by Mel Starr
"Some do not consider their deeds until the consequences are upon them."
"Aye. Well, no thief will sell his taking here. Does any seek to do so, I will send for you… Where do you lodge?"
"Canterbury Hall."
I left Eynsham convinced that the abbot knew nothing of Master John's books. It was too soon to seek Brother Michael. To do so would give warning if he had to do with the theft, and did he not I would learn nothing of value from him. But I had planted a seed in the abbey ground. Now to be patient and see would it grow.
The sun rested in tree-tops to the west when Bruce splashed across the Thames at Swinford. I dislike traveling alone at night since the evening Henry atte Bridge attempted to deal me a mortal blow on the road from Witney, so I prodded Bruce with my heels. To little effect.
No miscreant accosted me this night. I left Bruce at the Stag and Hounds and stumbled through dark streets to Canterbury Hall. The porter was not pleased to be roused from slumber to open the gate to me.
I found Arthur fidgeting on the bench in the guest chamber. "'Bout to set out an' seek you," he chastised. "Thought you might've met up with the thief, or maybe Sir Simon again."
"Nay. Bruce will not be hurried. Have the carters returned?"
"Not yet."
A cresset lighted the chamber. I saw in its glow a loaf and a cup. Arthur followed my gaze. "Brought a loaf an' some ale from the kitchen," he explained.
I would not need to seek my bed hungry. I thought this the only laudable result of the day. I was wrong. The seed was sprouting.
7
The carters returned to Oxford on Tuesday. I had sent Arthur that morning to prowl Kybald Street and the neighboring lanes. He returned to Canterbury Hall for his dinner with no news, but an hour after eating his fill of another pottage he hastened breathlessly across the enclosure from the porter's lodge to advise me that the carters were at that moment unharnessing their horse.
Arthur followed close behind as I hurried from St John's Street to Grope Lane. The carters lived but a few paces east of Grope Lane, on the north side of Kybald Street. We found the brothers in the yard behind the house, tending to horse and cart. After such a journey both would need care.
Henry Carter and his brother were twins. Most men must peer into a well or catch their image in a glass window to see how they appear to another. Not these brothers. They had but to glance at each other to know their features. This duplication seems to me to prove false the notion that, should a woman bear twins, she has lain with two men.
"Henry?" I asked.
One of the carters looked up from considering wear to the axle of his cart and answered, "Aye?"
"You have just returned from a long journey, I am told."
"Aye. To London, to the abbey at Westminster," he replied quizzically.
The brother had just hung the harness on a peg in the barn. He stood in the open door, peering suspiciously at me. Most men, I think, are leery of those who pry into their business. I drew two pence from my purse and offered the coins to the carter. I watched his eyes soften.
"What were you commissioned to take to Westminster? It was a chest, I am told."
"If you know what it was we was hired to take, why need to ask?"
"Do you know what was in the chest?"
"Nay. 'Twas sealed an' locked an' we was told 'twas not to be opened."
"And this chest was to be covered and kept dry… is this so?"
"Aye."
"A monk from Eynsham hired this work?"
"Why do you ask when you know the answers? An' why concern yourself with my work?"
"Forgive me. I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his manor at Bampton."
This revelation did not seem to impress either Henry or his brother. They stared impassively, awaiting any further information I might care to impart.
"Did you deliver the chest to the abbot?"
"Nay. We was to take it to a monk there name of…" Henry turned to his brother, who stood yet in the open barn door. "Who was it we was to give the chest to?"
"The librarian, Brother Giles."
"Was he expecting this chest? Or was he surprised when it was delivered?"
"He was expectin' it, alright."
"What was your pay for this work?"
"A shillin' an' eight pence. Half when we took the job, half now we're back an' job's done."
"You are to collect from Brother Michael at Eynsham?"
"Aye. Time enough today. I'll walk there an' collect what's due."
A thought came to me. I drew another ha'penny from my purse and offered it to the carter. "When you speak to Brother Michael tell him a wheel came loose from your cart as you neared Westminster and pitched the chest to the verge. He will surely ask was the chest damaged. Tell him, `Yes, 'twas split at the end.' If he then asks were the contents damaged, tell him, `No, the books were not harmed."'
"Books? The chest was full o' books, then? Figured twas so, bein' we delivered 'em to a librarian."
"Aye, I believe so. I will return tomorrow. Report all he may say about the chest and its contents."
Wednesday morning, as the bells of St Frideswide's Priory announced terce, I set out for Kybald Street with Arthur close behind. The carters were at work behind the house, Henry splicing the whiffletree where a crack showed, and his brother greasing the harness he'd hung on the barn wall the day before. Or was it Henry greasing the harness? The brother at work on the cart peered up under frowning brows as I approached.
"Did as you asked," he muttered. "Cost me tuppence. Monk said as how we'd damaged 'is chest 'e wasn't due to pay all."
I fished two pence from my pouch and held the coins to the man. His face brightened considerably. "Hoped you'd be good for it," he said as he reached for the coins.
"What else did the monk say, besides reducing what he owed?"
"Asked did anything spill from the chest to the mud of the road. I did as you said an' told 'im the split in the chest was small an' no harm come to the books what was in it."
"Was the monk relieved to learn this?"
"Aye. Then, when he turned to leave me he thought better of it, come back, an' said, was any to ask what was in the chest, I was to tell 'em I knew not. In truth I did not see what was in the chest, an' have but your word on it. So wouldn't be like a lie."
I thanked the carter for his service and set off toward St John's Street with Arthur trailing. The carter's words stung me. I had paid a man to deceive another. Doing so had discovered, perhaps, the location of Master John's stolen books. But was it acceptable in God's sight to discover one sin only by committing another? This worry did not trouble Arthur. He spoke gleefully as we turned the corner from Grope Lane to St John's Street.
"Reckon we know where Master Wyclif's books has gone to an' who stole 'em, eh?"
"It does seem so. Although how to prove it so is another matter. Monasteries often trade and sell books, so they may be copied and libraries enlarged."
"Oh," Arthur replied thoughtfully, and walked on in silence. As we approached Canterbury Hall he spoke again. "So, 'less you could prove the books was Master Wyclif's, the monks would say they was tradin' an' you couldn't say otherwise?"
"Aye. And perhaps they were. We do not know that the books in the chest were Master John's."
"Was it not so," Arthur mused, "why did that monk in Eynsham tell the carter to say nothin' of what was in the chest?"
"It is suspicious, but I must be sure before I make any charge."
"How will you do so?"
"I know not. But I will tell Master John what has been learned. He is a wise man. Perhaps he may suggest a path to follow."
Master John Wyclif is indeed a wise man, but not well-versed in the ways of felons. He was attentive to my tale of books in a chest taken to Westminster, but was at as much a loss as I as to how to discover if the volumes were his or not, and if his, who had stolen them and how they came into the possession of a monk at Eynsham. We three sat, sile
ntly considering the issue, when the cook's bell called us to our dinner. Another pottage. I had two good reasons to solve this puzzle. When I found Master John's books I could wed Kate, and I could return to Bampton and escape the pottages of Canterbury Hall.
I was not yet finished with my dinner when I heard excited voices approach the hall. The door banged open, bringing a frown to Master John's face, and the porter entered, accompanied by another man, unknown to me.
The porter cast about, found me in the dim autumn light which managed to penetrate the windows, and pointed my way. His companion nodded and strode vigorously toward where I sat with Master John. The man who approached was a solid, bull-necked fellow, dressed well, and clearly accustomed to dining from a full trencher.
"Master Hugh de Singleton?" he asked when he stood before me.
" Aye."
"I am Sir Walter Benyt, come from Bampton at Lord Gilbert's urgent request."
"Urgent?" I replied stupidly.
"His lad, the young Richard, has broken his leg… playing on the castle parapet and tumbled off. As I am on my way to London, Lord Gilbert asked me to seek you and beg your speedy return to treat the lad."
"I will do so," I announced, and pushed back my bench so abruptly it tumbled over on the flags. Arthur was up from his place at the same instant, for he had overheard the plea. I had not before heard of this knight, but Lord Gilbert often entertains new guests.
"Young Master Richard is a good lad," Arthur observed, "but of strong will. I heard the nurse screechin' at him some time past to stay off the parapet."
Master John sat near and heard the exchange. I promised him I would return so soon as I might, sent Arthur to the Stag and Hounds to ready the horses, and announced that I was off to the Holywell Street to speak to Kate and would join Arthur at the inn.
I went first to the guest chamber where lay the sack of herbs and instruments I had brought to Oxford. This I threw over a shoulder and hastened to the porter's gate, which I reached as Sir Walter mounted his horse and with his squire clattered across the cobbles toward Schidyard Street.
I wondered briefly that Sir Walter's beast seemed so fresh and willing, prancing about, eager to be off. The horse appeared to be young and strong. His sprint from Bampton seemed to do the animal no harm. Concern for the horse was no concern of mine.
I delayed at Caxton's shop only long enough to speak briefly to Kate and explain my mission. She kissed me lightly on the cheek and bid me farewell and good success in the task before me.
Arthur had Bruce and the old palfrey saddled and waiting when I arrived, breathless, at the Stag and Hounds. Streets were crowded but we urged our mounts through the throng as best we might. Once we were past the castle, the mob thinned and we pushed the horses to a trot as we approached Oseney Abbey.
Riding Bruce at a trot is not an experience I would wish for any. Well, perhaps for Sir Simon Trillowe. The old dexter was not bred for such travel and I was severely jostled while trying to maintain my place upon his broad back. Arthur had much the easier time of it upon the old palfrey, but it soon became clear that his ancient beast could not keep up the pace and would fail long before we reached Bampton. I signaled Arthur to slow his mount. We continued at a fast walk, a gait more suited to both horse and rider.
The road west toward Eynsham and Bampton passes Oseney Abbey, crosses the Thames on Oseney Bridge, then leads through fields for the first two or three miles. It then enters a dense wood before a gentle decline to the river crossing at Swinford. My mind was occupied with the treatment I would undertake when young Richard was in my care, so I gave no notice to the two men, one large, one small, who walked before us on the road.
We were nearly upon the fellows when they turned, having heard our approach, and I saw that the smaller man held a sword close to his leg, so as to disguise that he had it unsheathed and in his hand. Arthur saw the weapon at the same instant, and frowning, turned to me. The larger man carried a cudgel.
As I turned in the saddle to Arthur I caught movement from the corner of my eye. Three horsemen broke from thick cover some hundred paces behind us. These three carried short swords which they waved over their heads as they charged down upon us.
The choice was plain: two men afoot in one direction, one with a sword, or three mounted men in the other, all armed.
"To the river!" I shouted to Arthur, and jabbed my heels into Bruce's elderly, tender flanks. The old horse lumbered into a gallop and bore down upon the men before us who, I think, had thought to block the way. A second glance at Bruce's ponderous approach convinced them of the impractical nature of the task and I caught a glimpse of them diving into the shrubbery beside the road as Bruce thundered past at full gallop.
I turned to see if Arthur followed. He did, urging the old palfrey to greater speed with a swat of his hand upon the beast's rump. Behind Arthur the swordsmen careered in pursuit.
These fellows were mounted upon fleet coursers. Already they had halved the distance at which I had first seen them. Ahead lay the Thames and Swinford. It became my goal to reach the river before these attackers were upon us. Why hope of the river was confused in my mind with safety I cannot say. But it was certain the three who charged after us had evil intent, and Arthur and I were the object.
It was my purse they sought. So I believed. But I gave no thought to halting Bruce and surrendering my coins. Too many times I had heard of men waylaid upon the road, robbed, then put to the sword, their corpses tossed aside into the forest. Dead men cannot identify those who have despoiled them.
We won the race. Bruce galloped into the Thames with a mighty splash. Arthur on his palfrey was but a few strides behind. Bruce seemed to understand the urgency of the matter. He plunged into the current, creating a wash in which Arthur and the palfrey followed. A few paces behind Arthur the first of our pursuers, a red-bearded fellow wearing a green surcoat, also splashed into the stream.
Bruce's great strength and longer legs caused him to leave the palfrey farther behind as together we plunged through the deepest part of the ford. I turned to urge Arthur to haste, as if such admonition was necessary, and saw him do a strange thing.
He leaped from the palfrey's back into the current. A log, which I had not before seen, drifted nearby. Arthur splashed, waist deep, to the log and lifted the water-soaked timber above his head. This was a feat of which I, or any normal man, would have been incapable. But Arthur is a sturdy fellow.
Arthur crouched in the frigid stream, turned to the first of our pursuers and, when he judged the distance reduced enough, threw the log over his head with both hands toward the man's horse.
Arthur's aim was remarkable. The log struck the beast squarely between the eyes. The horse staggered for a moment, then plunged and reared on the slippery stones of the ford. The rider yanked mightily on the reins, trying to control the frightened animal. Instead, he persuaded the horse to rise on hind legs, forefeet flailing the air little more than an arm's length from Arthur's chin.
The beast danced thus in the ford for a moment, then lost his balance and with a great splash toppled over backward into the river. His sword-wielding rider disappeared beneath the struggling animal into the waistdeep water.
Without its rider the palfrey had slowed its progress through the river to a near standstill. Arthur forced his way through the current to the horse, found a stirrup, and raised himself, dripping, to the saddle. With a kick of his heels he put the old horse again into motion and was soon up to Bruce. I had become so captured by the events unfolding behind me that I had neglected to continue prodding Bruce across the stream.
Together Arthur and I and the two old horses emerged dripping from the Thames. Behind us, midway across the river, the upturned horse continued to struggle, belly up, hooves flailing the air, nostrils blowing gouts of water. Of the animal's rider all that was visible were his boots. What remained of him was in the Thames, under the struggling horse, for he had not thrown himself free before the beast pitched over backward upon hi
m.
His companions pulled their mounts to a halt in the midst of the ford and went to work extricating the drowning man from under his frightened horse. To remain and observe this work would have been entertaining. Perhaps a similar event may occur when I will have leisure to enjoy the spectacle.
Bruce and the palfrey clawed their way up the west bank of the river and together Arthur and I prodded the beasts to a gallop. It was but a mile, or little more, to the abbey at Eynsham. I thought our mounts might travel that distance before they collapsed, and thus bring us to safety.
A few moments later our wheezing beasts drew up before the monastery gatehouse. The hosteller was within, discussing some matter with the porter. He remembered me, but peered disapprovingly at men who would misuse their horses so.
Arthur was drenched through and shivering from the cold. I asked the hosteller was there a fire where we could warm ourselves and poor Arthur might dry his dripping clothes.
I thought some explanation for our state in order, and so told of our close escape. The hosteller's expression softened and he sent for a lay brother to care for Bruce and the palfrey while Arthur and I sought the calefactory and the fire which Benedictines keep burning in winter months, unlike Cistercians, who seem to believe that one grows closer to God as the temperature falls and chilblains increase.
We were eager to continue our journey. Arthur was dry and warmed on one side, and nearly so on the other, when Abbot Thurstan entered the calefactory.
"Master Hugh; we meet again. Brother Jacob has told me of the circumstance. I am pleased our house may offer respite."
"We are in your debt," I acknowledged. "Do thieves often prowl the forest between here and Oxford?"
"Nay. Years ago a band of young knights, finding no employment to their liking, for England was at peace then, would sometimes venture south from their lair near the King's hunting lodge at Woodstock. But not for many years have they made an appearance. I am sorry to learn they may have returned. Even the monastery was not safe from their pillaging, and villagers suffered often their looting and rapine."
