by Mel Starr
“Amice,” I whispered, “Amice… ’tis Master Hugh. Are you well?”
When a response finally came it was not what I wished to hear.
“She is well, but she will not be if you do not depart.”
“Who is there?”
“Desperate men. We were told you might lay a snare for us, so we have prepared one for you. There is a dagger at the woman’s throat. She will tell us where the chapman’s treasure may be found, or you will, or her throat will be slit.”
“If you do such a thing you will die.”
“The man we serve will protect us.”
“Protect you from the Sheriff of Oxford? Sir Roger has the King’s trust, Sir John does not.” (I thought it could do no harm to disclose that I knew who they were and who they served). “Are you willing to risk a scaffold in Oxford upon that confidence?”
Silence followed.
“There are armed men at the front and back,” I said through the door. “You cannot escape.”
“Perhaps. We have the woman.”
“If you harm her you will hang, or perhaps there will be a fight here in the bury and you will, regretfully, be slain in the struggle.”
“You would have us surrender to you? We may hang should we do so. So if we harm the woman, what greater harm to us? Her death is loss to you, not to us.”
The man spoke true. If I could I would see them hang for their felonies. Slaying Amice Thatcher would not increase the penalty.
“You knew we would be watching this house,” I said. “Who told you?”
“No man you can harm.”
“You will never gain the chapman’s treasure.”
“Why do you say so? Have you found it?”
My silence was answer enough.
“So you have not,” the squire said. “Then we may yet discover it before you.”
“Not from the Oxford Castle dungeon.”
“We will not be there.”
“You believe Sir Roger will not impeach you for your felonies?”
“He will not seize us to do so.”
“What? His sergeants stand here at the door.”
“Mayhap, but they will not take us. We have the woman.”
“You cannot remain in the house forever.”
“Aye, but when we depart it will be with the woman, and with a dagger at her neck.”
My plan had unraveled like an old surcoat. All because I had not thought of access to Amice’s toft through the little-used alley. But how did these vile squires get through her barred door without making some sound I might have heard from my post across the lane?
I could not worry about that for the moment. Later, when Amice was free of her captors, then I could learn from her how they gained entrance.
“Stand away from the door, you and the sergeants. We will leave with the woman, and should any man come within five paces of us, my dagger will pierce her throat.”
When I made no immediate reply the man spoke again. “Did you hear? Answer, yea or nay.”
“Yea… I heard.”
I turned to the sergeants and in a whisper bid them seek the alley behind the toft and hurry to where the lane joined the main street. There they would find a man and three horses. I told them they should not seize the fellow, but if they could, they should work their way close to him and the beasts in the dark, without being discovered.
The sergeants disappeared into the shadows of the alley, and I ran to the front of the house.
“We heard,” Arthur said. “Are we to do as the knave said?”
“We must. But as they retreat toward their horses we will follow, five paces away. They must not be allowed to take Amice from Abingdon.”
I heard the bar lifted from Amice’s door, the hinges squealed, and three figures filed through the opening. The shorter of the two squires led, a dagger in his right hand, then came Amice and behind her the taller of the squires, with one arm about her waist and the other pressing a dagger to her throat. I saw the blade reflect moonlight.
“Stay back,” the taller squire demanded, and shoved Amice before him. The stout squire decided ’twould be best to place himself where he could observe us, so moved behind his companion and walked backward, his dagger pointed at me all the while. My arrow wound took that moment to ache, reminding me that I should avoid another perforation.
Thus we traveled, two hundred paces or more, past the silent huts of the bury, no man in either group speaking. The only sound was the scuffling of feet and once, a sob from Amice Thatcher.
As we approached the main street I heard a horse stamp a foot and blow through its nostrils. I studied the night in the direction from which the sound had come, and saw dimly the shapes of three horses. As I watched the animals moved from the shadows into the moonlight.
A rider upon the first horse had seen or heard our approach and led the other beasts to meet the squires and their captive. This horseman wore dark chauces and cotehardie, and his cap was pulled low over his forehead so as to obscure his features, but I knew who it was who awaited the felonious squires.
The rider’s left ear showed white in the moonlight, protruding from under his cap as if set in plaster. My excuse for this misshapen ear is that it was the first time I had ever been called upon to reattach such a member. I shall do better in the future. And, in truth, I cared little at the time if Sir Simon Trillowe’s features were blemished or not.
I detected movement behind Sir Simon and the horses. ’Twas the sergeants I had sent hurrying through the alley. Sir Simon, the squires, and Amice were surrounded, but the advantage yet lay with those who held a blade to a woman’s throat.
Neither Sir Simon nor the squires spoke. They knew the risk they had taken, and had planned what they would do if their scheme was thwarted. The taller of the squires, who held his dagger to Amice’s throat, approached a horse and attempted to throw Amice across the beast’s neck, before the saddle. The animal did not approve of the business and sidestepped, so that rather than finding herself upon a horse, Amice was pitched face-first into the mud of the street.
Just for a moment the squire’s dagger was away from Amice’s neck. “At them!” I yelled, and with my own dagger drawn I plunged toward the tall squire so to prevent his seizing Amice again. A dagger used against me could not be laid aside Amice’s neck.
What followed was a maelstrom of shouting, cursing men, stamping horses, and one shrieking woman. The squire heard my cry, glanced from Amice, at his feet, to me, leaping for him, saw my dagger glinting in the moonlight, and vaulted to his saddle. The other squire had been mounting his beast when Amice fell, so was in his saddle when Uctred and a sergeant charged after him. From the corner of my eye I saw his dagger sweep before Uctred’s approach, and Uctred fell back. Whether or not he had been slashed I could not tell.
Amice hindered my rush to seize the squire who had restrained her. She rose to her knees as I was about to leap over her. I stumbled and nearly fell, which gave the squire time to gain his seat and steady himself. I made for his leg, intending to pull him from the saddle, but his dagger flashed out and forced me back.
From his opposite side I heard a roar, and saw the squire turn. ’Twas one of the sergeants who had run ahead through the alley who was now attacking. I had no time to consider this, however, for at that moment a horse whirled before me and drove me back toward Amice. Sir Simon was the rider, and when he saw me step away from his rush he bellowed to the squires that they must be away, then spurred his horse off down the street.
The squires heard and followed. Arthur had the corpulent squire by a leg, ducking to dodge the wild swings of the fellow’s dagger. But when the horse gathered himself and sprang away Arthur was forced to release his hold, else he would have been dragged to some place where he would face three furious men alone, away from others of his force.
Arthur drew himself from the mud of the street, then knelt again to study the road at his feet.
“What have you found?” I asked.
&
nbsp; “’Tis the short, fat fellow who rides the horse with the broken shoe. See here.”
I squatted beside him and saw in the moonlight the shape of the broken horseshoe which had so vexed us.
The ambush had been a failure. Amice Thatcher had nearly been seized from under my nose, the squires had got away, and Uctred was holding his right arm with his left and I thought it likely I would need to stitch up a wound.
My explanation for this debacle is that I spent a year in Paris studying surgery, not the capture of felons. All men seek to excuse their failures; why must I be different?
Our horses were stabled at the New Inn. By the time we retrieved them and set off in pursuit our quarry would be halfway to East Hanney and Sir John Trillowe’s protection. The only man who could pry the felons from his custody slept in Oxford Castle. I resolved to travel there at first light and seek Sir Roger’s aid. He would not be much pleased to be required to journey to East Hanney, but he has no love for either Sir Simon or Sir John.
I gathered the sergeants, some of whom had set off afoot following the squires, as if they would chase mounted men, and found Arthur inspecting Uctred’s arm. ’Twas too dark, with only the waning moon for light, to see how badly the groom was slashed. The sleeve of his cotehardie was neatly sliced, and I felt the damp of blood there and saw a dark stain upon the fabric. It seemed more than a scratch, but not so deep a gash as to warrant concern. At Amice Thatcher’s house there would be a cresset to give light enough to see and deal with the wound. I told the others that was where we would go first, and set off into the bury.
The ten of us crowded into Amice’s small house, and she lit two cressets from coals yet glowing upon her hearthstone. In their light I saw that Uctred’s laceration was not deep, yet required stitching if it was to heal properly.
The threadmaker would not appreciate being awakened at midnight, but I thought a length of his finest linen thread would serve for Uctred’s cut, and a threadmaker is likely to have a needle or two about his house. I was correct on all counts. The threadmaker was not pleased when he opened to my insistent pounding upon his door, his thread was of excellent quality, though not so fine or strong as silk, and he did possess several needles.
I had no herbs to dull Uctred’s pain, and Amice’s barley was not yet malted and was many days from becoming ale. Uctred seemed not to mind. He took off cotehardie and kirtle and waited stoically in the cold while I drew the edges of the wound together with six sutures.
While I worked, with Arthur and the sergeants looking on, I planned what must next be done. I was little confident that any plan to apprehend the malevolent squires would conclude as I wished, the unsuccessful plot to seize the felons here, at Amice’s door, being fresh in my mind. But a man may learn much from his failures, if he is willing.
We must sleep, for the next day would be long and wearisome for all. Although it was unseemly, I told Arthur and Uctred that they and I would remain with Amice for the remainder of the night. The squires were unlikely to return, but I had been wrong before. Arthur nodded and began piling rushes against a wall opposite to Amice’s bed.
The sergeants I sent to Amabel Maunder’s house, where I was sure they would soon be snoring. I spent much of the next hour upon Arthur’s pile of rushes, reliving the events of the past hours, devising useless schemes which might have succeeded. Some time before the morning Angelus Bell I finally fell to sleep.
The threadmaker’s wife had loaves and ale enough to break our fast, and when we were fed we set off for the New Inn. Arthur and Uctred I sent to Bampton, with Amice in their care. But before they set out I asked her how the squires had gained admittance to her house.
“They was at the back, in the toft. One of ’em whispered ’e was you. Said as there was a need to speak to me. Thought ’twas you. One man’s whisper sounds much like another’s.”
The squires knew who was seeking them, and how to avoid me. Some man had told them this, but there was no benefit to fretting now about who might have done so.
Arthur, Uctred, and Amice set off toward Bampton, Amice again riding in the chapman’s cart. Before they departed the New Inn I told Arthur to go directly to Galen House and leave the cart in the toft. Behind my house I had built a shed, with thatched roof, to keep firewood dry. It was large enough to shelter a small cart horse. I instructed Arthur to tie the chapman’s horse there, then take Amice to the castle where she might find safety with Kate.
Chapter 16
The sergeants and I went north, to Oxford. Most folk upon the roads do not like to see seven mounted men approaching, and so make it their business to clear the way for such a company. One man, when we drew near, vaulted a wall and trotted across a harvested oat field as if he had some pressing errand amongst the stubble. King Edward has done much to keep the roads safe, and we in England are not troubled as are the French with marauding bands of unemployed knights and men-at-arms, yet few men ever regret an excess of caution.
Our horses were rested and we traveled fast — as fast as Bruce could manage, he being an ancient beast. We arrived at Oxford Castle before the fourth hour, and I admit that images of the castle hall set for the Sheriff’s dinner came to mind.
There was, alas, to be no dinner. When I told Sir Roger of Sir Simon’s part in the near recapture of Amice Thatcher, he sent his clerk to have his horse made ready, and to tell the six sergeants to prepare to return to Abingdon and East Hanney. Wheaten loaves and cheese would make our simple dinner.
“Sir John will not risk himself to protect those villains,” Sir Roger said between bites of his loaf. “Not when Lord Gilbert Talbot’s bailiff saw them attempt to seize a woman.”
“And Sir Simon?” I asked, being willing to see my handiwork upon his ear undone on a scaffold.
“He was with the horses? Sir John has enough influence that, even was he with the squires when they laid hands on the woman, a King’s Eyre would likely set him free. We may, however, give him a fright.” He grinned as he spoke.
Sir Roger was in a hurry, so our dinner was hastily swallowed. The Sheriff, upon his younger, fresher horse, would have set a faster pace, but when he saw that Bruce could not keep up, he slowed. So it was that when we reached East Hanney none of those we sought was to be found.
Sir John Trillowe’s manor is more prosperous than that of Sir Philip Rede. Sir John’s house is larger, its wall freshly whitewashed, with leaded glass in every window. The roof is of slate, not thatch. Perhaps the fines he levied while Sheriff of Oxford, and which so angered the burghers of the town that they begged King Edward to dismiss him, paid for such a roof.
Sir Roger, with me and six sergeants — who now wore his livery — arrayed behind, pounded upon Sir John’s door. A valet opened so soon that I suspect our arrival was not a surprise. The Sheriff pushed past the valet and commanded in a loud voice to be taken to Sir John forthwith. It is likely Sir John heard without the servant informing him.
The valet showed us into a small hall, then trotted off to seek his lord. Neither he nor Sir John appeared soon. ’Tis my belief that Sir John expected the Sheriff’s arrival, and was determined to demonstrate that he was yet a man of authority, even though King Edward had set Sir Roger in his place as Sheriff of Oxford.
“Sir Roger,” Sir John said warmly when he finally appeared. “How may I serve you? Come from Oxford this day? A long ride.” Then, to the valet, who stood behind, “Wine for Sir Roger, and ale, the best, mind you, for his men.”
Sir John swept a hand toward me and the sergeants as he spoke of ale, so although I wore no livery it would be ale for me. But the best, mind you.
After voicing these commands Sir John looked to Sir Roger, and with a bland smile awaited the Sheriff’s reply.
“You have two squires who serve you. I wish to speak with them.”
Sir John shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and said, “I have four squires. Which two do you seek?”
Sir Roger turned to me. “One is tall and slender, and when he does not wear yo
ur livery is commonly seen wearing a red cap. The other is short and stout, and wears a blue cap.”
“Ah, you seek Giles and Henry. They are not here.”
“Where are they?” Sir Roger asked.
“London. Why do you seek them?”
“They have done murder,” I said, “and theft, and seized a woman and her children so to demand of her where a treasure might be found.”
“Giles? And Henry? Surely not. You are mistaken.”
“Last night, near midnight, they tried again to take the woman. Sir Simon aided them.”
“Sir Simon? Nonsense. Sir Simon was nowhere near Abingdon last night,” Sir John scoffed. “He is in London. Has been for three days now. Giles and Henry accompanied him.”
“Abingdon,” Sir Roger said. “What has Abingdon to do with Sir Simon?” Sir John had misspoke himself and was caught out.
While we talked I noticed occasional shadows passing before a window. Curious about what this might be, I sidled toward the window until I was near enough to glance through it to the front of the manor house. Between the house and our horses was a group of grooms and valets and tenants, perhaps a dozen or more. Two others arrived as I watched. I saw no weapons, but did not doubt each man possessed a blade concealed upon his person. Sir Roger, his sergeants, and I were badly outnumbered.
Sir John chose the moment to change the subject. “This fellow,” he said, pointing to me, “has stolen a man from Sir Philip Rede. He should be arrested for seizing Sir Philip’s villein.”
Sir Roger looked at me, raising his shaggy eyebrows in expectation of some explanation.
“Sir Philip intended to murder the man.”
“Murder? Nay. The man ran off with you. Sir Philip was but disciplining a wicked servant.”
“The villein was beaten near to death,” I replied, “and the gallows he was to hang upon was standing before his eyes, here, in this village.”
