning to be worried. Would the townsmen’s violence have been turned against a visiting merchant? Or more likely, in the expectation that he might carry a rich purse, had he been set upon by thieves?
‘There was no sign of him betwixt here and my shop,’ I said. ‘Could he have gone roundabout?’ I saw no reason why he should, but it was worth the asking.
‘Aye.’ One of the older pot boys was just passing with a tray of dishes for the inn’s guests. ‘Master Winchingham you be seeking? He did say as how he would fetch a flask of wine to bring with him to supper. He’ll have gone there first.’
‘Do you know where?’ I asked.
‘He did say summat about Hamo Belancer’s vintner shop. Said as how he used to go there when he was in Oxford years ago. I warned him, ’tweren’t the same now. Hamo don’t have such quality wine, but he said he’d go anyhow, since he knew the place and none other in Oxford.’
He gave a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Old Hamo is probably still chewing the merchant’s ear about them properties he reckons he owns in France, what the French king stole from ’un.’
I felt a wave of relief. Hamo’s shop, like every other one in Oxford, should be shut during the fair, but he was not above a little backdoor trading. Master Winchingham might not even be quite aware of how strictly the law was meant to be kept. If he had gained access to the vintner, he could still be there now. Hamo would relish a fresh ear to receive the tale of his woes.
Jordain and I turned back the way we had come and crossed the street. Just before Mary Coomber’s dairy, on the corner of a narrow alley that wound south through a maze of mean shops and small houses, stood the vintner’s shop owned by Hamo Belancer. To all outward signs it was closed, the shutters firmly bolted, but a narrow frame of light surrounded the drop counter on to the street. It was very dim, however. The light must come, not from within the shop itself, but further back. I had never been inside, but assumed that like most shops in the centre of Oxford it had living accommodation and storage space behind and above the shop itself.
We looked at each other.
‘No sign of your merchant here,’ Jordain said.
I nodded, but pointed down the alley. ‘There is a back door down there, and I think I can see more light. I’ve no great wish to knock Hamo Belancer up, but I suppose he may be able to tell us whether Master Winchingham has been here. Or whether he is still here.’
‘Aye, best we try,’ Jordain said.
We began to pick our way down the alley, an unsavoury place to lie so close to a wine shop. It smelled of cat, and worse, and the unpaved ground underfoot had an unpleasant sticky feel to it. My lantern cast our shadows, grossly enlarged, on to the confining dirty walls, while the faint light further along provided no illumination for anything within the alley.
As I held the lantern, I was leading the way. Suddenly I stumbled over something, hit my shoulder against one of the greasy walls, and nearly dropped the lantern. Jordain reached out a hand to steady me.
‘What’s amiss?’
‘There is something here,’ I whispered, sure even before I looked. ‘Something soft.’
I lowered the lantern and we both looked down. A man lay sprawled in the filth of the alley, face down. It needed no second look to identify the gown. It was Peter Winchingham. And there was blood on the back of his head. Even as we crouched down to look more closely, the sliver of light ahead of us went out.
‘Is it?’ Jordain asked.
‘Aye. ’Tis Master Winchingham.’
Jordain began to get to his feet. ‘I’ll fetch Hamo Belancer to help.’
I put my hand on his arm.
‘I think not.’ I was not sure why I was so reluctant to draw in the vintner. ‘It is not far to my shop. We can carry him that far between us, and Margaret will know best how to tend him. He is breathing, but that is a nasty blow to his head. Hamo would be little help. Let us get him somewhere warm and safe.’
I managed to turn the merchant over on to his back, afraid that the mud and slime of the alley might block his breathing, and with the sleeve of my cotte wiped his nose and mouth clear. I put down the lantern and eased my hands under his shoulders.
‘If you will take his legs–’ I said.
Jordain stooped to do so, gripping Winchingham about the knees.
‘I will need to walk backwards,’ I said, ‘so you must direct me.’
‘We’ll have need of the lantern,’ Jordain said, ‘and neither of us has a hand free.’
In the end we balanced the lantern precariously on Winchingham’s chest, and prayed it would not fall, casting us into darkness. Cautiously we began an awkward shuffle back along the alley to the street. It was a relief, when we reached it, to breathe the cleaner air, and to have the benefit of a few other lanterns, widely scattered though they were. The distance to the shop was mercifully short, but the merchant was a well-built man and we were both gasping by the time we reached the door. All the while our burden might have been a dead man, but for the faint movement of his nostrils.
I banged on the door awkwardly with my elbow, doubting whether I would be heard, but in a moment Philip had opened it.
‘Jesu!’ he said. ‘Is he killed?’
‘Hit over the head,’ I managed to say, ‘but breathing. Need to put him in the kitchen.’
‘I’ll take his shoulders.’
I shook my head. It would be easier for me to carry the man the few remaining yards than to change places now.
Once we were in the kitchen, Margaret assumed command, clearly forgetting her earlier annoyance with me.
‘Put him on the cushioned chair by the fire,’ she said. ‘Rafe, bring that stool for his feet.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Where did you find him? He is filthy.’
‘That alley down the side of Hamo Belancer’s shop,’ I said. ‘He has taken a vicious blow to the back of his head.’
Emma was already ladling warm water into a bowl, from the large pot Margaret kept beside the kitchen fire.
‘Cloths, Margaret? Where do you keep your cloths?’
‘In the still room. And there is a pot of wound salve on the bottom shelf, on the left.’
As Emma ran to the still room, Philip pulled off Winchingham’s boots, which, like his robe, were filthy.
‘Set them outside the garden door, Philip,’ Margaret said. ‘We must take off this robe, he cannot stay in that, wet and dirty as it is.’
She was right. The Saints only knew what diseases might be breeding in the refuse of that alley, dangerous for a man with an open wound in his head. Between us, Jordain and I managed to half lift Peter Winchingham and peel off his robe. That, too, Philip rolled up and deposited outside. With it, some of the stench departed. Without his robe, the merchant was clad in a cotte of fine wool over his shirt and hose, which the heavy robe had protected from being fouled. Now he slumped in the chair, his face grey, his breathing irregular and faint.
Emma held the bowl of warm water while Margaret gently wiped away the blood which had clotted in the merchant’s hair and on the back of his neck. It had not begun to dry, so the injury was recent.
‘How bad is it?’ I asked. The man had shown no signs of life apart from that laboured breathing. Not even his eyelids had flickered.
‘A hard blow,’ Margaret said, ‘the skin broken the width of my palm, and plenty of bleeding, but I can see no fragments of bone. I think his skull is intact. Worse than the blow you took in the spring, Nicholas, but as long as the brain is not damaged, I think he will recover.’
‘Should I fetch a physician?’
‘Let us see what I
can do for him first.’
Silently Emma passed her the pot of wound salve, and Margaret spread it gently and generously over the whole damaged portion, while the rest of us stood about, helpless.
‘Alysoun,’ Margaret said, ‘run and fetch the feather bed from my chamber. He may have a fit of the chills after such a blow. The loss of blood will have unbalanced his humours.’
‘Fetch mine instead,’ I said, ‘better if he bleeds on mine than on Aunt Margaret’s.’
Alysoun galloped up the stairs, more excited than worried. She could have little idea how dangerous a blow to the head might be.
Once the feather bed was tucked around him, it seemed that Peter Winchingham breathed more regularly, and began to lose some of that grey pallor from his face, but there was no sign yet of him waking.
‘Where was he, do you say?’ Philip asked. ‘Near Belancer’s shop?’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘They told us at the Mitre that he was going there to buy a flask of wine to bring to supper. That was why Philip and I went there, else we would never have found him. He must have gone down the alley to the back door.’
‘Sneak thieves, then. Pickpockets abroad at night.’
Silently I pointed to the fat purse attached to the merchant’s belt. Philip leaned over him.
‘I see. Not a thief then.’
‘I wonder–’ I paused and everyone looked at me.
‘This matter of the stolen books from St Frideswide’s Priory. They were offered to Master Winchingham. He brought them to me to value. I wrote to Canon Aubery this very day to warn him about thefts from the library. Might the canon have spoken of it within the hearing of someone . . . someone implicated in the theft? Master Winchingham would be able to identify the man who brought the Bible and the book of hours to him. Could this have been an attempt to silence him?’
‘It could be,’ Philip said slowly. ‘But did it need such violent action? The man selling the books could easily have kept out of sight while the merchant was here in Oxford, for he will surely be gone back to Bruges once the fair is over. Yet if you had not found him when you did, the merchant could have died, and it would have been a case of murder, a far more serious crime than the selling of books, whether or not they were stolen.’
‘Aye,’ I said, ‘but if they were not stolen, but removed by someone within the priory, that is another crime altogether. A man’s future career within the church would be jeopardised.’
‘Still, I cannot think–’
Our speculations were interrupted by a groan from the patient. I spun round and leaned over him. His eyelids fluttered, but did not open. I laid my hand on his.
‘Master Winchingham? This is Nicholas Elyot. You are quite safe now, here in my house, where you were coming to supper. You have taken a blow to the head, but it is not too serious. Your head will pain you, but my sister is certain you will soon recover.’
His hand moved under mine, and he groaned again, but this time his eyes did open, and his glance wandered unfocused over the room. For some moments he continued to sit slumped in the chair, then his eyes sharpened and he struggled to sit more upright. I gripped his shoulder.
‘Do not try to get up. Give yourself time.’
‘Master Elyot? By Mary and all the Saints, I feel as though my head has been hit by one of the king’s new siege guns. Is there aught to drink?’
Emma was already beside me with a cup of the small ale, weak enough for children to drink. He took it in a hand that trembled slightly, but drank it down thirstily.
‘I thank you, mistress.’ Looking around, he caught sight of Margaret. ‘Mistress Elyot, is it? I believe I saw you when I came before.’
‘Margaret Makepeace.’ She dropped a curtsey. ‘I am Nicholas’s sister. How do you feel now, apart from your head? Are you dizzy? Queasy?’
He started to shake his head, then thought better of it. ‘Nay, somewhat bruised, I think.’ He turned his hands over, and we saw that the palms were grazed.
‘You fell,’ I said, ‘in the alley beside Hamo Belancer’s shop. Someone appears to have struck you from behind.’
‘Everything is muddled in my head,’ he said. ‘I remember leaving the Mitre, on my way here. I think . . . aye, I was going to buy some wine. Hamo Belancer? Aye, that is it. I used to buy from him years ago. Thought I could . . . but I do not remember much after that.’
‘Do not try,’ Philip said. ‘It will all become clear if you leave well alone. Usually the mind cures itself.’
‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘this is Master Philip Olney, Fellow and Librarius of Merton College. And this is Jordain Brinkylsworth, Regent Master of Hart Hall.’
Emma had drawn back a little, but I caught her hand and drew her forward. ‘This is the Lady Emma Thorgold, granddaughter of Sir Anthony Thorgold. All three are, like you, lovers of books, come to meet you and sup with you.’
Alysoun was tugging at the hem of my cotte. I drew her forward. ‘This is my daughter Alysoun, and the young man crouching by your stool is my son Rafe. And that is the whole company.’
Alysoun, following Emma’s lead, curtseyed, but Rafe just grinned shyly around the thumb he was sucking.
Peter Winchingham struggled to his feet and gave a general bow. ‘My apologies to you all. I have disrupted your evening. I am well recovered now.’ He turned to Margaret. ‘Mistress Makepeace, is that handsome leg of mutton our supper? Let me keep you no longer from table.’
Margaret protested that he should rest for a longer time, but he said he was quite able to sit down to supper and was sure that food would do him good, would even steady his shaken brain.
‘Indeed,’ she said, ‘you may be right. If you find you can eat without queasiness, food may be just what you need.’
‘I have a hard skull, mistress. I was once struck by a ship’s timber when sailing to Danzig, a blow a good deal harder than this one, for a gale of wind was behind it, and I was none the worse afterwards.’
Even so, he accepted my arm for support as we walked through to the small parlour. The candles had burned low, but they cast a warm sheen over the polished wood and the dull gleam of the pewter dishes. Alysoun brought us a first course of oysters cooked in some rich savoury sauce, while Margaret insisted on replacing the candles before she would sit down.
Considering how little warning she had had, Margaret had excelled herself. After the oysters, there were individual pies of pheasant, garnished with pickled quails’ eggs, then a terrine of minced ham, all before we reached the magnificent leg of mutton, which more than justified its cost. Margaret served with it a sauce of pickled nasturtium seeds in cream, and followed it with a salad of lamb’s lettuce and nasturtium petals. She must have found the very last flowers in the garden. By the time we reached the apple and blackberry pie – which Alysoun announced proudly she had made herself – we were all nearly too full to partake of it, but could not disappoint her. With every course, Master Winchingham looked a little better.
I had brought out a flask from my small supply of wine, but Margaret warned it would not combine well with an injury to the head, so we all contented ourselves with ale instead.
Our talk during the meal had been general, but after the children had been sent to bed and we settled back to a final cup of ale, toying with the comfits Margaret had retrieved from Mary Coomber’s dairy, it was inevitable, I suppose, that we should turn again to the attack in the alley.
Philip looked across the table at me. ‘When you found Master Winchingham, Nicholas, how was he lying?’
‘Face down in the filth, I am afraid. Struck from behind, he must have fallen forward, and lay as he fell.’
‘That was not what I meant. Was it his head toward the street, or his feet?’
I glanced across at Jordain. We had been too concerned at the time with carrying Winchingham away from that stinking alley, but now I realised what Philip was asking.
‘Your head was toward the street,’ I said slowly, turning to the merchant, ‘so you must have
been coming away from the back door of Hamo Belancer’s shop.’
Until that moment I had been assuming that Winchingham had been followed, perhaps all the way from the Mitre, by the man trying to sell the books. He would know the merchant was staying there. Following behind, he could have waited for a suitably dark corner to strike his victim down, and the alley offered a perfect opportunity. But in that case, Winchingham would have been lying with his head away from the street, further into the alley.
The merchant’s mind had been tracing the same path as mine.
‘So I was not struck by someone coming after me from the street, but by someone approaching from further down that alley. Where does it lead?’
‘A cluster of mean buildings,’ I said. ‘There is a maze of alleys and dead ends, but eventually it emerges at Merton Street. Your assailant could have come from a number of different directions.’
‘But if I was facing the street,’ he said, rubbing his temples and looking confused again, ‘it means–’
‘Aye,’ I said. ‘It means you had already been to Hamo’s shop.’
‘But there was no flask of wine beside me, was there?’
Jordain shook his head. ‘Nothing. And your purse has not been taken.’
‘Ah, now, if I had bought wine–’ He unbuckled the purse from his belt, opened it, and swiftly counted the coin inside. He shook his head, though it made him wince. ‘It is all here. I have spent nothing on wine.’
Emma had said very little during the meal, but she was listening to this exchange intently, her chin resting on her steepled fingers.
‘You walked from the Mitre to Hamo’s shop,’ she said, ‘hurrying to buy the wine and reach here in good time. You saw that the shop was closed and remembered the ban on Oxford shops during the fair. However, you remembered Hamo’s ways from the past and thought he might still be willing to sell you a flask of wine at the back door.’
‘Aye, mistress,’ the merchant said thoughtfully, ‘you have it exactly. I have been trying to remember through the fog that has invaded my brain, but that was just how it was.’
