by Ann Swinfen
‘Aye. Best to keep him under my eye. Tomorrow we will try going east, along the road to Otmoor, but I tell you in confidence, Master Elyot, I am beginning to lose hope. I fear the maid has suffered some mishap.’
His words chilled me. ‘But surely, sheriff,’ I protested, ‘if she had come to harm, you would have found some trace by now. Could she have taken refuge in some cottage, and that is why you cannot find her?’
‘We have searched every house, cottage, barn, stable and hen house over all the ground we have covered. Never a sign.’
‘I shall come with you tomorrow,’ I said.
He looked at me curiously. ‘You have a mighty interest in this maid, Master Elyot.’
I felt the blood rising to my face.
‘I have spent most of the day with her grandfather, an old man who was very ill in the spring. She is his only kin. I have promised him not to abandon the search.’
‘Of course,’ he said, though I saw that he still eyed me speculatively.
I returned Rufus to the Mitre, then walked to Merton, where I climbed the stairs to Philip Olney’s small kingdom of books.
‘Did he sign?’ he asked, barely pausing to greet me.
‘He did. And has taken your advice about his will. His man of law will be there tomorrow. He did believe that Emma had gone of her own will to Godstow and was bitter that she had not even troubled to bid him a last farewell.’
‘You undeceived him?’
‘I did. He wants her to live with him.’ I did not mention my misgivings to Philip.
‘Here is the signed document.’ I drew it from the scrip and laid it on his desk. ‘You had best keep it safe, under lock and key if you can, as Emma’s man of law. Until it shall be needed.’
He unrolled the scroll and studied the signature and seal. ‘A fine bold flourish,’ he said. ‘So he is not so frail and ill after all.’
‘Indeed he is not. The illness which laid him low in the spring was not fatal. Talk of his dying seems to have been exaggerated local gossip.’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Well, now all that remains is to find the maid and bring her to safety. There is no news from the searchers. I have just returned from the castle.’
‘And I. You must have been not long ahead of me. I will have a word with Jordain tonight, tell him how I fared with Sir Anthony, then tomorrow I will join the search. The sheriff plans to go northeast to Otmoor. I have little hope of discovering anything there.’
By the time I had visited Hart Hall and told Jordain of all that had happened that day, I found I was remarkably tired and went to my bed soon after the children. Margaret regarded me with concern, but said nothing.
Early the following morning I joined Cedric Walden and his men at Carfax, where we had agreed the previous evening to meet. I thought that both the deputy sheriff and his men looked tired and discouraged. They rode up St Giles at a slow amble, showing none of the eagerness that had animated the search on the first day. As we headed right handed on to the road to Banbury, I moved Rufus forward until I was beside Walden.
‘Where do you plan to search today? Do you truly believe the maid could have headed this way?’
He shrugged. It was clear that he was losing enthusiasm for the task, but he had given his word that he would continue. I wondered how long he would reckon that promise should be valid. Perhaps until he was called away to deal with some other crime or emergency.
‘I thought we would head over Otmoor way, then work south along the far side of the Cherwell to Shotover, then back through the East Gate.’
I looked at him dubiously. ‘I cannot think why she should have gone that way. What could have been her aim? Her aunt is in Oxford. Her grandfather lives further south, and her way to either would lie in or through Oxford.’
‘Yet we have twice searched the direct road from Godstow to Oxford,’ he said. ‘We returned that way yesterday, after our fruitless search to the north. In case we had missed something the first time, we quartered every field and copse, turned villeins out of their hovels and harried the yeoman farmers. I am convinced she never came that way.’
‘Has Malaliver taken himself off?’ I had seen no sign of Emma’s stepfather, but did not believe he would abandon the search so easily.
‘Nay, he will ride across from Godstow on the road east, and meet us where our roads cross. He claims his lymers are the best in England, but I have brought some of our own as well.’
I nodded. I had noticed half a dozen of the tracking dogs following behind us, though I doubted they would prove any more successful than Malaliver’s hounds. As more time passed, I was beginning to share Walden’s fear that some accident had befallen Emma.
While we continued to ride north I told Walden in more detail about my visit to Sir Anthony.
‘So you now have evidence that he supports his granddaughter’s desire to leave the nunnery?’
‘We have.’
‘Although it will be of little use unless we can find the maid. It seems you were right. She is indeed an heiress. Grounds enough for that stepfather of hers to be tempted.’
‘Of course, we have no proof against him,’ I admitted reluctantly.
‘I suppose proof will be difficult to find. Giving the maid as an oblate is no proof. He could claim that he was doing his best for her.’
‘Against her will. And, it seems, without the knowledge of her grandfather, her blood kin and a man of much higher rank than Malaliver.’
‘That does smack of subterfuge,’ he said. ‘Unless there was an arguably good reason not to tell him. When did he suffer this severe illness?’
‘Not until the spring of this year. Long after Emma had been sent to Godstow.’
‘Then it seems to me that Malaliver will have some serious questions to answer, should the matter go to court. Ah, and here is the gentleman in question.’
Falke Malaliver was indeed approaching from our left, surrounded once again by his armed retainers, who slightly outnumbered Walden’s men. His huntsmen followed with the lymers but, I was relieved to see, Malaliver was continuing to obey the deputy sheriff’s orders and had left the alaunts behind at Godstow. I wondered what the gentle nuns like Sister Mildred would be thinking of those vicious beasts.
Malaliver gave a cursory nod in Walden’s direction, ignored me, and spurred his horse to the head of the company. Walden would not tolerate that and soon overtook him, but I had no wish to ride near Malaliver. I dropped back amongst the men from the castle.
Before long we approached the edge of Otmoor, a strange area of marsh and standing pools, surrounded by what are known at the ‘seven towns’ of Otmoor, though none are more than villages: Oddington, Beckley, Fencott, Murcott, Noke, Charlton-on-Otmoor and Horton-cum-Studley (though the last might count as two). My scrivener Roger came from Beckley and his widowed mother lived there still. An ancient road built by the Romans crossed it on higher ground, some of it a man-made causeway. I have always supposed that the name meant ‘Otter Moor’, but some learned scholars in Oxford, who study these things, assert that it is ‘Otta’s Moor’, but dispute the identity of this Otta.
We had a long day of it, riding around the moor, searching the seven villages and questioning the villagers. We even made a foray on to the moor itself, a bleak place inhabited by wildfowl who took to the air with a clatter of wings as we approached. No doubt the villagers snared them and caught fish in the streams and pools dotted over the whole moor, but no one would ever farm here, for it was forever flooding.
There were bullaces and blackberries, not yet ripe, amongst the tangled undergrowth below willow copses around the edges of the marshy ground. I even caught sight of a pair of young otters tussling in one of the pools. The place had its own distinctive smell, compounded of water and mud, peat bog, rotting vegetation, and a kind of ferocious fertility. Despite this fertility, Otmoor would never make farmland. However much puny Man tried to drain it, Nature’s irresistible hand would raise the waters from some secret source, deep un
derground. The fertility here was of a much wilder, more ancient kind, the land’s own vigorous cycle of rebirth and growth, quite untouched by human hand. I found the place disturbing, yet somehow exciting, uninhibited.
As I expected, there was no sign of Emma, for why should she ever come to this lonely place? I suppose Cedric Walden was right to be thorough, extending the search for Emma in every possible direction radiating out from the gatehouse of Godstow Abbey, but I had never believed that today’s foray into Otmoor would yield any evidence that Emma had come this way.
Weary and discouraged, we began the long ride back to Oxford. We had spent so long about Otmoor there was no time left to ride south to Shotover. Our horses were as exhausted as we were, for they had laboured through the boggy ground across and around the moor. Even where some attempt had been made to improve the trackways, the moor had a way of insidiously undermining them. The recent storm had not improved matters. The heavy rain had raised the level of the meres and increased to flow of the river Ray and its tributaries. We were a muddy, dispirited troop when we halted at the crossroads where Falke Malaliver and his men would take the westward road across to Godstow, while the rest of us turned south along the Banbury road to Oxford.
With no clear intention of doing so, I found myself near Malaliver as he took an abrupt leave of the deputy sheriff.
‘There is one direction in which we have not ventured,’ he said. His tone was arrogant, as if instructing Walden in his duty. ‘Across the river to the west of the abbey.’
‘The maid could not have gone that way,’ Walden explained patiently. ‘There was no boat taken. And there is no other way to cross the river. On that side of the Thames there is nothing but ruins and deserted farms. Nowhere to find food or shelter or help from humankind.’ He glanced uneasily over his shoulder at me. ‘Even supposing she could have gone that way – and, as I say, I do not believe she could – then I fear she would have little chance of surviving.’
A curious expression flickered over Malaliver’s face. I thought: He is calculating how his plans will be affected if Walden is right. And if she is . . . I shied away from the word . . . if she has not survived, he will need proof.
I eyed the man. What would he do next?
As if he had read my thoughts, Malaliver cast a patronising look at Walden.
‘I, at least, shall not leave the task unfinished. Tomorrow I shall demand a boat to take me with my men across the river from the abbey. We will see whether there is any sign of my stepdaughter to be found there. I shall establish whether she could have gone that way.’
‘You must do as you wish.’ Walden spoke with cold politeness. ‘I shall not be able to accompany you. I have duties in Oxford tomorrow which cannot be neglected. I wish you God speed. Should you discover anything, you will of course report to me.’
It was clear that Malaliver did not care to be spoken to in such a way, like some minion receiving orders from the deputy sheriff. He gave a grunt, a curt nod, and turned away on the road to Wolvercote, followed by his men, who had overheard the exchange and looked disgruntled at the prospect of yet another day like today. They were followed in turned by the huntsmen with the lymers, now on chains. Dogs and huntsmen, who had walked all day, seemed scarce able to move one foot before the other as they trailed wearily after the horsemen. I hoped the kitcheness at Godstow would feed them well on their return, for I ached with exhaustion myself, and I had been mounted.
Walden and I, followed by his men and dogs, headed south, and were both too tired to speak for a long while, but as we came to St Giles, I roused myself.
‘I wonder,’ I said, but then broke off, thinking that what I had been about to say sounded foolish.
‘You wonder . . . what?’ Walden raised his eyebrows and waited for me to continue.
‘This idea that Emma Thorgold might have crossed the river. I have discounted it from the start, but after our failure to find any trace elsewhere, I am not quite so sure. If you remember, after all those weeks without rain, the rivers were running quite low. I know that Emma had been punished for wading in the river on the far side of the island, just off the meadow where they keep the goats.’
‘Go on,’ he said, as I hesitated.
‘The night she disappeared was the night of that thunderstorm. Until the storm filled the rivers again, the level was low. The lowest it has been all year. Could she have waded across? Gone that way from the abbey?’
He looked at me thoughtfully. ‘It would explain why the dogs have not been able to pick up her scent outside the gatehouse. I have always been puzzled by that. Everyone says that was the only way she could have gone. And that there was no boat at the time which she could have used to cross the river. But I wonder whether you might be right. Even with the level low, would it have been low enough for her to wade?’
I shrugged. ‘Who can tell? And it would be impossible to judge now, for everywhere the water level is higher since the storm.’
‘So you think Malaliver has the right of it, to search along that bank tomorrow?’
‘It is possible.’
We were coming to the North Gate, and our ways would soon part.
‘I think I might make a small search of my own,’ I said, assuming a careless tone of voice, which I do not suppose deceived Walden for a moment. ‘I will not join Malaliver, never fear! Nay, I think I might start from the other end. If I ride out past the castle, across Bookbinder’s Island, and take the road toward Osney, I think there is a way up the far side of the Thames, all the way until you are level with Wolvercote but on the other side. I might go that way. Try to find that path.’
‘It can do no harm,’ Walden said. ‘Shall I lend you some men? Dogs?’
‘Nay. It is probably a foolish notion. No need for your men to waste their time. And no need for dogs either. I have nothing to give them the scent. You have business of your own tomorrow. I shall make assay by myself, and if it is fruitless, it troubles no one but myself.’
We had reached Carfax. Walden halted his horse and smiled quietly.
‘I think she must be a very remarkable maid, this Emma Thorgold,’ he said.
I looked him steadily in the eye.
‘She is,’ I said.
* * *
The second day at Osney went much as the first. Emma’s shoulders continued to ache and, growing careless in the afternoon she splashed herself slightly with hot wax. Aelwith smeared it at once with a salve of febrifuge herbs, which she kept to hand.
‘There always be one or two scalds,’ she said. ‘’Tis not to be helped. Ye be growin’ tired. Rest for a while.’
Emma shook her head. ‘Nay, ’twas my own carelessness. I want to help you finish today.’
She set to again, with more circumspection this time. At first today she had been slow, still even slower than the boy Jak, but now she was beginning to develop some skill. It took practice to judge both how long to dip the candle in the molten wax and when the wax, cooling out in the air, had turned to the right shade of dull cream before it could be dipped again. For a short time she stopped to watch Aelwith and Edwin making the altar candles. By now she realised that what appeared simple certainly was not. The wax in the moulds must not be allowed even to begin to harden before each new layer was added, or the candle would have an irregular, striped look. At first she wondered why they did not pour all the wax into the mould at once, but now she realised that for these huge candles it would be far too heavy to handle with the skill required. As each of the great candles was finished, it was freed from the mould – with bated breath, lest it break – then Aelwith polished it with a silk cloth to remove any imperfections and produce a gleaming surface as fine as the silk itself.
They did not stop this second day to eat a cooked dinner, but made do with bread and cheese while they worked. Edwin was anxious that all should be completed before the end of the day, so that there would be no need to light the brazier and melt more wax the next morning. That would mean waiting until all was
cool again before they could pack up the cart, causing a delayed departure. And by Vespers they were finished. Edwin and Thomas made three trips to the sacristan’s office, carrying the everyday candles in sacks and the huge basket of church candles, coming away with a heavy purse of coin. After a final meal provided by the abbey, the candle-makers packed up as many of the tools of their trade as they could. The brazier and melting trough would cool overnight, now that the fire in the brazier had been extinguished when they finished work. A layer of wax was congealing in the bottom of the tin tank, but would be left to be used in a few days at Exeter College. Everything else was ready for a prompt start in the morning.
The sky was overcast the next day, and the candle-makers were gloomy at the prospect.
‘Us cannot work if it do rain,’ Aelwith said.
Emma nodded. The danger from fire and hot wax meant working out of doors, unless the customer could provide a place sheltered from the rain. It seemed unlikely that such would be available at an Oxford college. However, it was not raining yet.
When they were all but ready to leave, Jak could not be found anywhere. Edwin was angry, his plans frustrated, for he had hoped to reach the college in time to make a start during the afternoon, for fear that rain might come on later. While the men finished loading the cart and saw to the horses, Aelwith and Emma went in search of the boy.
‘He’ll surely not have gone a-huntin’,’ Aelwith said crossly. ‘That lad goes everywhere with his bow, but the abbot will not be pleased, if he’s shootin’ rabbits from the abbey’s warren.’
Fortunately for Jak, he had not embarked on any poaching of the abbey’s game, but was discovered in the kitchen, where one of the servants had treated him to a slice of seedcake and a handful of raisins. Aelwith thanked the servant somewhat grimly, took Jak by the collar of his cotte and marched him back to the cart. Jak looked in no way abashed. Emma suspected this was not the first time he had found his way to a friendly kitchen.
As soon as they returned with the truant, Thomas and Edgar hitched up the three horses in line and led them toward the gatehouse, Edwin once again driving, with Jak at his side, where he could be watched. Aelwith sat near the back of the cart, having taken up her spinning again. Emma perched at the top of the rear steps, looking for the last time at Osney Abbey. Her feet, resting on the uppermost step, were almost healed, though she would need to be careful not to allow her sandals to rub again. She had kept the cloths bound round the worst places and had tied her bundle again at her waist, leaving her hands free to carry Jocosa when she parted with the candle-makers after reaching Oxford.
