by Ann Swinfen
The steward did not pause in the great hall but led me at the same dignified pace toward a door at the far end, where he knocked and was bidden to enter.
‘Master Nicholas Elyot of Oxford, Sir Anthony,’ he announced.
Once again he stood aside for me.
It was a comfortable modern room, not unlike the Warden’s lodgings at Merton which I had visited recently. However, here the walls were hung with Flemish tapestries depicting scenes from the Old Testament, far too expensive even for a wealthy college like Merton. Despite the warmth of the day, a small fire was burning in an elaborately carved fireplace. There were chairs with arms, made even more comfortable with cushions, although I noticed that their needlework was somewhat faded with age. The work of Sir Anthony’s late wife? A low table held a wax candle in a silver candlestick and four books, one of which lay open, with an aestle, a gold and ivory page turner, laid across it to keep the place. All the books had excellent bindings of beautifully tooled leather, and the parchment of the open book was of the very finest quality. The room smelled fresh and clean. Somewhere there was lavender.
The man who rose from the chair which stood between this table and the fireplace was perhaps in his seventies, but still strongly built, although his flesh was a little sparse on the bones, perhaps as the result of his illness in the spring. He had an upright, knightly bearing, which caused me to wonder whether he had seen service in the French wars at a younger age. Despite this, I saw that a stick was propped against the side of his chair, as though he might need its aid in walking.
‘Sir Anthony,’ I said, bowing deeply, ‘I thank you for agreeing to see me.’
He returned my bow. ‘You are most welcome, Master Elyot, although I am at a loss as to this matter of my granddaughter which you wish to discuss.’ His manner was not unfriendly, but it was marked with a certain reserve.
He motioned me to a chair facing him and lowered himself carefully down into his own chair, as though his back pained him. I remembered my grandmother seating herself with the same wincing care.
‘Hawkley,’ Sir Anthony said, ‘have wine and refreshments sent up. Master Elyot has had a long ride.’
The steward bowed. ‘At once, Sir Anthony.’ He withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.
While waiting for a servant to appear, Sir Anthony led the talk to commonplace matters – the recent storm, the prospects for the harvest, the latest news of the king’s campaigns. Once we were served with a fine golden wine in silver gilt cups and a plate of almond and fig sweetmeats, he sat back in his chair, clearly prepared for the serious business of my visit.
‘Now, Master Elyot, you said in your letter that it was a matter of my granddaughter’s final vows. Has she then changed her purpose? I am not of a mind to listen to any shilly-shallying on her part. If she has chosen to take the veil, she must stand by her choice.’
The tone of his voice had shifted from the polite to the bitter, and his mouth was set hard. I was momentarily taken aback, so that I blurted out without choosing my words with any care, ‘But, Sir Anthony, Emma was forced into the nunnery by her stepfather! She never sought to take the veil.’
He frowned. ‘What is this? I was told – a year ago, it must be – that after losing her mother, who was my former daughter-in-law, Emma was so bereft that she sought the peace of the enclosed life.’
‘Forgive me, Sir Anthony, but did she tell you this herself?’
‘Nay. I had seen her not long before. There was no mention of it then.’ His voice was even more bitter. ‘She came here on a visit with her mother’s relatives, the Farringdons. Her aunt and uncle, and her cousins. They went on to Malaliver’s manor. It adjoins mine, just touching on the southern boundary of my land.’
He made an abrupt gesture with his hand, as much a dismissal of Malaliver as an indication of the direction. ‘Her mother died shortly afterwards and I have not seen her since.’
‘And when did you hear that she had chosen to become a nun?’
He frowned again, and his hands, which had lain loosely in his lap, suddenly came together in a fierce grip.
‘It was a few weeks later. A letter from her stepfather. She had already left for Godstow. She did not even care to come and bid me farewell before withdrawing from the world forever.’
Despite his dignity and his formal manner, I could hear the hurt underlying the words. I leaned forward.
‘Sir Anthony, your granddaughter was sent under armed guard and against her will to the abbey. Moreover, Falke Malaliver signed documents to say that he was giving her as an oblate, provided with a substantial dowry. He did everything he could to ensure that she was locked up in the nunnery for life.’
His whole body stiffened. ‘You are sure of this?’
‘Completely. I have had it from Emma herself.’
‘How can that be?’ He frowned again, full of doubt. ‘You were allowed to see her?’
‘Through a curious set of circumstances, I have come to know her.’
I set out as swiftly as possible how I had met Emma through the murder of her cousin William, my growing involvement with the Farringdon family, and Emma’s work in the scriptorium at Godstow. My purchase of the book of hours she had made. I knew that Mistress Farringdon must have told him something of this in her letter, but I wanted to make all clear. As he listened, I saw that Sir Anthony’s initial look of disbelief gradually vanished.
‘And you say that she is afraid she will be forced to take her final vows against her will?’
‘She is. On her behalf I consulted a lawyer I know, and he advises that if you are prepared to support her in leaving the nunnery, the vows can be delayed until the matter is settled in court. Despite the stepfather’s actions, your will should override them, you being her blood kin, and more properly her legal guardian.’
I took Philip’s document out of the scrip at my belt.
‘The lawyer has drawn this up for me to bring to you, a statement that you support Emma’s wish to leave the monastic life.’
‘In that case, I will gladly sign.’ He reached out his hand, but I did not immediately hand him the document.
‘However,’ I said, ‘matters have changed since I saw Emma four days ago. Or is it five?’
I swallowed. I was unsure how Sir Anthony would take the latest piece of news.
‘When I returned to Godstow with the lawyer yesterday, planning to see the abbess and tell her that Emma’s friends would be disputing her confinement to the nunnery, it was to learn that she had disappeared more than a day earlier, most probably during the night. Extensive searches have been made by the deputy sheriff of Oxfordshire as well as all those about the abbey, but when I left Oxford this morning there had still been no sign of her.’
The old man turned pale, and his hands gripped more tightly together.
‘Anything might have happened to her,’ he said hoarsely.
I nodded, but said firmly, ‘As far as we can tell, no harm has come to her yet. But–’
He leaned forward. ‘What are you not telling me?’
Once again, I swallowed uncomfortably. ‘The abbess sent word to Falke Malaliver, to inform him of Emma’s disappearance. I was at Godstow when he arrived there, with a troop of armed men, and a pack of huntsmen bringing lymers and alaunts.’
At this he sprang from his chair with more vigour than I would I thought possible.
‘The devil he did! Was he proposing to hunt her like a wild animal?’
‘It seems so. That is when we fetched the deputy sheriff, who ordered him to kennel the alaunts, though they are still using the lymers in the hope of tracking her. I spent the day with them hunting for her yesterday. The hunt continues today. And will do until she is found.’
He picked up his stick and walked to the window, limping slightly, his back bowed. Before he turned away from me, I saw the glint of tears in his eyes.
‘This is my fault. I should have acted sooner, after her mother died.’ He was speaking softly, to him
self. ‘I should have sent for her to come and live with me at once. But it happened so quickly.’
‘I think that was done on purpose, Sir Anthony,’ I said. I knew I must tell him of our fears about Malaliver’s intentions to seize Emma’s inheritance, but it felt wrong to intrude upon his grief with such worldly matters. However, he picked up my remark at once.
Returning to his chair, he sat down and confronted me, in command of himself once more. ‘What do you mean by that, Master Elyot?’ he said.
‘We need to ask ourselves why Falke Malaliver was so anxious to thrust Emma into a nunnery immediately after her mother died,’ I said. ‘Also – and I had not thought of this before – why did he choose Godstow.’ I paused. ‘There are nunneries closer to here, are there not? Littlemore? Bromhale? Even Goring or Burnham? Perhaps he wished to send her well beyond your own country.’
‘There are many reasons why girls are sent to nunneries,’ he said, ‘and not always malicious. He has daughters himself. But if it was a question of lacking a dowry on my granddaughter’s marriage, the fellow must have known that I would provide it. Emma is the only kin I have left.’
Again I caught that echo of loneliness and sorrow.
‘Forgive me, Sir Anthony. This is not my affair. I ask only because I feel it has a bearing on Malaliver’s actions. Is Emma your heir?’
‘Until she entered the nunnery, certainly.’
‘But now?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘I should have made my will anew. I realised that, but I have been ill, and have taken no action yet.’
‘I believe,’ I said bluntly, ‘that Falke Malaliver is scheming to seize Emma’s inheritance. The situation is confused in law, but he might be able to make a case, through kinship by marriage to her mother.’
‘You think that was his reason for putting Emma in Godstow?’
I saw that his earlier doubtful look had given way to thoughtfulness.
‘I do. So does the lawyer I spoke of.’ I hesitated. I was reluctant to speak to such a man about his will, but it was he who had mentioned it. ‘He also said,’ I added, ‘the lawyer, that is – said that if he were your man of law, he would advise you to word your will carefully, so that under no circumstances would Falke Malaliver ever be able to inherit. He thinks this would be necessary for Emma’s safety, especially now she is no longer within the walls of Godstow. There, although she was restrained against her will, her life at least was safe.’
Even as I spoke, a sudden thought came to me. How safe was Sir Anthony himself? If Malaliver were to suspect that the will might be changed to bar him, was there a danger that he might take action against Sir Anthony before that could happen? If Sir Anthony were to die now, Emma would inherit, as she had not taken final vows. Then were she to disappear completely, or to die, Malaliver might still be able to seize the estate. I remembered again the sight of those vicious killing dogs. They could make short work of Emma, but was there any way Malaliver could attack her grandfather? My head had begun to ache with trying to work out all the possibilities.
‘Sir Anthony,’ I said, ‘I think you should send at once for your man of law to draw up a new will. And ensure that your own person is safe. Malaliver seemed to me a man bent on desperate measures.’
He nodded slowly. ‘That may be. I have heard rumours that the man is in debt. I shall do as you advise. My lawyer lives in Oxford, but I can send for him to come tomorrow. In the meantime I shall make sure that I am well protected.’ He smiled grimly. ‘I have faced men in battle often enough, but the devilish snake that works by dark means, of him I have little experience.’
He rang a small brass bell which stood on the table beside the books. Almost at once the steward appeared and Sir Anthony instructed him to send word immediately for his lawyer to come the next day from Oxford.
‘Now,’ he said, when the man was gone, ‘let me see this document you wish me to sign. Then I hope you will dine with me.’
I handed him Philip’s document, which he perused carefully before signing it and sealing it with wax stamped with a seal taken from his pocket. He returned it to me.
‘That should be sufficient to delay the process of making my granddaughter a nun, and may serve to put a stop to it altogether.’ He gave me a wan smile. ‘I am grateful to you, Master Elyot, for all you have done for the girl, who seems to have fallen in your way quite by chance.’
‘Had it not been for the tragedy of her cousin’s murder, we would not have met,’ I said, with wonderment as I did so. How frail the threads of mere chance.
‘And you are a bookseller, you say, though originally destined for scholarship or the law yourself?’
‘That was my father’s wish, and mine too until I met and fell in love. With a bookseller’s daughter. A married man cannot remain a scholar. I chose marriage.’
‘You and your wife have children?’
‘A boy and a girl, but my wife was taken in the Great Pestilence.’
‘Ah, I am sorry to hear that, and you so young. May God give her rest.’ He crossed himself. ‘You have not remarried?’
‘Nay.’
‘I too have lost many. My wife, my children. A man should not outlive his children.’
He sighed, then made a visible effort. ‘Tell me what you think of these books,’ he said, clearly uncomfortable that he had touched on the subject and wishing to change it. ‘I am not a scholar, but I saw to it that my sons were lettered. Emma learned from her father and also from her cousin William’s tutor. ’Tis pity in many ways that she was not born a boy. However, if she marries a man of good standing, he will be able to run this estate for her when I am gone.’
I inclined my head, but did not point out that I thought Emma would be well able to do so herself. If she was ever found. If she survived. My stomach twisted, and I pushed the thought aside. Instead I began to praise Emma’s skill in making the book of hours.
‘I hope that some day, when this is over, you will bring it to show me,’ he said.
Our talk turned to books until dinner was announced and we adjourned to the great hall, where I discovered that Sir Anthony kept to the old ways. We sat upon the dais with his steward, bailiff, and clerk, while his lesser servants and the men and women I had seen working in the fields were seated below us at trestle tables set up for the meal.
After we had dined, I made my farewells to Sir Anthony.
‘I want to return to Oxford in time to learn from the deputy sheriff how today’s search has fared,’ I said. ‘They were moving north to Woodstock and northwest to Witney and Burford. If that has proved fruitless, I expect they will try ranging over to the east.’
‘I cannot see why Emma would have gone anywhere but Oxford,’ he said, ‘since Mistress Farringdon is now living there.’
‘It does seem strange that no trace of her has been found on the nearest road from Godstow to Oxford. She would have known that was the way to go.’
‘You have not mentioned any search to the west. Could she have gone that way?’
I shook my head. ‘Unlikely. Godstow stands on an island, the only way out is over the bridge to Wolvercote. To go west she would have had to cross the river, and no boat is missing. And on the far side of the river the countryside is desolate, deserted since the Pestilence laid waste all the cottages and farms there. I see no reason why she should have gone that way.’
He accompanied me down to the manor courtyard, and a groom now brought Rufus, who wore the complacent look of a horse well fed and rested. When I had mounted, Sir Anthony laid his hand on Rufus’s neck.
‘You will send word if Emma is found?’
‘At once. You may be sure of it.’
‘And if you are able to speak to her, tell that I would be glad for her to come here to live with me.’
‘I will so.’
Then I bade him farewell again and rode away from the manor on the road back to the ferry. I wondered whether Emma would want to live here. I knew from Maud Farringdon that during her fath
er’s lifetime Emma had lived at her grandfather’s manor, with frequent visits to her cousins, but how would she view the prospect now? I could see that her grandfather was lonely and would welcome her company, but half formed already in his mind were plans to find her a suitable husband to take over the running of the estate. Would that seem any better a future to Emma than remaining within Godstow? Would she have any greater freedom tied to her lands instead of to God, and bound fast by an arranged marriage instead of bound fast by her monastic vows?
It seemed to me that Elizabeth, daughter of an Oxford burgess, had had greater freedom to choose her own future than ever Emma Thorgold would have, whichever path lay ahead of her.
This time I did not stop at the inn by the ferry, although I waved to the two old men who still sat on the bench outside as though they had grown there. Once across the river on the Clifton side I set Rufus to a brisk but undemanding pace, yet it was nearly nightfall by the time we reached Oxford, since I had remained with Sir Anthony far longer than I had intended.
On reaching the town, I went first to the castle, to enquire about the day’s search.
Cedric Walden shook his head. ‘Nothing. Neither man nor beast could find any trace.’
‘You are still using Malaliver’s lymers?’
