The Tainted Coin hds-5

by Mel Starr

  ’Tis eleven miles or thereabouts from Bampton to East Hanney. Arthur and I arrived well before noon, having met few travelers on the way, and none since Marcham. Again we entered the convenient forest at the north edge of the village, and there I donned my shabby disguise and powdered my beard and hair with the flour.

  I had brought with us a bag containing two maslin loaves and a small cheese. We shared one of the loaves and a bit of cheese, and so fortified I set out for the village.

  According to Osbert’s map Sir John’s manor lay to the west of the village, and to find it I must turn to the right when I reached a chapel dedicated to St. James. As I walked I affected a limp, hoping to further convince any observer that I was poor and harmless and not worthy of their interest. This seemed effective. Although I was a stranger passing through a small village, where folk knew one another, few bothered to give me a second glance when I passed.

  Sir John Trillowe’s house was indeed fine. He had done well, I think, pocketing fines when he served as Sheriff of Oxford, which post he lost when King Edward tired of complaints from Oxford burghers and replaced him.

  There had been little rain for several days, but a muddy road does not soon dry in November. As I limped past the manor I turned my face from the house, partly because I feared that, even in disguise, Sir Simon, if he looked from a window at an awkward moment, might recognize me, and partly because I sought the mark of a broken horseshoe. Sir Simon did not see me, but I found the mark.

  This print of a broken horseshoe had not been recently made, but it was clear enough that I had no doubt it was the print I had followed on other roads in days past. And the beast which made it turned from the road at the gate which led to Sir John’s manor. Somewhere beyond that gate was Amice Thatcher. I was sure of it. And also there were two men who had beaten another man to death and threatened my wife and child. It might be easier, I thought, to find and free Amice than prove the guilt of John Thrale’s assailants.

  I continued my limping progress past the manor house, and as I did I considered some course of action. Would a King’s Sheriff, even one replaced in some disgrace, hold an ale wife hostage in his house, or allow a squire to do so? I could not think it of the man, venal as I knew him to be.

  Sir Simon was a different matter. From what I knew of him, he would take coins from a beggar.

  If Sir John’s squires were the men I sought, it seemed unlikely that they could hide Amice and two children in the manor house. Sir John would soon know of his guests. Amice would be held someplace Sir John was unlikely to visit.

  If Amice and her children yet lived, they must be fed. I continued past the manor for a distance of two hundred paces, then, at a place where the wall which bordered the road was joined to another which ran perpendicular to the road, I glanced around to see that no one was about, then scrambled from the road to follow the second wall.

  This wall divided a fallow field from another which had been planted to grain, now harvested. I followed this wall to another, intersecting wall, fifty paces or so from the road. Behind this wall was a forest, a part of the same wood where, at its eastern end, Arthur awaited my return. Beyond the wood, visible now through leafless trees, flowed a small stream.

  Unless some villager prowled the forest seeking fallen branches for fuel, I was not likely to be seen if I squatted behind this wall. From the wall I could see the enclosure behind Sir John’s manor house — the barns, coops, stables, sties — all was visible. I could watch to see if any man took a bundle which might contain food from the house to some other building.

  No man did. I had set before myself a fool’s errand. Perhaps, even if Amice and her children were held, like Sybil Montagu, in some outbuilding, they were fed but once each day, in the morning. I would not crouch here behind a wall for a day to see was it so. And my wounds began to ache, bent over as I was. Alfred’s cotehardie and surcoat were threadbare, and a cold wind cut through the thin fabric.

  Osbert spoke true. Plague had emptied many houses in East Hanney. Might Amice be held in one of these? I could not enter them in daylight without a chance of being seen. That an impoverished vagrant might seek shelter in an abandoned house would surprise no one, but if I was seen entering one of the decaying huts Sir John’s bailiff or reeve or the village beadle might be told of it, and I would be run from the village at the point of a dagger. I could not then re-enter the place, disguise or not.

  I retraced my steps to the road, having wasted an hour behind the wall. I limped back past the manor house, through the village, paying special attention to the vacant houses. I saw four near to Sir John’s manor. It seemed to me that if Amice’s captors had imprisoned her in an abandoned house they would choose one close by the manor.

  Pretending an injured leg meant that I could pass slowly by the empty houses and study them without causing interest in those who might see me. Two of the houses lay close by other, occupied dwellings. Soon or late, two children would make noise neighbors would hear. A squire might demand silence of the neighbors if they discovered Amice, but I know tenants and villeins well enough to know that gossip would soon fill the village with news of the woman and children held against their will. Osbert had heard no such rumor. I crossed the two houses from my mental list.

  Another house was so decayed that its roof was partly collapsed. If I were a felon who wished to hide a captive, would I choose such a place? No other house was near, and I might not care if rain fell upon my prisoner. The discomfort of such a dilapidated house might bring her to tell what I wished to learn, so as to escape the cold and wet. But a roof open to the sky would let out the cry of an infant as well as allow rain to enter.

  The nearest neighbor was forty paces from the place, but living the past year with Bessie has taught me that an aggrieved babe can make her displeasure known beyond forty paces. And one shutter hung askew, so that anyone confined, unless they were bound, could peer through the opening, which had lost its skin, their face visible to those who passed by. I dismissed this house, also.

  Beyond the chapel, on a narrow path which led south, was another unoccupied dwelling. It was a hundred paces from the chapel, the only house built along the little-traveled lane. The priest who served this chapel lived in a small chamber built away from the porch. This placed the chapel between his quarters and the distant house. If a squalling infant was hid in the house he’d not be likely to hear it, or if he did, might assume the racket came from some house nearer the chapel in the opposite direction.

  This house was not so decayed as the one with a fallen roof, but it was missing chunks of daub, the thatching was rotting and no doubt inhabited by legions of mice, and one of the gable vents was nearly plugged where a rafter pole had given way and allowed thatch to cover the opening.

  I hobbled past the house and saw in the mud a curious thing. Fresh footprints turned from the path to disappear in the overgrown toft. The house had surely been uninhabited for many years, I think. All around it was grown up in weeds and thistles. These obscured the footprints a few paces from the path so I could not follow them to see if they led to the door.

  I glanced to the house, turned back to the path, then looked to the house again. Across the door, fastened to the jambs, rested an iron bar. This bar was not designed to keep folk out of the house, for it was held in place on one side by an iron lock large as my hand. This bar was in place to keep someone in the house, and other folk out. The bar, hasp, and lock were worth more than what might be left in an empty plague house.

  No man was near me on the path, nor woman, either. The closest soul was a housewife more than a hundred paces to the north who sat upon a bench before her door, enjoying a watery sun while she mended some article of clothing. She would not hear what I said.

  In a loud whisper, without breaking my limping gait, I said, “Amice, if you are in this house, knock upon the door.”

  I slowed my already slack pace to give the woman time to reply, was she in the house. I was past the toft, near to a b
roken-down fence, when I heard the soft reply.

  I sat heavily upon a pile of coppiced poles which had once, perhaps, been an enclosure in which sheep were folded. With my head bent to the ground so no man might see my moving lips, I said, “’Tis Master Hugh. Knock again if you hear.”

  This time the answering tap came immediately.

  “If you are alone, knock once. If your children are there also, knock twice.”

  Two gentle raps sounded upon the door. I was surprised that children could remain so silent.

  “Are you well? Can you travel this night? Knock once if yes, twice if no.”

  A single soft blow rattled the door upon its rusting hinges. I turned my face again to the ground and said, “An hour after night falls I will come for you. Be ready. Knock once if you understand.”

  The answering knock was immediate, and straight after I heard her whisper through the door: “Men come in the night. I hear them walk about, sometimes rattling the door.”

  I was warned. Releasing Amice Thatcher, now that I had found her, might prove troublesome.

  Chapter 13

  I did not wish to raise suspicion by retracing my steps through the town. Poor men may often be seen upon the roads, but they generally do not change their destination and return to some starting-place. I continued west, toward another village, West Hanney, until I came to a place where the road crossed a small stream. No man was about to see me, so I abandoned both the road and my limp and plunged through the forest northward, until I guessed I was beyond Sir Philip’s meadow. I turned then to the east, found the stone wall which edged the meadow, and soon came upon Arthur. He had heard my approach, and hid himself behind a large beech tree till he was sure who came his way.

  I told him of my discovery, and we sat with our backs to the wall and plotted how we might free Amice Thatcher.

  “No guards in the day?” Arthur asked.

  “I saw none.”

  “Sure of their prisoner.”

  “Amice warned that a watchman is assigned in the night. We must approach the house with caution. The men who seized her in Abingdon must have known that Sir Philip held Sybil Montagu in his derelict hencoop. It gave them the notion to capture Amice and hold her in much the same way, for a kind of ransom.”

  “Ransom bein’ she must tell ’em where the chapman found ’is loot?”

  “Aye.”

  We sat with our backs to the wall and consumed a cold supper of bread and cheese, waiting for darkness. Before the forest was obscured I told Arthur to join me in searching out some sturdy fallen tree limbs. Such were few, for villagers had recently scoured this wood seeking downed boughs for winter fuel.

  “What we need these for?” Arthur asked, when we had found what we sought. “We got daggers.”

  “They are not for a beadle, or a guard. If we see such fellows, we’ll try to avoid them.”

  A nearly full moon would rise this night a short time after darkness came. I wished to have Amice Thatcher safely out of the village before its light would make our flight visible to an alert watcher. When we were well away from East Hanney, moonlight would be welcome.

  Small as East Hanney was, it might have a beadle assigned to watch and warn, or we might run afoul of a man sent to patrol the path and toft around Amice’s jail. We must be cautious, or risk joining the woman and her children as captives.

  We passed Bruce and the old palfrey as through the dark forest we sought the road. They whinnied softly, no doubt hungry and thirsty and curious as to why they were so often tethered in this place.

  Occasional clouds obscured the stars, so we were able to enter the village in such darkness that, was there a beadle prowling the streets, he could not have seen us unless he was nearly upon us. He would have been more likely to hear us, so I urged Arthur to silence as we crept past the chapel and entered the path to the house where Amice Thatcher awaited us.

  As we entered this narrow, overgrown lane, the cloud which had covered the village drifted on, and the rising moon to the east provided increased visibility. I motioned to Arthur to follow, and we hugged the chapel wall till we reached the western end of the structure. From that place to the house there was no cover.

  I strained to see if any watchman was near, but such effort was useless. If a man was near, he probably sat with his back to a wall or a tree, hidden in the shadows. Unless he moved or coughed we would never know of his presence.

  We stood silently against the chapel wall, and in the stillness of the night I heard a sound which should not have been there. Arthur heard also, and plucked at my sleeve. A man snored softly somewhere near. A nearby house, with a torn window, might account for such a low rumble, but there was no house close, yawning window or not. A guard, asleep and failing his duty, was somewhere near.

  So long as we heard him snoring we could be sure we were undiscovered, unless two men were posted here, and one remained alert while the other dozed. That was a risk we must take. Soon the moon would lift above bare branches and the door to Amice’s prison would be illuminated as if with a torch. We must act or flee.

  If we reached the house undetected the barred door would become our next obstacle. That was why I wanted branches from the forest floor. I hoped that the wood of the jamb was decayed enough that, when two poles were used together, we might lever the bolts from the wood.

  “Don’t see nuthin’,” Arthur whispered after we had spent several minutes staring into darkness toward the abandoned house. “Where do you suppose that fellow is?”

  “See the tree across the lane from the house?”

  Arthur nodded.

  “He sleeps propped against its roots, I think.”

  I whispered to Arthur my plan to use the downed branches to pry the bar and hasp from the door jamb.

  “What if it don’t work?”

  “The house is much decayed. A plague house, from many years past, I believe. Daub has broken away from the wattles in many places. If we cannot force the door we will go to the rear of the house, find some place where wattles are open, and pull them away. If need be, we can cut through with our daggers.”

  I touched Arthur upon his arm and we crept from the protection of the chapel’s shadow. I expected with each step to hear a loud challenge from an alerted watchman.

  We reached the door unobserved and unheard. In the silence of the night I heard the watchman’s steady snores. I whispered through the door to Amice that we had arrived.

  “We are ready,” came the reply.

  I sent Arthur to the path to watch and be ready should our business awaken the sleeping sentry. Then I held one pole against the door just below the iron bar and near the hasp. The other limb I fitted over the first pole and under the bar, which was just far enough out from the door that the branch would slide beneath it.

  The house was surely untenanted for many years, but the jamb was not so decayed as I had hoped. I pried so forcefully against the iron bar that the branch I used for the purpose cracked under the strain. It was more rotted than the jamb.

  The sound of the pry-bar snapping seemed loud as a thunderclap. I stopped all movement and listened to hear if the watchman would awaken. He spluttered, and seemed to shift his position, but a few heartbeats later his regular breathing resumed. The breaking branch had not awakened him. Yet.

  I dropped the useless pole as Arthur appeared at my elbow. “What was that?” he whispered.

  I told him, bid him follow, and together we hastened to the gable end of the house and sat low against the wall, watching and listening, to learn if the sentry might awaken.

  The moon was now risen nearly above the bare topmost branches of the trees. We could no longer work at opening the door. Any man who stood there in the moonlight would be seen from a hundred paces away.

  I motioned again to Arthur, stood, and crept to the rear of the house. I whispered to Arthur that he should remain at the corner of the house, watching for the guard, who might yet awaken, while I sought some place on this western, sha
dowed side of the house where daub might have fallen from the wattles.

  There was a door here, also, but if the front door was barred, surely the rear would be, so I had given little thought to breaching the opening. I went to the door first, however, and saw there two planks nailed across the door. No man would silently pry them from the opening.

  There were several places at the rear of the house where over the years rain, lashed by a west wind, had caused daub to crumble and fall free of the house. I selected one of the larger of these perforations, inserted my dagger at one end, and began quietly to cut through the wattles. It was but a matter of a few minutes and I had cut through a length of wattles nearly as high as my arm is long. The thin twigs were decayed from contact with rain, and pulled free of the interior daub more readily than I had expected.

  This work I did as silently as possible, but Amice heard me, of course, and when I had drawn the wattles free of the gap and pushed the daub inside the house away, she whispered a warning from within the hole.

  “’Tis you, Master Hugh? Be on guard. I heard a man circle the house not an hour past.”

  Amice had no sooner spoken than Arthur was at my elbow. “That guard woke up,” he whispered.

  If the fellow approached the house and inspected the door closely he would see the poles, one broken, which I had used in a failed attempt to force the door. If he walked behind the house he might see the hole I had punctured in the wall.

  I thought briefly we might crawl into the house and hide there, hoping this sentinel would see neither the poles nor the opening in the wall. This notion I quickly abandoned. If he saw either the poles or the hole and raised the alarm, we would be trapped in the house with Amice and her children.