by Mel Starr
“Sir Philip has the right of infangenthef. The man stole property from Sir Philip. A thief may be hanged for his crime.”
“He stole himself from a wicked lord,” I said.
“Wicked? Because he would not countenance theft of his chattels?”
“Nay. Wicked because he held another knight’s daughter for ransom, and the villein he would have slain allowed her to escape.”
“So you say. A knight is lord of his manor. You have abetted a theft, and Sir Roger must arrest you for it.”
“I may do so,” the Sheriff interrupted, “when I have spoken to Sir Simon.”
“The lad is not here. I have told you. He was off to London three days past.”
“A poor season to travel so far.”
“Aye,” Sir John shrugged. “But when a fair maid is at the end of the road few journeys are too far.”
We were thwarted. Our travel to East Hanney was for naught. I had no doubt but that Giles and Henry were away from East Hanney, and likely accompanied Sir Simon on the road to London, or some other far place. But I doubted that their absence was permanent. And if Sir Simon did travel to London, he had departed East Hanney with the dawn this day.
Sir Roger looked at me, rolled his eyes, then turned to Sir John. “When Giles and Henry return, send word to me immediately. Sir Simon, also.”
“Indeed, Sir Roger. I will do so.”
A valet arrived with wine and ale, and we slaked our thirst while standing, for Sir John had offered no chair, and our business was frustrated and over. The Sheriff thanked Sir John for his time and turned to the door, which an alert valet jumped to open. I and the sergeants filed out into the cobbled forecourt, passed between the silent men assembled there, mounted our horses, and set our faces for Oxford.
“Tell me more of this villein who fled his place,” Sir Roger said when we had left East Hanney behind.
I did so, and when I had done Sir Roger said, “And Lord Gilbert commands that you return him?”
“He does.”
“And you have told Lord Gilbert that, if the man is sent back, you will no longer serve him?”
“I have.”
“Where will you go?”
“I will remain in Bampton and seek my bread as a surgeon.”
“In such a small town?”
“Or remove to Oxford.”
“This matter is no business of mine, although I could make it so. If you return to Oxford I will see that custom is sent to you.”
“My thanks. I would not lack for patients when your sergeants are required to break up some brawl at an ale house of a Saturday eve.”
“Nay,” he chuckled. “My lads might send much business your way.”
Where two roads met to the west of Marcham I left Sir Roger and his sergeants. They took the road through Marcham to Abingdon and Oxford, and I turned Bruce to the left, for Standlake and Bampton. Bruce was weary and I did not hurry him, so that there was barely enough light to see the spire of the Church of St. Beornwald, dark against the sunset, when I arrived.
I left Bruce at the marshalsea and sought my bachelor chamber off the castle hall. Kate was pleased to see me, but with Amice and her children looking on, my welcome home was more subdued than I might have wished.
My quarters at the castle were too small for two women and three children, and as I was bound for Galen House, Kate would not willingly remain longer at the castle. I carried Bessie, nodding sleepily upon my shoulder, to Galen House, with Kate, Amice, and her children trailing behind.
I was pleased to be home, especially with winter near, but gloom soon overtook me. Galen House was warm, for Osbert had kept a blaze upon the hearth, as I had told him to do, but I could not escape thoughts of my failure to apprehend murderers, nor could I tear my mind from considering what might lie ahead for Osbert.
I had laid a scheme to capture felons, and had failed. I had also a plan to save Osbert from the penalty Sir Philip had awaiting him. Would this design be as flawed as the attempt to catch Giles and Henry? I mistrusted my competence.
Amice and her children were put to their rest upon pallets in the vacant ground-floor room, and Kate took Bessie up to our bedchamber soon after. The house and the town were quiet as Osbert sat with me, contemplating the embers of the fire.
“You’ve got to send me back to Sir Philip soon, I know,” Osbert finally said. “When you goin’ to do it?”
“Lord Gilbert told me you must be returned when your back is healed. I will postpone that day as long as possible.”
“To what purpose? A few days more of life? I am a dead man. Sir Philip intends to make a lesson of me.”
“To keep other villeins from bolting the manor?”
“Aye. Since plague come he an’ his father before him has lost half the villeins who worked ’is demesne. What didn’t die of plague ran off, now that workers is scarce an’ a man can hire out in a town, or mayhap set up as a tenant upon lands of some other gentleman.”
“Did you ever think to do so?”
“Often… but I knew what Sir Philip would do did he take me. I only come with you because I knew what would happen to me for allowin’ Sybil Montagu to escape. Wouldn’t ’ave done so, otherwise.”
“Does your back cause much pain?”
“Nay. The salve you made… I can’t reach to all places on me back to daub it on, as Amice could do. Can’t bend to touch me toes yet, neither.”
“You may never be able to do so.”
“Aye. A man in ’is grave don’t touch nothing but the dirt in ’is face.”
“Perhaps there is a way for you to avoid Sir Philip’s wrath.”
“Not likely,” Osbert sighed. “You ’ave yer lord, an’ I ’ave mine, an’ they agree what’s to be done. There’s an end to it… and an end to me. I’ve set my mind to face what’s to come, an’ when I’m properly shriven I’ll go to meet the Lord Christ as a man.”
“Amice will be much grieved.”
Osbert was silent for some minutes, staring at the dying coals.
“She said she’s lost three good men,” he said.
“Three?”
“Aye. Her husband, the thatcher, what died two years past, then the chapman she was to wed. Now me.”
“You and Amice have found pleasure in each other’s company?”
“Aye. Never thought to find such a woman, an’ now I have, ’tis too late.”
“Does Amice feel the same? Would she wed you if you were not to be sent back to Sir Philip?”
“Aye, believe so. I’ve not asked. No reason to do so. I’ve few tomorrows left me.”
“So you wish me to see you back to Sir Philip now?”
“May as well. What’s a few more days to a dyin’ man?”
“‘To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven’ — so said Solomon.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Perhaps the time for your death is not yet. God may have another purpose for you.”
“I wish it might be so.”
“Go to your bed. The fire is near out. Tomorrow we will speak more of this.”
Next day, at the third hour, after terce, I sought Father Thomas de Bowlegh, one of the three vicars who serve the Church of St. Beornwald. Father Simon and Father Ralph are fixed in their practices, but I thought Father Thomas might, if he knew the circumstances, be more adaptable.
No one may wed until a priest of his parish has read the banns for three consecutive Sundays — this so that if anyone knows why a man and woman should not marry, he will have opportunity to tell the priest of it.
If banns for Osbert and Amice were read out at the Church of St. Beornwald, Lord Gilbert would soon hear of it, and wonder that a man soon to be sent back to his lord, perhaps to his death, should plan to wed without his lord’s sufferance. And Osbert’s healing went well. I could not keep his recovery from Lord Gilbert much longer.
So when Father Thomas’s clerk answered my knock upon the vicarage door I had in mi
nd a desperate scheme to save Osbert, and perhaps Amice as well. If the priest agreed, Osbert would soon be far from Sir Philip’s reach, and Amice would disappear from the shire, where Giles and Henry, back from London or wherever they had gone, would never find her to threaten evil did she not tell them of John Thrale’s treasure.
Father Thomas has the disease of the ears, so I knew his clerk would overhear our conversation. I was required to trust his discretion, for the matter I wished to raise with the priest must not go beyond the vicarage.
The priest invited me to sit with him on a bench, before the fire, and inclined an ear to me, the better to hear. He knew nothing of the dead chapman, or my pursuit of murderers, and as I wished much from him I thought it proper that he know all of the events which brought Osbert and Amice under the roof of Galen House.
I was sure that the clerk lingered somewhere near the door to hear my tale. This was confirmed when I concluded, for Father Thomas called out for the fellow, and he was in our presence instantly.
“Wine for Master Hugh,” Father Thomas said, then turned to me. “Why do you tell me of this? Is there some matter of the soul which requires my care?”
“Aye, there is. Two people, a man and a woman, are about to flee injustice, and should be wed before they set off upon the roads together.”
“This Osbert you told me of, and Amice?”
“Aye.”
“But the fellow fled his lord.”
“He did. I told you of the evil his lord did, seizing a lass, and how Arthur and I found him, lashed near to death, with a gibbet raised before his eyes.”
“And you believe this knight, Sir…”
“Philip.”
“Aye, Sir Philip, will slay him for fleeing the manor.”
“I’ve no doubt, nor does Osbert.”
“But the law…”
“The law would make murderers of us all, for if we connive in sending Osbert to his lord we will all have his blood upon our hands… and his death upon our consciences.”
“I wish you had not told me of this.”
“But I did.”
“Aye,” the priest sighed. “Now what is it you wish of me?”
“Tonight, after the evening Angelus, meet us at the church porch and marry Osbert and Amice.”
“But the banns…”
“If they are read Lord Gilbert will learn of it and decide that any man well enough to take a wife is well enough to return to his vengeful lord.”
“But ’tis church law.”
“Where in Holy Scripture is it written that no man, nor woman, may wed till the banns have been thrice read? Did St. Paul write of it?”
“Nay.”
“Men too often reject the requirements God places upon them, and rather place burdens upon other men which God does not.”
“But we have always done so.”
“Always? I think not. The earliest Christians had no church where they might read the banns, yet they married. Holy Church requires all marriages be public. Kate and I will be present.”
“I cannot do this.”
“They could set off unwed. Who would know? Making them husband and wife will keep them from sin.”
Father Thomas was silent for some time, struggling within himself. I saw his consternation and kept silent. “’Tis most irregular,” he finally said. “Father Simon and Father Ralph would never approve.”
“I know that. This is why I have come to you.”
“You think me more pliant?”
“I think you more just.”
“Oh. Well, I must think and pray about this. If you demand an answer now, it must be ‘no’.”
“Very well, but there is little time to contemplate the matter. Lord Gilbert, if Osbert crosses his mind, may summon me to the castle at any moment and charge me to return him to East Hanney.”
“And you will refuse, and resign your post?”
“Aye. Lord Gilbert will find some other to do the work. I will not. Osbert Hanney will die.”
“Return at midday. I will give you my answer then.”
I was optimistic that Father Thomas would agree to my scheme, so walked to Galen House with lighter heart than when I left it. Although, when he discovered that Osbert was away, Lord Gilbert might dismiss me from my post before I could resign. That troubled me, but I could live with reduced income more readily than with Osbert’s mangled corpse upon my conscience.
I gathered Amice and Osbert to the fire, and told them of my scheme. Behind Galen House was a cart, nearly new, and a young cart-horse, the property of John Thrale, which would have come to Amice had he lived a few weeks longer. I could see no reason it should not do so now. I had searched, but found no heirs of the chapman to whom the cart and horse should go. Lord Gilbert needed neither, and would not know they were missing.
“I have this morn spoken to a priest. Do you wish to wed?”
“Aye,” Amice answered. Osbert was silent. I waited, and Amice looked to him. Osbert looked down to his hands, which he was twisting in his lap.
“I’ll not make of Amice a widow twice,” he finally said. “You need not. I have asked Father Thomas if he will make you husband and wife this night at the church porch. He has promised an answer in a few hours. If he agrees, you must then be ready to flee the town and even the shire.
“The chapman’s horse and cart can take you far. If Father Thomas agrees, we will make ready this afternoon, and you may flee in the night.”
“But where can we go?” Osbert asked. “Sir Philip will not rest till he finds me.”
“Will he go so far as Lancashire to seek you out?”
“Dunno. ’Ow far is that?”
“Many miles.”
“But where in that shire could we find safety?”
“My older brother was lord of the manor of Little Singleton, after my father. He died and left a wife and sons when the plague first came, nineteen years past. The oldest lad will by now be lord of the manor, and if he is like other knights he will possess fallow land for which he has no tenants, plague having taken off so many.”
“But I have no money for gersom,” Osbert said, “nor to buy food for such a journey.”
“Kate will send you off with eggs from her hens,” I said, and glanced to my wife, who nodded agreement. “Perhaps Father Thomas can be persuaded to offer alms from the poor fund, and provisions from his new tithe barn. And in the castle are stored the goods John Thrale had yet in his cart when men set upon him. If you sell them while on your way north to Lancashire, you will have enough for the journey. There is woolen fabric, buttons and combs. The stuff is stored with Lord Gilbert’s Chamberlain.”
I saw Osbert brighten before my eyes, his face like the sun appearing after many clouded days.
“You think the priest will marry us?”
“If he can without the other vicars learning of it, yes, I believe he will.”
“What will Lord Gilbert say of this?”
“He will know nothing of the matter. If Father Thomas agrees to meet us at the church porch this night, you must afterward go to your beds, but arise in the night and be gone. If Lord Gilbert asks of you I will then be able to tell him that you fled in the night. This will be no lie.”
Kate had listened to this conversation intently, and offered a suggestion. “You must pen a letter to your nephew and sister-in-law,” she advised. “Else when two strangers arrive asking to take up a yardland and claiming you sent them, they may not be believed.”
“Can you read?” I asked Osbert.
“Nay,” he replied. I looked to Amice and she shook her head.
“No matter. Kate’s counsel is wise, and I will do so.”
Kate had prepared Leach Lombard for our dinner this day. I enjoy the dish, but grew tense as the hour approached when I must seek Father Thomas and learn if he would consent to join Amice and Osbert in matrimony. They might flee even if he would not, but it would be seemly to be wed in such circumstance. In Lancashire no man would know if they wer
e wed or not, but they would. When I left my house after the meal I took with me one of the sacks I use to transport herbs and my instruments when I travel.
Chapter 17
“No man must ever learn of this,” Father Thomas said when I sought him after dinner.
“Neither I nor Kate will ever speak of it,” I said. (I did not promise not to write of the matter.) “If your clerk holds his tongue, no man need ever know.
“The couple is in great want. Osbert was a villein, owned nothing but his stomach. Amice is a widowed ale wife, and what little she possessed is in her house in Abingdon. She dare not return there. The men who captured her once, and tried to do so a second time, are yet at large, and believe, wrongly, that she knows where treasure may be found.”
“What is it you ask?”
“Six pence in alms, and grain from the tithe barn.”
The priest left his seat and walked to a table upon which a small, iron-bound chest rested. He produced a key from a lanyard attached to his belt, unlocked the box, and drew six silver pennies from it.
“What more will you ask of me?”
“Tell your clerk to go to the tithe barn after the Angelus Bell tonight and set before the door some sacks of grain, held back for the poor, oats and barley, so they may eat and feed their horse until they reach their destination.”
“What is their destination?”
“If you do not know, you cannot tell. But the sacks should be large, for the distance is great.”
So Father Thomas reluctantly agreed to meet us at the church door an hour after the evening Angelus. From his vicarage I walked to Catte Street and the home of John Prudhomme, Bampton’s beadle. I told him that he might see some folk near the church that night, violating curfew. If so, he need take no notice. Later he might see a horse and cart quietly leaving the town. This also he should ignore.
From Catte Street I set off for the castle, praying that I could enter the place without Lord Gilbert knowing I was there. He would be sure to ask inconvenient questions did he learn of my presence at the castle.
John Chamberlain was not in his chamber. I knocked upon the door to no response. As his presence was not required for what I intended to do, I pushed the door open and entered.
