by Mel Starr
"Good." Sir Simon offered his arm and, with a brief smile and raised brows in my direction, Kate set the pot of ink on her father's table and took Trillowe's arm. They departed the shop wordlessly.
Caxton apparently thought some explanation in order. "You didn't call through the summer. Kate thought you'd no interest. I told her last night you'd asked to pay court. But Sir Simon's been by a dozen times since Lammas Day… others, too."
"Others?"
"Aye. My Kate does draw lads to the shop. None has asked me might they pay court, though. But for you."
"Not Sir Simon?"
"Nay. Second son of the sheriff, and a knight. He'll not ask leave of one like me to do aught."
"And Kate returns his interest?"
Caxton shrugged. "She's walked out with him three times now. A knight, mind you. And son of the sheriff. Can't blame a lass for that."
"No," I agreed.
"Can't think how his father'd be pleased, though. A stationer's daughter! A scandal in Oxford Castle when word gets out, as it surely has, by now," Caxton mused.
"Aye. What lands his father may hold will pass to his brother. The sheriff will want Sir Simon seeking a wife with lands of her own."
I hoped that was so. But if a second or third son acts to displease his father, it is difficult to correct him. How can a man disinherit a son who is due to receive little or nothing anyway? So if a son courting Kate Caxton displeased the sheriff of Oxford, such offense might escape retribution. This thought did not bring me joy.
2
Nothing much else of that day in Oxford brought joy, either. Even Caxton's refusal to accept payment for parchment and ink could not raise my spirits. I trudged through the mud to the Stag and Hounds, retrieved Bruce from the stables, and from the old horse's broad back watched as the castle keep faded into the distance while we two, horse and rider, sauntered past Oseney Abbey toward Bampton and home.
I arrived at the castle at the ninth hour, in time for supper. Lord Gilbert was in residence, so this was a more elaborate meal than when he resided at another of his castles, with several guests, and many grooms and valets occupying lower tables.
A groom brought an ewer, basin, and towel to the high table and I washed the dust of the Oxford Road from my face and hands. The water was pleasingly scented with mint.
I had enjoyed no dinner that day, so as soon as Lord Gilbert's chaplain offered thanks to our Lord Christ for the meal I broke the loaf of wheaten bread before me, spread butter on the fragments with my knife, and set about calming my growling stomach.
It was during the third remove, a game pie, that I noticed Lady Petronilla peering at me from the other end of the high table. There are, I believe, subtle signals of sorrow which women perceive more readily than men. I was unaware that my discontent was plain to another. And to Lord Gilbert it was not.
The game pie this day seemed beneath the cook's usual standard. I had little desire to finish my portion. And the subtlety also seemed to lack appeal. Perhaps the wheaten loaf poisoned my appetite.
Three days later, after a supper of eels baked in vinegar and spices, pike in galantine, and salmon in syrup, John the chamberlain approached me as I entered my chamber. Lord Gilbert, he said, was in the solar and would see me.
A blaze in the fireplace both lit the solar and warmed it against the chill of an autumn evening. Lady Petronilla glanced up at me from her needlework as John ushered me into the chamber, and Lord Gilbert looked my way briefly before continuing his conversation with Sir Watkin Kidwell, a guest to whom I had been introduced at Tuesday supper when I returned from Oxford.
I stood, confused about the summons, until Lord Gilbert nodded toward a bench which rested, unoccupied, between him and Lady Petronilla. This seat was pleasingly near the fire, and while I sat a groom replenished the logs to the accompaniment of a great salvo of sparks which swirled up the chimney. I was tired, and had recently supped. The combination produced drowsiness. I feared I might topple into the fire.
The hum of conversation ceased. I awoke from my lethargy to see Sir Watkin rise, bow, and bid Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla "Good night." I stood, perhaps a bit wobbly, to honor Sir Watkin's departure, as did Lord Gilbert.
When the guest had departed Lord Gilbert resumed his chair and motioned me back to my bench. I drew it away from the fire, for the logs recently placed on the blaze were now burning furiously.
"Lady Petronilla," Lord Gilbert began, "would have me speak to you."
Lady Petronilla looked up briefly from her work and smiled from under lowered brows. I could not guess why she thought conversation necessary, but her gentle smile reassured me that the discussion was probably not going to center upon some malfeasance on my part. Few men enjoy a command to meet with their employer, and I admit to some apprehension when John delivered Lord Gilbert's summons. I had been reluctant, two years past, to accept Lord Gilbert's offer to become bailiff of his Bampton estate. But now I found myself equally reluctant to leave the post should Lord Gilbert have detected some dereliction on my part.
It was not Lord Gilbert, but his wife, who had detected a change in my manner, and it was this she had noted and urged her husband to investigate. Therefore my summons this evening.
"M'lady," he continued, "believes some thing is amiss with you, and would have me seek it out."
"Amiss, m'lord?"
"Aye." Lady Petronilla laid her work in her lap and spoke. "You were laughing and in good spirit when you departed for Oxford Monday. But since your return you are morose. I have watched you at table… you eat but little. I told m'lord, `Some mishap has overtaken Master Hugh while at Oxford."'
"M'lady," Lord Gilbert interjected, "has a meddlesome imagination."
"Meddlesome I am not," Lady Petronilla barked. "I am… observant."
"Aye," Lord Gilbert chuckled and nodded toward me. "She is that."
"I told m'lord 'tis not good for a young man, so full of life and joy one day, to be so glum the next."
"And I told her this was not our concern." He paused. "She disagreed."
Lady Petronilla nodded and pursed her lips.
"So I have called you here to learn what has gone amiss in Oxford. Or," he hesitated, "to learn if my wife's imagination has…"
"'Tis no imagining," Lady Petronilla rejoined.
Lord Gilbert was to my right hand, Lady Petronilla to my left. Their dispute caused my head to swivel. I made no reply to Lady Petronilla's assertion, but she would not accept my silence.
"Come, Master Hugh. When a young man cannot finish a tasty game pie for his supper, or salmon in syrup, then something is much awry."
"Hmm," Lord Gilbert muttered, pulling at his beard. "This is true? You did not finish your salmon?"
"He did not."
"I have never known you to reject a salmon. M'lady speaks true… What troubles you, Hugh?"
I dislike encumbering others with my own misfortune. And I have observed that, on most occasions, others prefer not to share the burden anyway. I hesitated to reply.
Lady Petronilla understood what my silence implied.
"You do not protest, Master Hugh. So 'tis true. Were it not so, you would be quick to object."
"It is a matter for my own concern," I finally replied. "I do not wish to vex others."
"I toldyou'twas so," Lady Petronilla said triumphantly to her husband. Lord Gilbert raised one eyebrow and went to pulling at his beard. These mannerisms I knew well. He stroked his chin when deep in thought, and raised an eyebrow when puzzled. This last expression I had tried to emulate. Unsuccessfully.
"It is not good for a man to carry his worries alone," Lord Gilbert remarked. "You have no wife to share your sorrows.
"Or joys," Lady Petronilla smiled.
"'Tis more difficult for you, of course… finding a wife. You must search her out for yourself. Our fathers," Lord Gilbert smiled at his wife, "placed us together. For the which I am grateful, as is, I trust, m'lady."
Lady Petronilla beamed in re
ply. This conversation had somehow got around to wives and marriage. Perhaps Lord Gilbert had an intuition that a young man's woe might have to do with a lass.
"I would be much pleased to find a good wife," I agreed. "I know that marriage may bring sorrow, but bachelorhood brings little joy."
"Well," Lord Gilbert chuckled, "you had best get you back to Oxford. You will not find her in Bampton Castle… nor anywhere in the town, I think."
"But I have duties here."
"What? Michaelmas is long past. The harvest is in, and John Holcutt has matters well in hand for winter. You are at leisure to pursue your own ends and seek a wife. A prosperous burgher's daughter, I think, or, with luck, the only child of a knight, with lands she might bring with her."
Lady Petronilla nodded agreement. Gentlemen and their ladies are much alike. Get land; this is nearly all they think on. Kate Caxton will have small dowry, I think. Her father is a burgher, but I am not privy to the depth of his purse. Knowing Lord Gilbert as I do, however, should he lay eyes on Kate, he will approve my choice.
My choice. Little good my decision would do me now, with the handsome Sir Simon Trillowe in pursuit of Kate.
"You have friends in Oxford," Lord Gilbert continued. "Surely some will know of a suitable lass."
"Perhaps more than one might suit," Lady Petronilla smiled. "'Tis always good to have a choice in such matters."
Lord Gilbert frowned at this remark. "You would have preferred a choice?"
"You think I did not have one?" she rejoined. "Our fathers placed us together, 'tis true, but my father would not match me with a man I rejected."
"So you…"
"Aye," Lady Petronilla smiled. "My father knew who I would have and who I would not."
"There were others you would have accepted? Who?"
"I will say no more," she laughed, "but that choice of a spouse is good. Neither you nor Master Hugh need know more."
"Master Wyclif is a friend, is he not?" Lord Gilbert returned to his subject. "You should seek him and learn if he knows of suitable maids about Oxford."
"But m'lord," Lady Petronilla scoffed, "Master John is a bachelor scholar. What will he know of marriageable maids?"
"He has lived in Oxford many years, and even scholars, with their noses pressed to their books, have two eyes and can appreciate a comely lass, and two ears and can hear of virtue."
Lady Petronilla had no reply to this logic, so returned to her needle. I decided to speak plainly to Lord Gilbert.
"I visited Master John Monday eve. He is much distressed. Some thief has stolen his books."
Lord Gilbert raised both eyebrows. "Indeed? He has told the sheriff of the loss?"
"Aye. Sir John Trillowe is newly appointed High Sheriff of Oxford. He seems little interested in seeking stolen books."
Lord Gilbert's eyes narrowed and his lips compressed to a fine line. "He would not."
"You know Sir John?"
"I do."
I awaited an explanation of Lord Gilbert's expression when he heard the name. None was forthcoming, but I knew my employer well enough to know that he must think little of this new sheriff. In the past two years I had found Lord Gilbert's estimation of other men to be fair, so was prepared to think little of a man I had never met. I had met his son. An acorn does not fall far from the oak. But I am prejudiced.
"Master Wyclif has no clue as to who has taken his books?" Lord Gilbert continued.
"None."
He raised an eyebrow and went to tugging at his chin, but it was Lady Petronilla who spoke: "Is not Master Wyclif a favorite of Duke John?"
"Aye," Lord Gilbert replied. "The Duke of Lancaster is Master Wyclif's patron. The scholar comes from lands in Yorkshire which are in the Duke's gift."
"I wonder," Lady Petronilla laid her needlework in her lap and looked up, "that Master Wyclif does not seek help from Duke John. Surely the king's son should have ways and means to find stolen books."
"The Duke will be in London, enjoying his palace, or at Pontefract. I think he cares little for books… although he might be pleased did another discover the thief and return the books to his favorite." As he said this Lord Gilbert went to pulling at his chin again.
"Master Hugh, you have few duties now 'til hallmote. And you are proven adept at solving mysteries. Perhaps you should return to Oxford and seek Master Wyclif's books."
"And while he is there," Lady Petronilla added, "he might also seek a wife. I cannot tell which may be easier to discover."
Before I could think of an objection Lord Gilbert spoke again, and my fate was sealed. "I think John of Gaunt would be much pleased to learn 'twas my bailiff who discovered the thief who stole his favorite's books."
Lord Gilbert, Third Baron Talbot, is one of the most powerful nobles in the realm. But even he would like the good will of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, son of the King Edward that now is, and brother of the King Edward to be, the fourth of that name, the Black Prince.
In matter of fact, with the old king ill, and the Black Prince often waging war in France, it is Duke John who runs the kingdom. So some say. But not where others may hear.
"John Holcutt is competent to deal with the manor. And I will remain until St Catherine's Day. So that's settled, then. Nothing to keep you. You may be off tomorrow. Take Arthur, if you wish. Might be well to have an assistant along. Arthur's no fool, and worth three in a fray, should you find the felons and they not wish to surrender their loot."
I awoke next morning, cold, at the ringing of the Angelus Bell. The Church of St Beornwald is several hundred paces north of Bampton Castle, but the dawn was still and sound carried well. I thought how pleasant it would be to have a good wife to warm my bed on such mornings. This musing was not new to me, and brought no joy, for as I tossed in my cold bed I thought on Lady Joan Talbot, now the Lady de Burgh, and of Kate Caxton.
The fire in my chamber was but black coals. A few embers glowed when I blew on the ashes; enough that I was able to resurrect the blaze with a few carefully placed splinters and then two logs. My feet were cold on the flags, so I climbed back into my bed until the fire might warm the chamber. Cold as the bed was, it was warmer than the floor.
After a loaf of maslin and a wedge of cheese I mounted Bruce, the old gelding Lord Gilbert had assigned to my use, and Arthur climbed astride an ancient palfrey which had once borne Lady Petronilla. Riding the shaggy old beast did not seem to displease Arthur. Most grooms, when forced to travel, must do so afoot. I slung a leatherand-wood box containing my surgical instruments, and a pouch of herbs, across Bruce's broad rump. What use these might be to me I did not know, but I dislike being without my implements.
A slanting sun illuminated the tops of the oaks in Lord Gilbert's forest to the west of Bampton as Arthur and I rode under the portcullis and set off toward Mill Street and the bridge over Shill Brook. It was a fine day for travel, did a man have a joyous reason and pleasant destination in mind. I had neither.
Lord Gilbert had set me to a task for which I felt unequal. And the pursuit of Kate Caxton, which a week past brought cheer when I thought on it, now lay leaden on my heart.
Villeins and tenants were busy in the fields we passed. Wheat and rye had been sown, and oxen and the occasional horse drew harrows across the fields to cover the seed with soil. Children shivered in the morning air, their fists filled with rocks to toss at birds which would steal the seed before the harrow could do its work.
Acorns and beech nuts had fallen, so swineherds had driven their hogs into the forest for pannaging. The pigs might regret their appetite on Martinmas. Pigs are much like men. Or perhaps men are like pigs: we think little of what today's pleasure may cost tomorrow.
The sky was pale blue and the sun lacked warmth. It was not only swine which roamed the forest. Tenants and villeins also stalked the woodland, gathering fuel for the winter soon to be upon us.
The tower of Oseney Abbey was a welcome sight when it appeared above the trees which lined the Thames. I appreciate
d the gift of Bruce, the old dexter which had borne Lord Gilbert at the Battle of Poitiers, but I have never become inured to the saddle. True, it is better to ride than walk sixteen miles. Better yet to stay home at Bampton Castle and have neither sore rump nor legs.
But I had a duty to Lord Gilbert, and, indeed, to Master Wyclif as well. By the time Bruce clattered across the Castle Mill Stream Bridge I was resolved to exert myself in the matter of Master John's books. And in the matter of Mistress Kate Caxton, also. But I admit I felt more confidence regarding the discovery of missing books than the winning of a fair maid. Thieves are more predictable than a lass.
Canterbury Hall owns no stable, so Arthur and I left our beasts at the Stag and Hounds. Oxford's streets were crowded as we walked south toward St John Street and Canterbury Hall. Perhaps among the throng was a thief, or more than one. How I was to find him I knew not.
The porter at Canterbury Hall recognized me and sent me straightaway to Master Wyclif's chamber. Arthur had walked before me as we pressed through the crowd on the High Street, but trod respectfully behind after we approached the porter. Arthur is a good man to have about when it is necessary to make a path through the throng. He is not so tall as me, but weighs, I think, two stone more. His neck is as thick as my thigh.
The scholar was absent. There was no response to my knock on his chamber door. The Michaelmas Term was begun, so I assumed Master John to be at his work, lecturing students. Perhaps he had been at the business long enough that he could carry on without his set books.
While I stood, uncertain, before the door I heard a voice raised in argument. Cells for the students of Canterbury Hall lined the enclosure opposite the warden's chamber, and a kitchen and hall closed the western side of the yard. Three glass windows gave light to the interior of this hall, and although they were closed to the autumn air, they permitted the sound of angry dispute to flood the enclosure.
Arthur also heard the argument and peered at me under a furrowed brow. I left Master John's door and walked to the nearest of the three windows. Arthur followed.
