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

by Ann Swinfen

  One change was clear. The rain had filled the Thames and all its tributaries, so that the water level at the ferry landing was at least a foot and a half higher than it had been on our previous visit. It was possible to lead Rufus straight from the wooden landing stage on to the ferry without the unnerving slither down an exposed muddy bank which the carthorse had to negotiate. We were soon across, despite the rapid flow of the river, and I rode up to the inn on the southern bank.

  I was not surprised to see the same two ancient villagers once again seated on the bench overlooking the ferry. Probably they spent every day of fair weather there. In winter no doubt there was a good fire in the inn parlour, where they could enjoy a little peace from wives and daughters sweeping around their feet and scolding them for idleness.

  ‘God give you good-day, friends,’ I said, as I dismounted.

  ‘And to ’ee.’ It was the more loquacious of the two who responded.

  ‘Have you a thirst on you?’ I asked. It hardly needed saying.

  ‘It do be warmer weather,’ he volunteered politely.

  I hitched Rufus and went within, where I bade the cheerful innwife to bring a flagon of ale for three, then rejoined the villagers on the bench.

  ‘I seen ’ee beforetimes,’ the ancient said, with an air of discovery.

  ‘Aye, we came to convey a family to Oxford with their household goods.’

  The other man laughed, with a noise like a creaking door. ‘Horse don’t take to the ferry. Near had you in the river.’

  ‘He did that.’ I smiled as I poured him a cup of ale. ‘And now I am back again. I have business with Sir Anthony Thorgold. Tell me, have you news of his health? Before, you said he was near his end.’

  ‘Ah,’ the first man said sadly, shaking his head. ‘Poor old gentleman. Not long for this world.’ He crossed himself, and we did likewise.

  The innwife had come out with a plate of little meat pasties, which she set down on a stool in front of us.

  ‘Will you try these, sir?’ She turned to the sorrowful faced villager. ‘What tales you do tell, Jacob. Sir Anthony is younger than you by at least five years, mebbe more. And he was ill in the spring, but I’ve heard from my cousin’s girl, who works up at the manor, that Sir Anthony is much better, and like to be with us yet a while.’

  This was encouraging news. In fact, I even felt able to sample one of the innwife’s pasties, which were fresh from the oven and still warm.

  ‘Excellent, mistress,’ I said. ‘You have a light hand with your pastry.’

  She blushed with pleasure. ‘I thank you, sir. You’re for seeing Sir Anthony today?’

  ‘I am. About two miles along the turn to the left, did you say? On the way to Long Wittenham?’

  ‘That’s it, sir. Mebbe not as much as two miles.’

  I stayed a little longer, much refreshed by the ale, and even ate another pasty before bidding the three of them a courteous farewell and mounting Rufus again. I wondered whether the inn had any other customers than the two old men, but reasoned that all the men and women of working age would be out in the fields. They probably ended their tiring days of farm labour here in the evening.

  The turning to Sir Anthony’s estate was not far and I rode down it in a state of high curiosity. All this time we had been talking about Emma’s probable inheritance, but I had no real idea of the extent of the property.

  Then – in less than two miles, I was sure – the road took a turn through a belt of woodland and emerged at the lip of a shallow valley, meticulously cultivated to right and left of the road, while in the distance there appeared to be the beginning of a wooded hunting ground. Straight ahead, on a slight rise, stood what was clearly Emma’s ancestral home.

  It had started life as a small castle, a square keep standing on a man-made motte, but later generations had built on to this austere tower a comfortable timber house above a stone undercroft, well provided with windows, whereas the tower had only arrow embrasures. It was a substantial building with three bays and roofed with slates. On such an extensive roof, those slates spelled wealth. As did the glazed windows. Villeins were working in the fields, hoeing the weeds out from amongst the grain crops and beans. A water meadow lying beside what must be a tributary of the Thames was filled with sleek cattle. The whole was busy, well maintained, and prosperous.

  If this was Emma’s inheritance, it placed her in rank far beyond the reach of an Oxford shopkeeper.

  * * *

  Once the wide gate to Osney Abbey was opened, Edwin drove the cart without hesitation to a space close to the stables, where Thomas and Edgar unhitched the horses and led them within, following one of the abbey grooms. It seemed that even here the candle-makers would live in their cart, not the guest hall, but Emma was interested to see that when the monks were served their supper, a generous portion was sent out to the travellers from the abbey kitchen.

  ‘It do save our time,’ Aelwith explained. ‘I can be makin’ candles, not cookin’ food. ’Tis part of our agreement – meals while we be here and coin at the end.’

  ‘Do you supply the wax?’ Emma asked. She had not thought it right to explore the working section of the cart.

  ‘Aye, if the customer has not their own. Here at Osney they will have wax enough from their own hives.’

  ‘But where do you obtain the wax, if they do not?’ Emma said.

  ‘Most folk keep a skep of bees and are glad to sell us the wax for coin, using rush dips or tallow candles themselves.’

  ‘And do you make tallow candles too?’

  Aelwith gave a scornful sniff. ‘Only when times are hard. We’m wax candle-makers, my dear. My father is a member of the Guild of Wax Chandlers in London Town. He was apprenticed there as a boy, rose to Master Chandler, but my mother fretted to come back to Oxfordshire after Edgar was born, and I was born here. Mostly we serve the monasteries, and a few of the great houses, who’ve no call for tallow dips – foul, stinking things – though sometimes they do want them for servants’ quarters.’

  Emma nodded. She had noticed that the lantern in the cart the previous night had been lit by a good wax candle, not tallow, as she had expected.

  Once they had eaten the supper provided by the abbey, they had all retired early to bed, planning an early start in the morning. Emma did not sleep so well as on the previous night, after a lazy day sitting in the cart. And the sound of the abbey bell ringing for Matins and Lauds woke her with the accustomed reaction. She had half risen, sleepily preparing to descend the night stairs for service, when she remembered where she was, and what she had become. When she woke again, she found she was the last to rise.

  Edgar and Thomas had set up a large rectangular brazier in the cobbled yard, well away from the stables, and were feeding it with sticks, while Edwin and the boy Jak emerged from the front of the cart, carrying between them a tin tub, rectangular like the brazier, which they fixed above it. Aelwith was rummaging in a sack and drawing out irregular pieces of wax honeycomb, from which all the honey had been extracted.

  Emma carefully eased her sandals over her feet, which were healing, but left the straps loosely buckled, then climbed down the steps at the rear of the cart to join Aelwith, who smiled at her. Emma noticed that the wax contained quite a few impurities, mostly dead bees or fragments of the wings or bits of leaves and petals.

  Before she could ask how the candle-makers could obtain the pure wax needed for the best quality candles which the abbey would demand, Edwin returned from the cart with a mesh of woven wires, which he set over the tin tank.

  ‘Now ye may help, my dear,’ Aelwith said. ‘Lay the combs flat along the mesh. As the wax melts in the heat, this rubbish be left behind, see?’

  Emma did see. A very simple but effective way of cleaning the wax.

  While she and Aelwith worked with the wax, the men set up more equipment, which they arranged on two of the stools. She saw that it consisted of a row of brass moulds, the size and shape to make almost the largest of the church cand
les, about two feet high and four inches in diameter. Then they stood another set of moulds directly on the ground, the largest of all, three feet high and six inches in diameter. For the altar candles.

  Aelwith went back to the cart and returned with a large bundle of dried rushes. Seeing Emma’s puzzled face, she laughed.

  ‘Wicks for the candles. Ye can easily help with this. Watch, now.’

  She took one of the rushes and cut off the head with a knife from a sheath at her belt, leaving it with a small length of stem. It was the same knife she had used for eating. The rush head she set aside. Then she began to peel the rush, revealing the pith. She laid it down and picked up another.

  ‘Will you throw the rush heads away?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Nay, they can be used for rush dips.’

  ‘You have left a bit unpeeled,’ Emma pointed out, picking up the first rush.

  ‘Aye. That’s meant. If we do take off all the peel, so there’s nothing but pith, it would bend and fall apart. No use for a wick.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Emma felt foolish. Of course that would happen. ‘I think I could do that.’

  Aelwith cut the heads off several more rushes and handed them to Emma, who found that it was not quite as easy as she had supposed to leave that one neat strip of peel remaining. She persisted, and began to make a better show of it. From time to time as they worked, Aelwith got up to check on the progress of the filtered wax, adding more combs when there was room. Edwin took some of Aewith’s peeled rushes and began securing them in the moulds.

  Once there was a good pile of prepared rushes, Aelwith cut them into different lengths, working entirely by eye. She now seemed to have decided there was enough wax melted in the trough, and called to Thomas to remove the wire grid, which he did gingerly, holding it with a thick cloth wrapped round his hand.

  ‘That’s how my fool brother burnt himself,’ Aelwith said. ‘Always in a hurry. Did not use a thick enough cloth. That gets main hot, that do.’

  Emma was beginning to feel a little nervous herself about working with so many scalding hot objects.

  ‘Now,’ Aelwith said, taking up a length of rush in each hand. They were about a foot long. ‘Ye must keep about an inch or so clear at the top, for to hold by. As ye are just startin’, mebbe two inches. Then ’tis dip and cool, dip and cool. Like this.’

  She dipped the two lengths of rush into the hot melted wax, held them there for a moment, then lifted them out and held them well above the heat. The thin skin of wax shone wet, then slowly turned dull. She dipped again and repeated the process. Gradually the wax began to build up around the wicks until it assumed the thickness of a standard household candle.

  ‘Do ye think ye can do that, my dear?’ Aelwith laid down her candles on a large cloth Edgar had spread on the ground.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Emma said, taking up two lengths of rush and dipping them in the wax. The heat rushed up toward her hands and she jerked them back.

  ‘Ye’ll not burn if you stay clear of the wax.’

  Emma nodded, ashamed of her cowardice. This time she managed to hold the wicks in the wax about as long as she though Aelwith had done. When she lifted them out, to her delight they each had a fine covering of molten wax. She plunged them in again.

  ‘Too soon,’ Aelwith said. ‘Ye must wait for the wax to cool, or the next layer will not stick.’

  Emma tried again, and this time received a nod of approval. Aelwith watched until the candles were thick enough to satisfy her.

  ‘Now wait until they are hard, then lay them down next to mine.’

  Emma did as she was bid. She had been so absorbed in her own work she had not noticed that Aelwith had made three more pairs of candles. Her own pair were somewhat uneven, but perhaps not totally lopsided. Aelwith watched while Emma made two more pairs, each a little more even than the ones before.

  Aelwith nodded. ‘Ye’ll do fine. Thomas, ye may take my place. And where’s that scamp Jak?’

  Jak, it seemed, was in the stables talking to the grooms, but was soon fetched to his work, joining Emma and Thomas at the dipping. Emma saw that Jak finished two pairs of candles to her one, and determined to catch him up. Aelwith and Edwin now set to work on the big moulded candles, using long handled dippers to collect wax from the trough, then pouring the molten wax into the moulds.

  ‘Have to work quick, see,’ Edwin said, as he politely eased her aside to reach more wax. ‘Otherwise it leaves a ridge on the candle, between pourin’. Can’t have that on the altar candles.’

  Emma realised that only the Master Chandler and his daughter had the skill to make the moulded candles of the quality required for the abbey. She had never thought about the many processes required in the making of something so essential to life as a candle, or so vital to the due worship of God. Whenever she lit a candle in future, she would treat it with more respect.

  They paused in their labours to eat the dinner provided by the abbey, and Aelwith laid out more combs on the mesh to filter into the tank, while Edgar, who could do little else with one hand bandaged, fetched more fuel from the abbey store for the brazier. As they were preparing for the afternoon’s work, a plump little monk came bustling across from the church.

  ‘The sacristan,’ Edwin murmured. ‘Come to check whether our candles do meet with his approval.’

  It was Edwin who went forward to meet the monk and display the candles which had been made in the morning. Although it was Aelwith who had appeared to direct the work, clearly the monk would not recognise a woman as being in charge. It seemed he was satisfied, and gave them all a quick nod. Just before leaving them to their work, he noticed Emma for the first time, frowned as if he did not know what to make of her, then turned away. She found she was holding her breath. Thomas had thought her a boy at first. She could only hope the monk thought so as well, or he might have punished her for assuming men’s garb. At all costs he must not see her shorn head, or he would recognise her for what she was. Suddenly it occurred to her that word might have gone out from Godstow to the other religious houses in the neighbourhood, since they were the principal providers of hospitality to travellers. They might be expected to encounter Godstow’s wandering renegade.

  The work seemed much harder in the afternoon. Emma found that her arms and shoulders had begun to ache, shooting pains ran up the top of her spine and into her neck every time she held her candles in the air, waiting for them to cool enough to dip again. The repeated motion, though holding nothing heavier than a pair of candles, was more wearing than working in the laundry. By the time they had finished, when the long summer daylight at last started to fade, Emma had begun to hate the sight of wax, though by then there was a large heap of the dipped candles. The third batch of the great moulded candles had been carefully laid with the others in a wide, shallow basket provided by the abbey.

  Even the others were tired, although they did not seem to be in such pain as Emma, so there was little talk over supper, although Aelwith regarded the completed candles with satisfaction.

  ‘I think us’ll need just one more day, Father.’

  ‘Aye. The weather is holdin’.’ He gestured vaguely at the sky, which was entirely cloudless, dotted with the first of the evening stars. ‘Make an early start tomorrow, finish by evenin’, be off next mornin’ for Oxford.’

  That would suit Emma very well. She would travel with the candle-makers to Exeter College, and ask there for her aunt. What she was to do thereafter, she was not sure. Would her aunt have found work in Oxford? She would need some source of income, although Emma could not picture what her aunt might do. In the past she had helped her husband run their yeoman holding, herself often instructing the manager her uncle hired after the death of their elder son, little Maysant’s father, but there could be no call for Mistress Farringdon’s country skills in a town like Oxford. Would she be able to help Emma find work?

  Jocosa had spent the day making friends with the candle-makers’ elderly hound and following him about the
abbey enclave, but when Emma lay down exhausted to sleep, she curled up happily under her mistress’s arm. Both slept soundly until called to an early start by Edwin.

  Chapter Ten

  Although the manor of Sir Anthony Thorgold seemed steeped in rural tranquillity, his people kept a sharp look-out in these somewhat lawless times. A boy who had been scaring crows away from the bean field left his task and went running ahead of me toward the house, so that by the time I reached the gate in the perimeter wall a dignified elderly man, carrying a staff of office, was already making his way out to meet me. Sir Anthony’s steward, no doubt.

  ‘God give you good greeting, sir,’ he said, with old fashioned dignity.

  ‘God’s blessing on this house and its people,’ I responded, taking my cue from his manner. ‘I am Master Nicholas Elyot of Oxford. I wrote to Sir Anthony, requesting the favour of a meeting.’

  He bowed a head of thick grey hair in acknowledgement. ‘You are expected, Master Elyot.’

  I dismounted, and almost before my feet touched the ground there was a smart young groom at my elbow, ready to lead Rufus to the stables set against the inside of the perimeter wall. The steward bowed me in through the open gate and across a cobbled yard to a wide outside stairway. This led up to the upper, timber-framed portion of the house. In the stone built undercroft a wide doorway stood open beyond the stairway, allowing a glimpse of a partitioned storeroom inside. Like the farmland without, within the manor’s compound everything was orderly and well managed.

  The steward led the way up the steps, then opened a heavy oak door and stood aside for me to enter. After the bright sun outside, it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust themselves to the dimmer interior, although the room was relatively well lit by the ample windows. The manor was a curious mixture of styles. Although the exterior of the house seemed modern, the interior had a curiously old fashioned look. We had entered a large hall with a dais at one end, and doors leading to the family’s private quarters at the other. But for the windows, it might have been built two hundred years ago. Perhaps this had been the first extension to the old castle, and the windows had been added more recently by knocking out some of the wattle and daub between the oak framework. Clearly this was a family which clung to some of the old ways, while embracing certain modern comforts. The house did not retain the old habit of a smoke hole amongst the rafters, though the signs of soot amongst the high roof beams showed that originally smoke had escaped that way. There were now two large and handsome fireplaces, and outside I had observed the modern stone built chimneys.