The Merchant's Tale

by Ann Swinfen

  Not de Hungerford, I thought. Not the church treasures. The Chapter House would be empty. The steward’s office would contain important documents, but unless Mateaux was hoping to lay hands on the deeds to some property, they could have no interest for him. Besides, they would certainly be kept in a locked coffer, behind a locked door. Master Shrewsbury had struck me as a careful man.

  The prior’s house was guarded by Walden’s soldiers. The infirmary contained nothing but a few sick and injured men. The library had been stripped bare of its books. There would be nothing of value in the dortoir.

  Then remembrance hit me so suddenly that my stomach clenched and I felt sick.

  Why had I not thought of it before?

  ‘What is the matter?’ Emma was so close to me, she must have felt me start.

  ‘I am a fool!’ I whispered fiercely. ‘Ten times a fool! ’Tis the prince! He means to kill the prince.’

  ‘You cannot be sure,’ she protested.

  But I was sure. Alice’s French criminal, who would kill without a qualm, if the money was sufficient. Prince Edward, who was feared and hated by the French even more than his father the king. Now that the king was growing older, his concerns were more and more with the sound government of England, while more and more it was the prince who commanded the English army in the war against France. What more likely than to send an assassin to England, during this period of the truce, under cover of a fair? Had Mateaux some previous knowledge that the prince would be in Oxford? Or had his luck simply served him, so that he need not seek the prince at Woodstock or Wallingford, where he would have been more secure?

  Emma’s thoughts must have following almost the same path as mine, but she objected. ‘Why should Belancer have aided a Frenchman to kill our prince? He was an Englishman.’

  ‘Half an Englishman,’ I said. ‘But half a Frenchman. Perhaps he thought that the French king would reward him, even restore his French property to him.’

  I got to my feet.

  ‘I have wasted too much time. I must go after him.’

  I put my hands on her shoulders.

  ‘I will stop him if I can. If I cannot find him, I will try to warn the prince. I know that he stays in the small guesthouse kept for noble visitors. Can you go to the castle? Fetch Sheriff Walden? The lane across from the priory gatehouse will take you past Oriel to the High Street. Nay, you need not go all the way to the castle yourself. Go to the Mitre. They can send someone on horseback. That will be best, and you can avoid the crowds that will be roaming the main streets, drinking themselves witless. Then go home and stay safely there.’

  ‘Do not go, Nicholas!’ she said desperately. ‘You are unarmed. He is a killer.’

  I took her face between my hands. I could just see, in the faint wash of light, that there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘I will be careful.’

  Without warning, she kissed me on the lips, light as the brush of a leaf, then she drew back, and began to walk away slowly toward the gatehouse of the priory.

  I sat on the ground with my legs hanging down into the hole and felt around the top of the chute. It was unlikely that the barrels of ale would simply be dropped into the hole, for they would burst. To my relief, I found that I was right. There was a kind of sloping ramp, leading from the opening in the street into the cellar, down which the barrels could be rolled. I took a deep breath, leaned forward, and launched myself into the darkness.

  It was probably the most foolish thing I had ever done.

  My progress down the ramp was not, as I had hoped, silent. My shoes scraped against the wood, even my clothes swished as I slithered uncontrollably down what seemed a much greater distance than I had expected. I think, also, I may have gasped, without meaning to. It was hardly the stealthy approach I had hoped for. When I met the stone floor of the cellar suddenly, I fell sideways, hitting my head on something hard, the breath knocked out of me like a punch in the lungs.

  Over the sounds my descent had made, I had just caught some stealthy movement somewhere in the dark ahead of me. But now there was total silence. If Mateaux was there, he was holding his breath, frozen into stillness.

  Bruised and shaken, I grabbed the side of the ramp and got to my feet, though my knees felt weak. Apart from the merest trace of grey light coming through the open hatch into the street, the darkness in the cellar was far worse than in the lane. It felt suffocating, like a bag over the head. I could see nothing. I wondered whether Mateaux, looking from the farther side of the cellar toward the ramp, could make me out in that meagre illumination from above. Best take no risks. I eased myself away from the ramp as carefully and quietly as I could, but the floor was gritty, and my feet made a faint crunch as I moved.

  Now I froze into stillness and waited, like a hunted animal. Despite the chill I had felt outside, as soon as I left the shelter of the shared cloak, I was sweating, but, deprived of sight, I found my hearing sharpened. Mateaux could no more move silently than I could. His feet, too, crunched on the grit of the floor. He was drawing nearer. Yet, although he had had more time than I for his eyes to adjust, the darkness was nearly impenetrable, and the cellar must be filled with barrels, making any movement difficult.

  I tried to visualise where I was, under the enclave. The cellar must extend from the line of the wall, out under the storehouses which backed on to it. Mateaux might know where the steps lay, but I had no idea. They might be at this end of the cellar, leading up into the back of one of the storehouses, or they might lie at the far end, emerging directly into the courtyard. I could not recall ever having noticed them, but it was unlikely that I would have done, if the opening into the enclave lay under a trapdoor, like the opening into the street, or behind a door in one of the storehouses. As far as I could judge, Mateaux was over at that far end of the cellar. Either he knew in advance that was where the steps were, or else he had already had time to feel his way around the walls.

  Would the door or hatch at the top of the steps be kept locked? Unless Mateaux had had a key to open the trap in the street, it seemed the opening to the chute was not locked, but that was only to be expected. Men delivering barrels of ale needed access, and no one would be likely to steal ale by dragging it up the ramp. The value of a barrel of ale would not be worth the trouble. However, if the canons had ever realised that the cellar provided a way into the enclave, there might be a locked door at the top of the steps out of the cellar.

  Yet, if that were the case, Belancer would not have told Mateaux that this was a way into the priory. Unless he had given Mateaux a key. Nay, Belancer would never have had access to a key. He would have known about the chute from the street, for since the loss of his French wines, he had been obliged to deal in the better qualities of ale as well as his lesser wines. He would have used the chute to deliver his own barrels of ale.

  Perhaps, I thought, almost with a gasp of foolish laughter, Mateaux and I were now both trapped in a locked cellar, the only way out being back up that precipitous ramp. It was not a pleasant thought.

  And then I heard his steps approaching. Aware that some of that dim light from above might still reveal my position I stepped further back. And collided with an empty barrel, which fell over with a sound like a mighty drum, and rolled away – where, I could not tell.

  I could hear the man breathing now, short breaths, not as if he were alarmed, but with the quick short breaths of excitement you will hear, when a hunter is stalking a dangerous beast. I had thrown myself down that ramp in pursuit of Mateaux. Now the tables were turned. I was the prey being pursued.

  The empty barrel continued to roll across the floor and under the noise it made I felt my way behind the ramp to its far side, until I hoped that it lay between me and my pursuer. My eyes were growing more accustomed to this greater darkness now, and although I could not see him, I could detect a shifting of the dark as he searched the place where I had been.

  What would he do next? Would he continue to search for me? Or would he make for the stair
s, hoping to shake me off? From what Alice had said, this was a man who would coolly cut my throat, then move on without hesitation to carry out his true mission, which I was convinced was an attack on the prince. He must have deliberately timed his entry to the priory while the canons were celebrating Vespers. He could not afford to delay. His intention must be to escape again before the service was ended. Over the wall, perhaps, into the deserted fairground. Whatever he intended, dealing with me would delay him. I kept very still, scarcely daring to breathe. If he decided to forego his search and climb the stairs, I could follow him, and tackle him in the open air of the enclave, where there would be light enough to see him.

  How I supposed I could tackle an armed and experienced killer, I did not allow myself to think.

  Just how long we both waited there in stillness, straining our ears to detect when the other moved, I could not tell. The time seemed to drag out unbearably, although it was probably no more than a minute or two. Then he moved.

  He no longer tried to be silent, but ran across to the far side of the cellar, where he had been before, knocking into barrels and sending some of them crashing and rolling across the floor. I wondered that he was not a-feared he might be heard from the courtyard, but perhaps he reckoned we were too far below ground. He must already have found the stair, before he was halted by my noisy descent down the ramp, for I could now hear distinctly the sound of shoes on stone steps.

  I began to feel my way after him, making my way merely by the noise which he was not bothering to conceal. Several times I collided with the tumbling barrels, and was knocked once, painfully, to my knees. By the time I was on my feet again, I could hear him wrestling with a trap door. As he pushed it aside, a strip of pale light slid down over the man I was following and showed me the clear way to the stair. I began to run.

  By the time I reached the bottom of the steps, he was through the opening and trying to thrust the trap door back into place, but something must have prevented, or else he feared he was running out of time, for it only covered half the space, leaving enough light for me to grope my way to the top of the steps and shove aside the cover, a heavy lid of wood this time.

  As I suspected, Mateaux was already running in the direction of the guesthouse as I climbed up into the courtyard. It suddenly occurred to me that the prince might be attending Vespers, in which case he was in no danger, but I thrust that thought away. Mateaux would not have risked everything on such a gamble. He would have found a way to ascertain in advance that the prince did not attend the early evening service.

  Again, I began to run.

  Mateaux gave one glance over his shoulder, and hesitated.

  I do not know what he saw. Not one of Walden’s armed soldiers, certainly, which might have driven him at once to flight, or to a desperate attempt on the prince’s life before he could be taken. Instead, the greater light in the court must had revealed the battered figure of an unremarkable townsman, unarmed and empty-handed, even lacking the bodily bulk of a notable brawler.

  Instead of going on, he turned to face me, and I saw the unmistakable glint of steel in his hand.

  I had no weapon but the small knife I used to cut my meat at table, and I have never been a man of my fists, but I could not slink away now, like some pitiful coward. And I was suddenly angry. This quiet priory, dedicated to our Oxford saint, and founded by her long ago, had already, within the last few days, suffered one evil attack. Now this enemy of England, this Frenchman who had already committed murder in our town, was bent on killing our prince, the glorious son of a glorious father.

  With a wordless prayer to Saint Frideswide, and incandescent with that anger, I hurled myself at the man. Head down, I threw myself at his legs. As we collided and fell together, I felt the sting of his blade on the back of my shoulder.

  The unconventional nature of my attack had clearly taken him by surprise. I had gripped him now, about the thighs, and I clung to him, knowing that my life depended on preventing him from reaching any vulnerable part of my body with his blade. I punched my head into his stomach and had the satisfaction of hearing the whoop of his breath. Then we were rolling about the dusty cobbles of the courtyard, locked together like lovers. I could feel the strength in my arms weakening, but as long as I could keep my hold, he could not free himself enough to take a deep thrust at me, though I felt the slash of his dagger repeatedly across my back. With a kind of wild inner laughter, I was glad I had not donned my best cotte, after all, This one would be cut to ribbons.

  He was stronger than I, and more skilled. I could feel that at any moment he would wrench himself free. And that would finish me. All my senses were concentrated on this man, this hated enemy, but other sounds began to filter through to my brain. And surely there was more light?

  I heard shouts, then a known voice calling, ‘Nicholas!’

  What was Emma doing here? I had told her to fetch Walden. If she came too close, Mateaux might choose to strike out at her instead of me. I swore aloud, shouting at her to keep away. And I became aware that Mateaux was swearing too, though in words I did not understand. Only the viciousness of his tone gave them meaning.

  He had me down on my back at last. I was suffocating, with the weight of his body pressing down on my head. I would need to break free, or I would die from lack of air, but as soon as I did so, he would have me. I sensed that his dagger was raised, ready to slit my throat.

  Then, miraculously, his weight was lifted half off me, and I drew in great gasping gulps of air. I still had him clutched about the thighs, but an unknown voice said, with authority, ‘Let him go now. I have him.’

  I let my arms drop. They were shaking from the unaccustomed effort. Mateaux was dragged off me and I rolled over. I managed to get to my knees, but I felt weak and dizzy. A strong hand took me by the elbow and hauled me to my feet.

  The buildings of the enclave swam a little as I stood upright, and I found myself face to face with the Prince of Wales.

  ‘Your Grace!’ I said, trying to bow, but spoiling the effect by staggering.

  He still had me by one elbow, his other hand gripping Mateaux by the neck of his cotte.

  ‘You have taken some slashes to your back,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but I believe you will live. The lady tells me this fellow was bent on assassination.’

  The lady in question was close by, looking defiant.

  ‘I told you to fetch the sheriff,’ I said, ungratefully.

  ‘There was no time,’ she said. ‘I told the gatekeeper what was afoot, and he fetched His Grace, and Walden’s two men from outside the prior’s house.’

  The courtyard suddenly began to fill up, as the canons emerged from the church and a crowd of wide-eyed servants poured from the kitchens. There was a confusion of voices and exclamations, Walden’s men came forward, and the prince turned to hand over the man Mateaux to them.

  He must have been awaiting this moment, standing slack and obedient in the prince’s grip. Suddenly his twisted out of the prince’s hold, punched one of the soldiers in the face, slashed at the other with his dagger, which somehow he still held, and then he was off, running like a hare pursued by huntsman, and like the hare zigzagging between the buildings of the enclave. In his visits to the priory he had clearly made himself very familiar with its entire plan.

  And I was certain I knew where he was heading. Against the south wall, the portion of the town wall which here served to enclose the priory, there was a low shed. I believe the canons sometimes kept animals there. Mateaux could easily scramble on to its roof, and, from the roof, over the wall. Once in the meadow beyond it, he could lie low, or even escape by river, if he had a boat moored down by the jetty.

  My legs seemed to belong to me again, and I began to run, not like the soldiers and the few priory servants who had their wits about them, all of whom were following the Frenchman’s erratic course. Instead, I made straight for the shed. I thought I heard one set of running feet behind me, but I did not look round.

  Ther
e it was. I had been quick, but Mateaux had been quicker, spurred on by fear for his life. He was already scrambling on to the roof. I made a grab for his leg, but he kicked me in the face, then he was across the roof and reaching up for a projecting spur of stone just below the top of the wall.

  I went up that roof like a cat escaping a dog, ripping my hose and nearly sliding back again. Someone gave me a shove from behind to stop me slipping, then I reached the wall just as Mateaux went over it. I reached for the same handhold, dragged myself up until I had my stomach on the wall, then swung my feet round and dropped to the ground. Someone dropped, neatly and lightly beside me.

  ‘He’ll make for the river,’ I said.

  ‘Aye.’ A cheerful cry. ‘Come! After the deer!’

  We began to run. The clouds had started to clear, and I suppose at some point it had stopped raining. Enough of the moon had broken through that we could make out the fleeing figure before us.

  And at last, Mateaux’ luck ran out. He stumbled, as though he had put his foot in rabbit hole, then he went on, but limping. Together, the other man and I put on a spurt and overtook him. This time I had the good sense to grip his right arm, for somehow he still retained possession of his dagger. My companion twisted his wrist until he dropped the dagger with a yelp. Between us, we threw him to the ground, and the other man tied his legs together with his girdle, which glinted in the moonlight. With the more modest cord from around the waist of my own cotte, I bound the Frenchman’s hands. Then we both sat on him.

  ‘A good hunting,’ my companion said, ‘and a fine catch, Master Elyot.’

  ‘Aye,’ I said, ‘Your Grace.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Edward of Woodstock made himself more comfortable on the Frenchman’s back, after stuffing a handkerchief in the man’s mouth to suppress his swearing. He clasped his hands about his up drawn knees as if he were settling himself for pleasant picnic in the sun of a summer’s day, here in the Oxford meadow, instead of pinning down an intended assassin in the dark, with a cold autumn wind chilling us, now that our mad scramble after the man was over.