The Novice's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 2)

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘I need your advice on how to approach Sir Anthony Thorgold,’ I said. ‘When Jordain and I came to fetch you from Long Wittenham, we heard from some local men that Sir Anthony is in his final illness. Can you tell me any more of this? I would need to take the document for him to sign, but would I be permitted to see him? Is he likely to be too ill either to receive me or to sign such a document? For that matter, do you suppose he would even be willing to support his granddaughter’s wish to leave the abbey?’

  She folded her hands in her lap and did not speak at once.

  ‘I have not seen Sir Anthony since the spring of last year,’ she said at last. ‘Just after Eastertide, it was.’ She sighed. ‘My husband and William were still alive then, and my sister too. How everything has changed in so short a time. Emma had come to us over Easter and was to return to her stepfather’s house in time for her mother’s lying in. It is close by Sir Anthony’s manor, in fact the lands touch. So we decided to pay a visit to Sir Anthony on the way, before delivering Emma home. I was anxious, too, about my sister. She was older than I, and lost three children, stillborn, before Emma. I feared the birth might be dangerous for her, and I was proved right.’

  Juliana got up quietly and brought a cup of ale for her mother, then stood beside her, resting her hand on Maud’s shoulder. Little Maysant was playing with the poppet Juliana had made, and paid us no heed.

  ‘How was Sir Anthony with his granddaughter?’ I said. ‘Was he – is he – fond of her?’

  ‘Indeed he was. At that time, at least. They were very close while his son, Emma’s father, was alive. Emma and her parents lived there, on the manor. Even after my sister remarried, Emma managed to visit her grandfather from time to time. When we saw him last year they were very happy together. Indeed we all were. Do you remember, Juliana?’

  ‘I do, Mama. It was a beautiful day and the bluebells just coming into flower in the woods. We ate our dinner outdoors in the garden. It was the first day warm enough.’

  ‘So we did.’ Her mother smiled wanly. ‘I had forgot. It was to be last day of such happiness. I thought Sir Anthony looked a little frail at the time, but he walked us around the formal gardens, pointing out the changes he had made. Then we left for Falkes Malaliver’s house, only to find my poor sister already abed and in terrible pain. Now she is dead, and my husband, and William, but Sir Anthony lives still.’

  She sighed bitterly.

  ‘But to answer your question, Nicholas, I do not know how ill he may be. He is most courteous and I am sure he will receive you if he can. Whether he will support Emma’s wishes, I do not know. I do know that he was angered at the news she was to become a nun. She is all the family he has left. I suppose she would have been his heir.’

  I kept my thoughts to myself on that subject and on the question of whether Falkes Malaliver might benefit if Emma were to be shut away from the world. Was it significant that the two estates were neighbours? And if Emma were to come into her inheritance before she took her final vows, what difference would that make? I must ask Philip. I thought it might mean that the abbey would have some claim on the estate when she did profess.

  ‘I think I will send word ahead of my visit to Sir Anthony,’ I said. ‘I would not wish to cause him the disturbance of an unannounced appearance. Will you permit me to mention your name in my letter? For Sir Anthony will otherwise wonder what my place is in all of this.’

  ‘Of course you must mention me,’ she said, recovering a little of her animation. ‘Better still, I will write a note to him myself, for you to enclose with yours. He has always taken an interest in our family. I shall tell him that Juliana, Maysant, and I are now settled in Oxford through your kind offices, and that Emma has approached you for help. Then he will understand that you are no stranger to us all.’

  ‘That would be excellent,’ I said. I had not liked to ask, but a letter from his granddaughter’s aunt would surely open doors for me, if Sir Anthony received visitors at all.

  ‘Tomorrow Jordain and I, and our lawyer friend, Philip Olney, will be going to Godstow to seek an audience with the abbess, with a request to see Emma. I am already expected there. After that Philip Olney will draw up the document for Sir Anthony and I will take it to Long Wittenham. The estate is near there, I understand?’

  ‘About two miles. I will write my letter tomorrow and you may collect it when you come back from Godstow. You will carry our greetings to Emma? And tell her that there will be a home here for her if she leaves the abbey?’

  ‘I will so.’

  Juliana left her mother’s side and walked to the window. ‘I believe the rain is stopping, Mama. You will not have a wet walk to the dairy after all.’

  ‘Wear some stout shoes,’ I advised. ‘There is mud everywhere.’

  As I walked home through the diminishing rain, I pondered one question I had not liked to ask Maud Farringdon. When she and her family had been in such dire straits after her husband’s death and the loss of his pension from the royal coffers, why had Sir Anthony not come to their aid? Although they were only kin by marriage, it seemed the families were on close and friendly terms with each other. Had he helped them at the time, William would never have undertaken work for Allard Basset and would be alive today.

  Still, it was possible Sir Anthony was already ill at the time, for William’s father had died shortly after Christmas, not very long ago. Perhaps Sir Anthony knew nothing of the family’s difficulties, and I was sure both Maud Farringdon and her son would have be too proud to appeal to him for help.

  The rain did stop altogether by the afternoon, and I spent the rest of the day busy about the shop. If I was to be occupied in this affair of Emma Thorgold and the law, riding about the countryside and possibly even to the courts in London, then I needs must get ahead of myself here. The student texts were all but complete. By the end of the day I had finished my stitching of the loose covers and Roger handed me the copy he had made of the missing gathering from the Euclid. After he and Walter left I sat on in the shop until that too was stitched together, and all the student books stored away on a shelf, ready for the beginning of term in October.

  Just as I was about to lock the door of the shop and go through to the house, there was a hesitant knock, followed by a head round the edge of the door.

  ‘Master Elyot? You are not closed?

  It was Juliana Farringdon.

  ‘Just on the point of closing. What can I do for you, Juliana?’

  ‘Oh, nothing for me. When she came home from the dairy, Mama sat down at once and wrote to Sir Anthony. She asked me to bring the letter to you now, so that you need not be troubled with calling tomorrow. She is to work in the dairy all day.’

  She held out the folded paper to me. It was sealed with wax, but the wax was not impressed with the sender’s mark.

  ‘She thought it best to seal it,’ Juliana explained, ‘but I have memorised what she wrote, so I can tell you what it says.’

  ‘No need,’ I said, touched by this scrupulous consideration. ‘I am sure she has said just what was necessary and proper. Will you come through to see the family?’

  She shook her head. ‘I must go back. Mama was cooking supper when I left.’ She hesitated, clearly wanting to say more.

  ‘Alysoun tells me you are teaching her Latin.’

  ‘Aye, Latin and mathematics. She wants to learn Greek.’

  The girl’s face lit up. ‘Oh, I should dearly like to learn Greek! They use different letters, do they not?’

  ‘They do, but they are quite easy to learn. Some are almost like our English letters.’ I studied her eager expression. Here was another girl anxious for learning. ‘But I think you have studied Latin already.’

  ‘When we were younger, I shared William’s lessons with our parish priest. He did not want to teach me at first, but William said he would not study unless I came too. Later, when he was a student here, he used to read with me when he came home. I have read some of Vergil’s Georgics and some Tully. And som
e of the Church Fathers.’

  ‘I would suggest that you join Alysoun’s lessons, but you would be much too advanced for her.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she paused, looking around the shop. ‘Perhaps you could lend me a book? I would be very careful.’

  I can recognise a true hunger for books when I see it. William had been a gifted young scholar. It seemed his sister might be another. I ran my finger along a shelf of Latin volumes and took down one, a small book in a dark brown binding, modestly embossed on the cover.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to read this. It is the complete Aeneid. If you have already met Vergil, you should certainly read his most important work.’

  She took it from me and ran her hand caressingly over the spine, her eyes glowing. ‘Oh, I thank you, Master Elyot! I have always wanted to read it, but William did not have a copy of his own. I will be very, very careful with it.’

  I smiled down at her. ‘I am sure you will. Now, if your mother is waiting, you’d best hurry.’

  I watched her run up the High Street, the book clutched to her chest and her hair in a heavy plait, flying out behind her. Perhaps I should start a school?

  Over supper we chatted of the storm, and Alysoun boasted that she had not been afraid of the thunder and lightning, while Rafe assured her that we were quite safe anyway, under the protection of the two churches, St-Peter-in-the-East and St-Mary-the-Virgin.

  ‘But especially St Peter’s,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that right, Papa? Because St Peter’s is our own church.’

  He spoke as if it belonged to him personally.

  ‘Aye, it is our church,’ I agreed, ‘and Rector Bokeland will be glad to hear you say so.’

  Despite any arguments over who had been afraid of the storm or not, they both ate heartily. I wondered what supper Juliana had gone home to. I hoped that Maud Farringdon’s work in the dairy might provide a few extras in the form of cheese, butter, and milk, and perhaps some of the eggs from Yardley’s farm. Mary Coomber was a kindly woman. She could probably not afford to pay Maud much, but might make it up in food.

  When the children were saying their prayers before sleeping, Rafe assured me that he was giving special thanks for being protected from death by lightning. I was smiling as I joined Margaret in the kitchen again.

  ‘You must have made quite an impression,’ she said. ‘With your explanation of where lightning will strike.’

  ‘As long as it helps him to overcome his fear.’

  ‘You used to be frightened when you were small.’

  ‘I know. I was always sure that big oak tree would be struck. I used to run as far away from it as I could.’

  ‘And when did you stop being afraid?’

  I looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You know, I cannot remember. I think the fear just gradually faded away.’

  ‘We outgrow some fears,’ she said, ‘only to be beset by others.’

  ‘Aye.’ I wanted to say, fear for our children, but could not. Margaret’s own worst fears had been realised when her two boys died untimely in the Pestilence.

  ‘I must tell you what plan we have afoot amongst us,’ I said. ‘Jordain and I. And – although I expect you will hardly credit it – Philip Olney.’

  She turned from clearing the dishes off the table.

  ‘Philip Olney?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I did not know he was a friend of yours.’

  ‘He is not so bad a fellow.’ I found myself apologising for him a second time that day. ‘He is a good lawyer, and I needed a man of the law.’

  I told her all that I had been doing during the last two days, in the matter of Emma Thorgold, and our plan to visit Godstow on the morrow.

  ‘And you will go to see this gentleman, Sir Anthony Thorgold?’

  ‘As soon as Philip has the document prepared. If Sir Anthony is willing to support his granddaughter, I think we will have a good case in law.’

  ‘Well, I hope the girl understands all the trouble she is causing,’ Margaret said, somewhat brusquely.

  ‘That is unlike you,’ I said, stung. ‘The girl has been grossly ill-used. Would you have her submit to a future which is entirely against her nature?’

  She sat down with a sigh. ‘I only wish you to have a care, Nicholas. Nay, I know I spoke unkindly. I do not think the girl should be enclosed against her will, but I hope you will not run yourself into danger again. It is but weeks since you were badly hurt and Alysoun was in terrible danger.’

  ‘I know,’ I said soberly. ‘I shall not endanger my family again. But you need not worry. This is nothing but a matter of law. The greatest excitement will be lawyers arguing in Westminster Hall.’

  She laughed. ‘Let us hope so.’

  ‘That is, if we are able to take our case there,’ I added. ‘This is all unfamiliar to me, but I shall do my best for the girl. It seems to me that the whole affair is somehow unfinished business, left after the murder of her cousin. William’s sister came just before I closed the shop, bringing Mistress Farringdon’s letter to Sir Anthony. It seems that there is another girl whose future has been blighted by this affair. She is clever, and had William lived, he would have cared for her, seen to it that she made a good marriage. She has no male relatives left.’

  ‘Since the Pestilence,’ Margaret said, ‘many are in a like case.’

  The next morning I rose early. I had already been lying awake some time, composing in my head the letter I would write to Sir Anthony Thorgold, and I wanted to commit it to paper before I forgot. I was grateful that I could enclose Maud Farringdon’s letter, for my own would not then seem impertinent or interfering. Before the rest of the family had risen, I had written my letter, enclosed the other, and sealed both, stamping the wax with my business seal, which showed an open book with a quill pen laid across it.

  ‘Are you coming to breakfast, Nicholas?’ Margaret called from the door at the back of the shop.

  ‘Do not wait for me,’ I said. ‘I am just going to send this on its way.’

  As I hurried up the High Street, I hoped I would be in time. There was a carter who left the Mitre every other day to fetch and carry goods to Wallingford, Dorchester, and back again. He would deliver letters if they did not take him too far out of his way, and the sender paid for the extra time.

  Just as I reached the Mitre I saw the man leading his horse out of the stable yard. His cart was barely half full, so I hoped that meant he would be glad of a letter to carry and a little extra money with it.

  ‘Two miles from Long Wittenham?’ he said. ‘That will mean taking the ferry.’

  ‘Aye,’ I said, ‘I will pay the cost of the ferry, both ways.’

  He rubbed the side of his nose with the handle of his whip.

  ‘Very well, master,’ he said. ‘I will take it. Will there be an answer to bring back?’

  I had not thought of that.

  ‘If you are offered an answer without too long a wait, then aye, bring me the answer. It should be no more than a simple “aye” or “nay”.’

  ‘Right you are, master.’ He took the letter and tucked it into the band that ran around his cap. ‘That way I won’t fergit it, see? Every time I turns me head, it rustles.’

  He demonstrated.

  ‘Good plan,’ I said, handing over the requisite money, plus a little extra for his good will.

  He climbed up and chirruped to his horse, who plodded off, at the steady but untiring pace of all cart horses, in the direction of Carfax. After arranging to hire Rufus again for the day, I headed back home. I was making so much use of the horse with the constant expense, I might as well buy him. I turned over the idea in my mind, but I had no stabling, and a horse must be fed, whether it is working or not. And my need for a horse in recent months was unusual. He was a reliable beast, though, should I ever change my mind.

  Back at home I ate hastily, for Jordain was already there, a borrowed horse hitched outside the shop, and Philip arrived, with one of the Merton horses, before I had finished. Once I had collected Rufus, we set of
f at a leisurely pace up Northgate Street. It was still early, the only people about in the town being tradesmen’s apprentices. Out of term, members of the university rise late, making up for the five o’clock lectures during the winter and spring.

  In St Giles the trees which had looked so tired and lacklustre only days before under the heat already seemed fresher, their leaves washed clean of the dust thrown up from the road during the past weeks. The rain had also laid the dust along the roadway and there had been little traffic to churn it into mud before it drained away, so the surface was firm and good for riding. St Giles is wide enough to ride three abreast, and I found I was enjoying the short journey as if it were a holiday.

  If I let my thoughts turn to what we might encounter when we arrived at the abbey, I felt somewhat less cheerful. What we were about was audacious in the extreme, and the abbess might very well have us turned away unceremoniously. I fingered the bottle of tawny gold in the pocket of my cotte. I had nearly forgotten it. At the last moment Alysoun had thrust it into my hand, with a matronly clicking of her tongue, that sound all women make at the incompetence and forgetfulness of all men. It was as well she had remembered, for it was the only – and very slim – excuse for our visit to Godstow.

  ‘I have written to Sir Anthony,’ I told the other two, ‘requesting a brief visit. I said little more, save that it concerned his granddaughter’s desire to leave the monastic life. Mistress Farringdon had also written him a letter, which I enclosed, explaining my connection with the family.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Jordain said. ‘I am sure her good word will gain you admittance, if nothing else will.’

  ‘If Sir Anthony is not too ill,’ I cautioned. I turned to Philip, who proved to be a surprisingly good horseman. Jordain rode like a ploughman.

  ‘Were you able to discover any precedents yesterday?’ I asked. ‘Any cases at all like that of Emma Thorgold?’

  ‘Aye, that I have. There was a case nearly two hundred years ago where a nun was forced by her guardian to take the veil at Ankerwyke. It was fifteen years later that she fled from the nunnery, returned to the secular life, and claimed her inheritance from her father’s estate. I have not yet been able to trace the outcome, but it seems that the guardian’s motive was to seize her inheritance. She was, however, excommunicated. It may be that if the court did find in her favour the excommunication would have been lifted.’