by Mel Starr
The space behind Amice Thatcher’s house was as I expected. The tubs and kettles necessary to her trade were there, and a door did indeed open from the house to this work space. It would be impolite to burst in upon the woman if she was within, so I rapped upon the door as I had earlier at the front of the house. There was, again, no response.
Oddly enough, this rear door was more stoutly constructed than its fellow at the front. Perhaps Amice believed that if some intruder sought uninvited entry he would be more likely to do so from the privacy of the toft than the street, where his deed might be observed. If so she thought, she was correct.
No fences separated Amice’s toft from those of her neighbors. I studied both spaces before turning to Arthur and making known my intent. There was no latch or lock upon this rear door — iron is too dear for such folk. The door was simply barred inside. A thin blade, slipped between door and jamb, might raise the bar and gain us entry. With my dagger, while Arthur kept watch, I hacked away at the doorframe until I could slide the dagger between door and jamb. The bar lifted readily.
Someone had been here before us. Amice Thatcher’s few belongings were strewn about the single room. Even the hearthstone in the middle of the chamber was overturned, and some man had dug up the soil beneath it. Arthur and I stood silently and gazed at the mess. After a moment I walked to the front door and tested it. It opened readily. It was not locked. Either Amice had failed to lock it when she and her children were taken off, or men had come in the night with a key. I chided myself that I had not tried the door the day before.
Little sunlight penetrated the single window of oiled skin, for the day was cloudy and a light drizzle had begun to fall. But there was enough light that the shambles which was Amice Thatcher’s home was plain.
“Didn’t tell ’em where the chapman found ’is coins,” Arthur said.
“Aye. Doesn’t know, or wouldn’t tell, else they would not have overturned this place seeking loot.”
“Did they come in the night, I wonder, or did this happen yesterday?” Arthur swept his hand and his gaze about the ruin.
“We might learn from the old woman who lives across the way. She strikes me as the sort who allows little to escape her notice.”
Arthur grinned agreement, and followed as I pushed through the front door and crossed the narrow lane to the crone’s hut. Vigorous thumping upon the woman’s door brought no response.
In the silence after my pounding Arthur heard something which had escaped me. The gentle mist softened other sounds, so when the old woman groaned a response to my knocking Arthur barely heard her and I heard nothing at all. And at the moment he was unsure of what he had heard.
I saw Arthur raise a finger and frown, then cock his head attentively toward the door.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Dunno… someone in there’s in trouble, I think. Heard a moan, like, just now.”
I tried the latch and the door swung open. If someone was within they had not troubled themselves to bar the door. They had not done so, I soon discovered, because they could not.
Rusty hinges squealed when I pushed the door open. When they quieted I heard from within the house a groan, frantic in nature, as if the soul who voiced it feared she would not be heard or discovered.
The interior of the house was dark, my vision obscured, but when I sought the source of the moaning I saw, propped against a wall, the shape of the old woman who had told me of Amice Thatcher’s departure the day before.
Rushes were thin upon the floor, and had not, I think, been changed for many months. So when I knelt beside the woman my knees rested upon dirt. She looked up to me and seized my arm with bony fingers when I bent close. Her bed lay nearby, and I wondered why, if she was ill, she had not sought it rather than the uncomfortable place where she lay, her head pillowed by the wall of her house. I soon discovered the reason.
“Kicked me, the knave,” she whispered.
“Who?”
“Them as was pryin’ about Amice’s house last night.”
The effort to report this to me sapped the woman’s strength. She had raised herself upon an elbow when she spoke, but fell back against the wall, exhausted, when she finished.
Arthur peered over my shoulder. I told him to take the old woman’s shoulders, and I would lift her feet. Together we would lay her upon the bed. Then, when she was more comfortable, perhaps I might learn more of who had kicked her and why they had been prowling about Amice Thatcher’s house. I thought I knew the answer to both questions.
The crone gasped when Arthur and I lifted her from the floor, but sighed gratefully when we set her gently upon her bed. I placed her pillow beneath her head, and when I did, she spoke again. “Ale,” she whispered.
Arthur heard, and crossed the small house to a crude table where rested an equally crude ewer. I watched as he lifted it, then turned it upside down.
“Empty,” he said. “Seen another ale house down toward the marketplace. Be back shortly.”
“Who was it did you this injury?” I asked when Arthur disappeared through the door.
“Dunno,” she mumbled. “Heard voices. Opened the door to see who was about so late, an’ saw a light in Amice’s house.”
The woman fell silent for a moment, as if to renew her strength, then continued. “Thought Amice was come home, so went ’cross the street to see was it so. Wasn’t.”
Again she hesitated, longer this time, and did not resume until Arthur entered with the ewer filled.
“Two men was searchin’ her place. Overturned all, they did.”
“You surprised them?”
“Aye.”
Arthur poured ale into a cup, gave it to me, and I lifted the woman’s head from her pillow so she could drink. The liquid seemed to invigorate her. She continued her tale with a stronger voice.
“I heard thrashin’ about, an’ seen they was up to no good, so left ’em an’ sought me own door, but one of ’em saw me an’ caught me up before I could get home. Knocked me down, ’e did, then kicked me in the ribs. Kicked me again, in the head. I must ’ave swooned, ’cause next I remember is the two of ’em draggin’ me inside. One said, ‘We can’t leave her on the street. Someone will find her, mayhap before we can finish the search.’
“They thought I was dead, see, or near so. The other said, ‘Don’t worry. Folk’ll not trouble themselves over some old woman found dead in her house.’ They left me where you found me.”
“Were these the same fellows who took Amice Thatcher away?”
“Dunno. Too dark, an’ they had but one cresset lit in Amice’s house.”
“Where did the fellow kick you?”
She drew a hand to her ribs. “Just here,” she said.
I touched the place through her threadbare cotehardie and the woman gasped under the light pressure of my fingertips. “Ow,” she rasped. “Hurts, that does.”
I touched another rib, above the tender place, and received no response. But when I moved my fingers lower, the crone caught her breath again. I found two cracked ribs where some villain had delivered a kick to the old woman’s side as she lay upon the street.
“You say he kicked you in the head, also?”
“Aye.”
“Let’s have your cap off and see what injury may be there.”
“Who are you, an’ why are you seekin’ out my wounds?”
“I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot on his manor at Bampton, and also a surgeon.”
“Master Hugh can fix you up proper, like,” Arthur said. “Ah, well, then, I thank you. Most folk don’t care much what befalls an old woman.”
Under the woman’s cap I found a small laceration in her scalp. The cap and her braided hair had cushioned the blow. The wound required no stitches, and although there was caked blood in her hair, a scab now stopped any further flow.
“Them rogues break her ribs?” Arthur asked.
“Aye. Two, I think.”
“What’ll be done
with her? Can she care for herself with two broke ribs?”
“Nay. She must be bound tight, and have care for many weeks. Return to St. John’s Hospital. Seek the infirmarer and tell him of what has happened here. Ask for two lay brothers to come for… what is your name?”
“Amabel. Amabel Maunder.”
“Have them bring a pallet. Amabel is too abused to walk, even with aid.”
Arthur departed for the hospital while I remained with my patient. I considered leaving her for a short while and seeking the New Inn, where I had left my instruments, but thought better of it. Nothing I had brought from Bampton would help Amabel Maunder, and the infirmarer at St. John’s Hospital would have linen, which could be wound tight about the old woman’s ribs to ease her pain while the bones knit, and herbs to dull the ache.
’Tis but a few paces from St. John’s Hospital to the bury, so Arthur returned with the lay brothers and a pallet in a short time. I saw Amabel received at the hospital, and made provision with the infirmarer and a sister to have her ribs bound, and for ale laced with the ground seeds of hemp to be provided her twice each day. There was nothing else to be done for Amabel, but I did promise the woman that I would return to her house, tell her neighbors of her plight, and ask them to keep watch over her house and scant possessions.
So it was that Arthur and I returned to the bury and met John Mashon. As we approached Amabel’s hut I heard from the toft next door a rhythmic thumping. I rapped upon the door of this house, but there was no response. The pounding in the toft covered the sound of my fist against the planks.
Arthur followed as I walked around the house to the toft. There I found a man flailing away upon a length of wet flax. He was preparing to make thread. The fellow was absorbed in his work, so did not notice our approach until we were nearly upon him. He stepped back in alarm when he did see us, and raised his flail before him as if to defend himself. Perhaps in the bury such readiness is needful.
“Amabel Maunder, your neighbor, was attacked last night,” I said quickly, and stopped in my place so to cause the man no further worry. “Did you see or hear anything?”
“Amabel? She’s got naught worth stealin’, and does no man harm.”
“She was not assailed for either of those reasons. She saw men lurking about Amice Thatcher’s house, and when they knew she saw, they knocked her down and kicked her. She has two broken ribs and a lump upon her head. I have taken her to St. John’s Hospital.”
“You have? Who are you?”
“A friend to Amice and Amabel. What do you know of last night and Amabel’s attackers?”
The man shook his head. “Heard somethin’ in the street, but it’s not healthful to meddle in other folk’s business.”
“Especially in the dark of night,” I agreed. “Did you hear any words which might tell who did this thing?”
The thread-maker hesitated. Perhaps he feared retribution. I assured him that I would hold his information secret. His furrowed brow did not relax. I think he set little store by my pledge, but after warring with himself, and considering what had befallen his inoffensive neighbor, he finally spoke.
“All was silent, see, else I wouldn’t ’ave heard.”
“Silent?”
“After the ruckus. ’Eard a screech, and voices, then all went still.”
“Amabel yelped when kicked,” I offered.
“Aye. They kicked ’er head, too?”
“They did. Then put her in her house, thinking she was dead, or near so.”
“Wasn’t right away after, but before I could fall to sleep I ’eard men speak, quiet like. Me wife slept through all, and the children, too. ‘We best be off,’ one said, ‘else we’ll not get back to East Hanney before day.’”
“Men love darkness rather than light,” holy writ says, “because their deeds are evil.”
Whoso had ransacked Amice Thatcher’s house, and dealt so perfidiously with Amabel Maunder, did not want anyone to know they had been upon Abingdon’s streets, so chose the night to work their malice. But where, I wondered, was East Hanney?
I had heard of the place before. The abbot was Peter of Hanney. The village must be near, for men to come from there to Abingdon and return in one night.
Arthur and I returned to the New Inn for our dinner, and while I consumed a meal of stewed capon I considered what I must do next. John Thrale’s find of coins and jewelry seemed to me likely to be hid in the forest where was found his cart and horse. Would his assailants come to the same conclusion?
Perhaps not, for they did not know of the coin Thrale had kept hidden in his cheek while they beat him. Without knowledge of the coin the men who sought his cache might look elsewhere for it, and the coins and jewels might remain where they had been hidden and safe for a thousand years.
But Amice Thatcher was not safe. I could not be sure where she was taken, but if the men who overturned her house and abused Amabel Maunder were of East Hanney, it seemed likely they had taken her and her children there. I must find the place and free the woman before some harm might come to her. If harm had not already come.
I am from Lancashire, having come to Oxford as a student at Balliol College. I know little of Oxfordshire, but I thought Arthur might know of East Hanney. He did not.
The abbey hosteler would know of the place. His abbot came from there, and, if asked, might keep my inquiry to himself. If foul deeds occurred at East Hanney, it would be well that those who did such wickedness did not know of my interest in the place.
Arthur and I hastened to the abbey after our dinner, and the porter’s assistant, when asked, went in search of Brother Theodore. The monk soon appeared with his linen bandage pressed close to his cheek, a questioning look to his features. I would not yet be permitted to deal with his fistula. He, no doubt, wondered what other business I wished with him.
“Good day, brother,” I greeted him. “Your abbot is called Peter of Hanney, is this not so?”
“Aye.”
“Where is Hanney? Is it near?”
“Aye, not far. Four miles… perhaps five.”
“Can you direct me to the place?”
“Aye. Go west on Ock Street, pass through Marcham, then take a road to the left. But if you seek the abbot, he will be here. He seldom returns to Hanney.”
“’Tis not him I seek, but two others.”
Brother Theodore’s brow furrowed. He did not ask, but I guessed his thoughts.
“I do not seek them as surgeon, but as bailiff. The woman I brought here three days past… she is missing. Two men of East Hanney, so I believe, have carried her and her children off.”
“Are these the thieves you spoke of, who did murder and were a threat to the woman?”
“Aye, the same.”
“There are two Hanneys, East and West.”
“From which does your abbot come?”
“West.”
“No matter. An abbot is not likely to have dealings with such men as took Amice Thatcher.”
At the New Inn Arthur and I made ready Bruce and the old palfrey, and shortly after the sixth hour we set off down Ock Street toward Marcham. The misty morning had become a cloudy afternoon, but dry. Wet or not, men were busy in the fields and forest as we passed by. Beechnuts and acorns littered the forest floor, and swineherds watched as their pigs sought the nuts. Final plowing of fallow fields was completed, and these fields were now being planted to wheat and rye. Small boys ranged through these newly sown fields, heaving clods at birds who would have the seed before it could be covered.
Past Marcham we found the road leading south to Hanney, and a short while later a squat church tower appeared, barely lifting above the trees. Less than a mile from the village the road entered a wood. I had considered how best to investigate the village, and the forest provided an answer.
At a place where the forest undergrowth was not so dense I signaled Arthur to stop, dismounted, and led Bruce from the road into the forest. Arthur followed. A hundred paces into the wood I stop
ped, tied Bruce to a small oak, and motioned to Arthur to do the same with his palfrey. All this time neither of us spoke, as if we thought we might be overheard, distant yet as the village was.
We pushed through the wet forest, becoming thoroughly damp, until we reached its southern limit. A field lay before us, encircled by a low stone wall, where grain had been cut some months before. Now sheep wandered across it, munching upon the stubble and manuring the ground for next year’s crop of peas or beans. A hundred paces across this field was a manor: a large house, several barns, and some smaller outbuildings. Many of these needed repair, as did the manor house. The thatching was old and decayed, and I could see a place where a chunk of daub had peeled away from the wattles. The lord of this manor was either uncaring or too poor to keep up his property. I wondered if he was too impoverished to see to his horse’s broken shoe.
Arthur stood beside me, gazing at the distant manor. Beyond it was the village, and in the distance, above the rooftops of the houses, I saw the low tower of the village church and another, larger house, of two stories. This village had two manors; was the second as poor as the first? This seemed unlikely, for the larger house had a slate roof.
I returned my gaze to the closer manor, and saw a man appear from behind a ramshackled outbuilding. This structure appeared at a distance to be much like a hencoop, but if it was, Reynard would not be long in devising some means of entry. The man was unkempt, shaggy and meanly clothed.
I pointed silently to the fellow, and Arthur whispered, “I see ’im.” There was no need to speak softly. At that distance even a normal conversation would go undetected. But at the verge of the wood, where we stood, we might be seen. I took Arthur’s arm and drew him a few steps deeper into the forest.
“What’s ’e doin’?” Arthur asked.
