by Mel Starr
“Has Sir Philip any other captive who might bring him gain?”
The guard scratched the back of his head before he replied.
“Sir Philip don’t say much with the commons about to hear ’im. All I know is what ’is valet overhears an’ gossips about. He’s needy, is all I know.”
“But you know of no other he’s taken because they might enrich him?”
“Nay.”
“If I return you to Sir Philip, he will slay you — so you believe. So then, do you wish to accompany us and be away from this place?”
“Aye. I’ve nowhere to go, but when I get to somewhere new I’ll not be whipped and sent to a gibbet… ’less Sir Philip finds me.”
“If I am to help you escape your manor, I should know your name.”
“I am Osbert — Osbert Hanney.”
We stumbled through the forest, becoming thoroughly wet, until by the light of stars through bare branches we found the horses. Sybil complained the entire time: her feet were cold; her cotehardie had become snagged on a twig and ripped; she stubbed a toe against a root; I should take her to South Marston this very night, and if I did not her father would hear of my neglect of her. I was nearly ready to do her will so I would no longer hear her grievances.
Sybil rode the palfrey, I was upon Bruce, and Arthur and Osbert walked before. Stars gave enough light that the road lay faintly visible before us, and no brigands accosted us. We reached Abingdon well before dawn, and I was required to pound upon the abbey gate for some time before the porter’s assistant heard me and opened to us. I told the fellow I had with me a high-born maid for whom I sought provision for the remainder of the night, and when Sybil was safe in the abbey guest house I led Arthur and Osbert to the New Inn. It was nearly time for the Angelus Bell before my head rested upon a pillow. I had accomplished nothing toward finding Amice Thatcher, or the murderers, or the location of the lost treasure, and had succeeded only in enlarging my own responsibilities.
No matter how choleric Sybil Montagu was, it was my obligation to see she was reunited with her father. And I, a bailiff, was now assisting a villein to flee from his manor and lord. These thoughts troubled my slumber so that when dawn roused the other sleepers in the New Inn’s upper room, I was awake before them.
What to do with Sybil Montagu? After several days the hosteler would surely wish to be rid of the maid. He would turn her over to the abbot. I could imagine Sybil complaining loudly to Peter of Hanney, and his response. The vision brought a smile to my lips. The abbot would find some quick way to return the lass to South Marston.
And there was Osbert to consider. He and Sybil were by now discovered missing, for he had told me he was to be relieved at dawn. Sir Philip or his minions would prowl the streets of nearby towns seeking the man. It would be best if he was away from Abingdon. But where? Perhaps South Marston.
I could send Osbert to tell Sir Henry that his daughter was safe in the abbey, and to come and retrieve her. This would remove Osbert from the easy reach of Sir Philip Rede, and solve the problem of what was to be done with Sybil, assuming her father would come to reclaim her, or send servants to do so.
I told Arthur and Osbert of my plan while we broke our fast with loaves from the baker. But before I sent Osbert on his way I had a question. I thought I knew already the answer.
“Beyond Sir Philip’s manor at East Hanney I saw another great house, just beyond the church. Who’s manor is there?”
“Sir John Trillowe,” he replied.
“Does his son, Sir Simon, reside there?”
“Aye. Him an’ Sir Philip is cronies. Was lads together.”
“Has Sir Philip other close friends?”
“Nay, not many.”
“I have reason to believe him and some other guilty of a felony.”
“You mean takin’ the lass?”
“Nay. Murder.”
Osbert was silent for a moment. “Sir Philip’s a bad-tempered sort, him an’ his brother.”
“Sir Philip has a brother? Does he reside on the manor?”
“Aye.”
“Describe these brothers.”
Osbert did so, and I was convinced that these were the men who had slain John Thrale, threatened my Bessie, and seized Amice Thatcher.
Arthur knew of South Marston, and told Osbert how best to travel there, avoiding East Hanney. He was to take the road to Faringdon, and thence to Swindon. He would come to South Marston a few miles short of Swindon. I gave the fellow two pence to see him on his way; enough to feed himself at some inn in Faringdon going and coming, but not so much as to give him thoughts of absconding with my coin without performing his duty.
“When you return,” I said, “we will find some place for you where you will not be ill used. If you do not find us here, ask the way to Standlake and Bampton. You will find me in Bampton.”
I hoped this was so, for if I had returned to my home it would mean that I had found two murderers and Amice Thatcher. I could not leave Abingdon with these obligations unfulfilled.
I was eager to return to East Hanney, convinced that Amice Thatcher lay somewhere in the village, but this desire was tempered now with the knowledge that Sir Simon Trillowe, a man who harbored much ill will against me, might be encountered there. Rather than Amice Thatcher, I might find much trouble in the village.
Never again will I set out upon some venture which might prove hazardous with but an hour of sleep in the previous night. And Bruce seemed resentful of being pulled from the mews and saddled. Perhaps he had more wit than I.
By the third hour Arthur and I, Bruce and the palfrey, were again upon the road to East Hanney. For the first two miles, till Marcham, we followed the way Osbert would have taken, and I thought we might catch him. But not so; the man was a fast walker.
After Marcham we turned our beasts south, to East Hanney, and again dismounted before we reached the village and led the horses into the same forest they had visited a day before.
From the same nettle-covered wall we peered out at Sir Philip Rede’s manor. All was quiet. Perhaps too quiet. None of the normal autumn labor was in view. No men were planting wheat and rye in new-ploughed fields. I had been worried that swineherds might drive their hogs into the wood, pannaging for beechnuts and acorns, and discover us there, but none were about. Tenants and villeins should also be gathering downed wood for winter fires at this season, and, indeed, I saw suitable fallen boughs in the forest behind me, but no man was collecting them.
Arthur voiced my unease. “Awful quiet,” he said.
I was tempted to walk brazenly through the village to see what was there, and learn why no men were about, nor women, either. But Sir Simon Trillowe knows me well, and should I come upon him Kate might soon be a widow. I could not ride Bruce into the village, for a stranger on horseback is noticed where the same fellow afoot might draw little attention.
Sir Simon had seen Arthur a time or two, but I doubted he would have taken much notice of him. Nobles rarely pay much heed to the commons, and aside from the thickness of his chest and arms there is little about Arthur to cause a knight to take a second glance his way.
“Something is amiss in that village,” I said.
“Aye,” Arthur nodded.
“No man of East Hanney knows you, I think. Walk through the village purposefully, as a man determined to reach some place before nightfall, and see what folk there are about. When you have passed through the place circle about through the fields and rejoin me. Do not return through the village, or some man will be suspicious of who you are and why you travel the streets in two directions.”
Arthur nodded and set off. From behind the wall I watched his head and shoulders — all I could see of him from behind the wall which divided field from road — until he disappeared behind a house.
I stood behind the wall, leaning upon the stones and careful to avoid the nettles, while I awaited Arthur’s return. Occasionally I looked to the west, to see if I might catch sight of him returning by the
way I had advised, although I did not expect to glimpse him so soon. When he did reappear it was not in the manner or place I had suggested.
Arthur appeared from behind the house where I had last seen him. His head and shoulders bobbed rapidly behind the wall. He was running. This was an exercise Arthur avoided, and did not perform well when it was required. Something was wrong in East Hanney, and Arthur hurried to tell me of it.
I moved from my place, sought the road, and met Arthur as he plunged from the road into the forest. I said nothing, asked no question, for I was sure Arthur would explain as soon as he could. He gasped several times, and bent at the waist, hands upon his knees, to catch his breath, then hurriedly spoke.
“Hangin’ ’im,” he said finally.
“Who?”
“Osbert.” After another deep breath he continued, “Floggin’ ’im now. Whole village is watchin’.”
Here was the reason no man of East Hanney was at his work this day.
“Got ’im tied to a post, whippin’ ’im. Some men is raisin’ a gibbet before ’is eyes while the others beat ’im.”
These sentences Arthur blurted between gasps, then bent again, hands upon knees, to suck more air into his lungs. Whether Sir Philip intended to hang Osbert once or twice I did not know, but I had put him in this place and I must now do what I could to draw him from it. Arthur thought the same.
“What we gonna do?” he said.
Perhaps more sleep might have given me more wit this day. I could think of nothing but a straightforward plunge upon Bruce and the palfrey, into the village.
“To the horses,” I said, and ran stumbling through the forest. Arthur wheezed along behind. During this dash it occurred to me that we must have some sort of plan. When we reached the clearing where the horses were tied I turned to Arthur and told him of my purpose. He made no other suggestion, nor did he roll his eyes at the foolishness of my intent.
The forest was too thick to mount our beasts there. We led them to the road, scrambled into our saddles, and poked heels into the horses’ ribs. The animals obliged by careening into a thunderous gallop which made up in momentum what it lacked in speed. I had ridden Bruce at a gallop once before, and vowed I would never do so again. I was airborne as much as in the saddle. Whether Arthur fared better I cannot say, but palfreys are known for a smooth gait. He could not have been more jolted than me. How Lord Gilbert, clad in armor, stayed upright upon Bruce in the charge at Poitiers I will never know.
I had no sword, but the men I wished to surprise would likely have but daggers on their belts. I had told Arthur to go to Osbert, slash him free from the pole where he was bound, or cut him down from the gibbet if he was already raised there, and toss him over my saddle before me. I would drive men from the place with Bruce’s plunging hooves while Arthur did so. Then, with Osbert over Bruce’s neck, we would flee the village. Our beasts were not speedy, but by the time Sir Philip and his men could saddle horses and be after us we might reach Marcham. What safety that village might provide I could not say, but if we were to be caught up it seemed to me better to be overtaken in some public place than on a road in some barren forest.
The street curved as it entered the village, so the throng about the whipping-post and gibbet heard us approach before we were seen. All eyes were turned to us as we galloped into the village and plunged into the crowd. Those who were laying stripes across Osbert’s bloody back ceased and stared open-mouthed at our rumbling approach. Across the sea of faces I thought I recognized Sir Philip Rede, but I was too much involved with other matters to introduce myself.
Bruce drove into the mob, impelled by my heels poking at his tender flanks. When we neared the whipping-post I goaded the poor animal again with a sharp kick in his ribs, then yanked back on the reins. The insulted beast reared upon his hind legs, his massive forefeet thrashing the air. Those closest to the post scrambled away, including one of the two who had been assigned to flog poor Osbert. This man, in his haste to be away, dropped his bloody lash as he ran. The other stood his ground, sensing what I was about, and swung his whip toward Bruce.
The lash caught Bruce across his muzzle. This so terrified the animal that he reared upon his hind legs again. His flailing forehooves caught the fellow as he was drawing back his lash for another blow. One ponderous hoof struck the man full in the face. I saw his countenance disappear in a red bloom, then he dropped below my sight, into the crowd of frantic onlookers.
I remember wondering at that moment how I had managed to get myself into such a predicament, but I was too busy to ponder causes just then.
From the corner of my eye I saw Arthur leap from the palfrey and attack Osbert’s bindings with his dagger. Above the din I heard a voice cry, “Stop them!” but no one seemed eager to interfere with a brawny man armed with a dagger and another mounted upon a beast which had flattened a man’s face while they watched.
I kicked Bruce again in his ribs and set the horse to spinning about the post, where Arthur had completed slashing the cords which fastened Osbert. When he was free Osbert slumped to the ground, senseless from the flogging. Arthur shoved his dagger into its sheath, lifted Osbert’s crumpled, bloody form, and when Bruce passed by threw the fellow — Osbert, you will remember, is not a large man — across the pommel in front of me. To a conscious man this would have been painful, but Osbert did not so much as grunt in discomfort.
I again kicked Bruce in the ribs and sent him through the same opening we had made when we entered the crowd. So quickly had events occurred that the mob had not filled in the breach. Once again I heard a man shout, “Stop them!”
This was reassuring. Arthur was behind me now, on his own. Had he been subdued, the fellow would have cried out, “Stop him,” not “Stop them.” So the mind works at such times.
Bruce lurched into a gallop and when I had him pointed toward the street which curved north out of the village, I turned to see if Arthur followed. He did, and I saw no other horseman, as the bend in the street hid the stunned crowd.
Bruce slowed his gallop. To save the beast for later exertions which I might require of him, and to allow Arthur to catch up, I permitted the frightened horse to slacken his pace. This may have been a mistake.
Chapter 10
All summer, upon a Sunday afternoon, it was my duty as Lord Gilbert Talbot’s bailiff to organize archery practice and competition. By the King’s edict such contests occur throughout the realm. Men of Bampton are surely no more skilled with a bow and arrows than residents of other villages, and the worst of Bampton’s archers can put ten of a dozen shafts into the butts at a hundred paces.
Arthur, upon the palfrey, had just drawn even with Bruce when I felt a terrible pain high on my left side. I thought for a moment that Bruce’s jouncing gallop had cracked a rib or caused some other part of my body to come out of joint.
But not so. I looked down and saw, protruding from my cotehardie, the iron point of an arrow. Some bowman had taken his lord’s request to heart and loosed an arrow at me. Blood flowed freely from the rent in my cotehardie and dripped onto Osbert’s already bloody back. I could not guess how serious my wound was, but if the shaft had pierced my lung I was a dead man.
Without my heels in his flanks Bruce continued to slow his pace, so Arthur and the palfrey drew ahead. Arthur turned to learn why I did not keep pace, saw my bloodied cotehardie, and reined his beast to a halt.
“What has happened?” he shouted.
“An arrow… some archer has pierced me.”
“What am I to do?”
I was beginning to find it difficult to stay upright in the saddle. The arrow had entered high on the left side of my back, just under my shoulder, and I felt my left arm lose grip of Bruce’s reins.
“Take the reins,” I said, “and lead us to Marcham as quickly as may be. Take me to the church there, and I will tell you what must then be done.”
I tried to lift my left arm to give the reins to Arthur, but could not extend it. Arthur leaned from his saddle
to grasp them, and as he did so another arrow hissed past and embedded itself in the road ten paces beyond. Arthur needed no more encouragement to make haste.
When we were again on our way I raised the right sleeve of my cotehardie to my lips. When I drew it away I saw no blood upon the wool and was relieved. Perhaps the shaft had missed my lung, and I might live.
The saddle became wet beneath me, and slippery with blood. Arthur urged the horses to a canter, and even at that pace I found it hard to remain upright. I glanced down and saw blood dripping from the stirrup. Where the arrow entered my back I must be bleeding copiously, although I could not turn to see the place.
To make sure of my seat I thought to lean forward upon Bruce’s neck, but this I could not do. The movement twisted the arrow where it passed under my arm, and brought greater pain. And when I bent forward the iron point of the arrow pushed into Osbert’s already bloody back. I must stay upright.
A fog seemed to settle before my eyes, and the road before us seemed to tilt, first one way, then the other. Through the haze I saw Arthur turn, and heard him shout, “We’re nearly there. Hang on!” He saw that I grew weak.
I must not fall. If I did, before Arthur could get me back upon Bruce, pursuers from East Hanney would likely be upon us. We must seek the church at Marcham, and sanctuary.
I recognized the corner where the road to Faringdon and the west met the road to East Hanney. Arthur slowed our pace as he guided the horses to the right, and above the rooftops of the village, less than a mile to the east, I saw the square tower of All Saints’ Church in Marcham.
Through the fog which obscured my vision I kept my eyes upon the church tower. It seemed to me that, so long as I kept my gaze fixed upon the tower, it would remain an attainable goal, but if I lost sight of it I would be lost as well.
The remaining distance to the church passed in a blur. Indeed, of what I now write I have little remembrance. Arthur told me later of events I could not recall.
Arthur brought the horses to a halt before the lychgate, tied them there, then assisted me from my bloodied saddle. I remember the shocking pain of dismounting, although Arthur was as gentle as he could be.
