A Trail of Ink

by Mel Starr

  “When were they to take this chest to Westminster?”

  “Said as they left a week and more past. Told the pieman as how ’e wouldn’t be seein’ ’em for a fortnight.”

  “Seems about right, to travel to London with a cart and horse and return. These carters might be finished with their work and on their way home by now, I think.”

  “Aye, so I thought. An’ the fellow spoke the same.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “Aye. Told ’im I heard ’im say ’is brothers was carters an’ how my lord might be needin’ some sturdy lads for a bit o’ work.”

  “You learned their names?”

  “Aye. Their place, too.”

  “Good man. Perhaps there is nothing to this, but it will be worth seeing to.”

  “Thought as much. Roger an’ Henry Carter. Live on Kybald Street. Got a stable behind for horse and cart.”

  “You went there?”

  “Aye. I’ll show you the place.”

  I trudged off with Arthur into Oxford streets crowded with late-afternoon business. It was but a short way down St John’s Street to Grope Lane, then right on Kybald Street to the carters’ house. The building housed two families, with entrance doors at either end.

  One of these doors was open to the mild autumn afternoon; I rapped my knuckles upon the door-post and awaited a response.

  A well-fed matron answered my knock, glanced at my scholar’s robe, and said, “You’ll be wantin’ ’Enry. Ain’t back from London yet. You can pay what’s due then.”

  The woman thought I was the scholar who had hired her husband. Perhaps, was anything to be learned from the woman’s error, I might make the most of it.

  “I thought as how the roads be dry, he might have returned sooner than expected,” I explained. Arthur stood a respectful distance behind me and nodded agreement. If the woman thought it strange that a scholar-monk should have a burly companion garbed in a noble’s livery, she gave no sign.

  “Nay. Expect ’im Monday, maybe, an’ ’e travels on Sunday. ’E don’t like to, y’unnerstand, but ’tis a long way, London an’ back. ’Im an’ Roger done it once before, an’ that was two… three years past.”

  “You will send word when he returns? I wish to be certain of the safe delivery of my chest.”

  “Aye. Soon as ’e’s home.”

  “You know where to find me?”

  “Aye. The Abbey of St Mary at Eynsham…ask for Brother Michael.”

  “Just so. I will await a word from your husband.”

  Arthur grinned broadly at me as I turned from the door. I could not help myself and smiled in return. Perhaps the shipment to Westminster had nothing to do with stolen books. But perhaps it did. It was worth considering, anyway.

  “This puzzle of stolen books seems soon to be solved,” Arthur remarked cheerfully as we returned to Canterbury Hall.

  “Perhaps. Who can tell what might have been in the chest, and if it was books, whose they might be. And if they were Master John’s books, how did a monk of Eynsham come to have them?”

  “Might be ’e knows a scholar at Canterbury Hall,” Arthur suggested.

  “Likely. Most scholars and monks here know one another, especially do they come to Oxford from the same house.”

  “The monks what study at Canterbury Hall is Benedictines?” Arthur asked.

  “Aye, as are those at Eynsham.”

  “Then we have but to wait ’til the carters return an’ from Brother Michael or the carters discover what was in the chest an’ where it was took.”

  “There may be more required than that. If the chest did hold books, the monk would say they belonged to the order and were being returned to Westminster. Such might be truth, and was it not, who could gainsay him?”

  “Oh. But would a monk lie… a man in holy orders?”

  “I would not like to think so. But would a scholar steal another man’s books? Never! Yet it surely happened at Canterbury Hall, and some of the scholars there are monks. A lie to cover a theft might not be wrenching even to a monk.”

  “’Tis easier to lie than to steal,” Arthur concluded.

  “Aye. And I have other work for you while we await the carters’ return. Tomorrow you will go to the inn, mount your horse, and return to Bampton. Tell Father Thomas he is to read the banns at the Church of St Beornwald this Sunday and those following for Hugh de Singleton and Katherine Caxton. And tell Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla also. Lord Gilbert charged me this day to tell him how my suit progressed. You may return Monday. Perhaps the carters will have arrived and we may gain information upon which we may act.”

  Arthur grinned at me. “Always liked to bear good news.”

  When I awoke on Saturday – All-Saints Day – my chauces were dry and my cotehardie nearly so. I was pleased to be seen once again as different from the horde of black-gowned youths and men who swarm Oxford’s streets. Benedict thought such a desire sinful, so his rule prescribed a uniform habit for monks of his house. I did not feel impious as I drew my fur coat over my shoulders. I felt warm. Perhaps the sainted monk might have thought that sinful also.

  But Master John’s gown had proven useful. When I donned the garment I did not know it might assist my purpose. Perhaps God knew. Had I not been tossed into Oxford Castle’s malodorous gaol, I would have felt no need to scrub the stink from my clothes. There would have been no reason to approach Henry Carter’s wife in the guise of a scholar-monk. Then surely I would have left the woman without the knowledge of a monk of Eynsham and his hire. Did God then set Simon Trillowe against me, so that from his evil intent, was I shrewd enough to see how, good might come? I must ask this of Master John – does God send evil so that it might be turned to good, or does He but permit evil, and allow us to use it for good, have we the stomach and wit to do so? And what of the world’s evils which remain so terrible that no good seems ever likely to come from such calamity? I found myself wading in waters too deep for me. I will allow the bishops to consider the point. But perhaps I will some day ask Master John his thoughts on the matter.

  I walked with Arthur to the Stag and Hounds and saw him off to Bampton and the delivery of his happy announcement. I then set my feet to Holywell Street and was nearly there when from an alley off St Mildred’s Lane the thatcher appeared whose broken collarbone I had set. His left arm rested in the sling I made for him. He raised his right in greeting and bowed. I asked the fellow how he did.

  “Not so well,” he replied.

  “How so?”

  “Can’t sleep… least not layin’ in me bed.”

  “The injury is painful, then?”

  “Aye. Do I lay on me back, the ache is fierce. ’Tis but little better do I turn to me right side. So I sleep as I can, sittin’ in the straw upon the floor, me back against a wall.”

  “I have some potions which may help. Call upon me at Canterbury Hall after the ninth hour and I will give you herbs which you may mix with ale before you go to your rest. They will allay the pain, perhaps enough that you will sleep.”

  “’Twould be a Christian thing, are you able to help me so. The broken ladder near did for me afore I set foot on the roof. Never fell from a roof before.”

  “A break in the ladder?”

  “Aye. ’Twas whole when we left it aside the yarn-spinner’s ’ouse, but when I set it against the roof and went to climb, a rung dropped from under me and pitched me to the dirt.”

  “What was amiss?”

  “When I made the ladder I notched the sides, then bound the rungs to ’em with thongs. One of the thongs was missin’.”

  “And the ladder was whole when you took it to the yarn-spinner’s house?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why did you not notice this when you began your climb?”

  “Somebody bound the rung to the side with a cord of dirty yarn, so ’twould seem all was as should be.”

  “But the yarn would not hold a sturdy fellow like you?”

  “Aye. Pitched me to the
mud on me arse. No harm done. Not then.”

  “You repaired the ladder?”

  “Aye. An’ then got careless, like, on the roof.”

  The thatcher winced to think of his error, tugged a forelock in respect, and turned away to set off toward Canditch and the Northgate. I stopped him.

  “There were three of you at work on the yarn-spinner’s roof. Perhaps one of the others replaced a weakened thong and thought it would serve.”

  “Nay. Asked ’em. Knew nothin’ of it.”

  “What is your thought on the matter?”

  “Some fellow used me ladder, broke it, an’ tried to mend it so’s none would know. Could’a broke me neck.”

  “And this misuse occurred after you took the ladder to the yarn-spinner’s cottage?”

  “Must’ve. Me an’ me lads went up an’ down over an’ again before, to see what must be done on the roof. Didn’t give way then.”

  “Well, I am sorry for your hurt, but pleased it was no worse. Come to Canterbury Hall after the ninth hour and I will have herbs ready which may help you rest.”

  The man tugged his forelock again and left me to continue on my way to Kate. I had no special reason to call on her this day. A man pursuing a maid needs no reason to seek her presence. Indeed, reason might be an obstacle to love, not an aid. But I thought of a purpose for my visit as I approached Holywell Street.

  Caxton smiled a greeting as I entered his shop and waved me through the door toward his workroom. I found Kate at the table, stitching a gathering of parchment to another. She peered up at me, then exclaimed, “Oh!”

  She lifted her left thumb to her lips. My unannounced appearance had caused her to thrust the needle into her thumb. I wish it might be that she would always respond so to my presence. Not that she should stab thumb with needle, but that she might lose track of her occupation when I appear. Some day, and perhaps not long hence, my hair will cease growing and my belly may begin. Then my appearance will not be likely to cause her to grow careless of her work.

  “I am sorry to startle you.”

  “I, uh, did not expect you this day. Father said we would meet at St Peter’s-in-the-East on the morrow, there to pledge betrothal.”

  “Aye. But I have no obligation this morning to draw me from Holywell Street, so I’d enjoy your company, if I may do so without interrupting any labor.”

  “’Tis no interruption. I can stitch a gathering and speak to my love at the same time.”

  “Is there a word more pleasant?”

  “Than what?” Kate asked.

  “Love. You name me as your love. I think I will never hear so sweet a declaration.”

  Kate blushed and returned to her stitching.

  “Since we spoke last I have learned two new things.”

  She looked up from her work, sucked again on her punctured thumb, and awaited news of recent discoveries.

  “So, ’tis not true,” I observed.

  “What is not true?”

  “That you can sew a gathering and listen to me as you do.”

  Kate lay her work on the table. “Perhaps not,” she agreed. “Will this new knowledge help discover Master Wyclif’s books?”

  “Mayhap. It’s too early in the search to know. But what I have learned bears further inquiry.”

  I told her of Arthur’s discovery, and of the carters’ task; of the monk who hired the work, and the precautions taken so the monk’s chest would remain dry. I told her of meeting the injured thatcher, and of his mysteriously damaged ladder. Kate’s brow furrowed as I concluded the tale.

  “When we walked beside the Cherwell you told me you suspected the thieves went over the wall with a ladder.”

  “Aye.”

  “But you could find no mark at the base of the wall to tell if this was so.”

  “Aye.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Perhaps there was a sign at the wall which you did not see, because you sought another.”

  “How so?”

  “You sought two cavities in the grass where a man might have stood a ladder.”

  “I did, and found nothing.”

  “Perhaps there may be, in the grass at the base of the wall, a bit of leather thong, snapped from the thatcher’s ladder. You did not seek such a thing, so might have overlooked it, even was it before your eyes.”

  “’Tis near time for dinner at Canterbury Hall. So soon as my meal is done I will go again to search the wall.”

  The pottage at Canterbury Hall this day was not up to the usual standard. The lack of achievement startled me, as the usual standard was easily met. Perhaps it was bland because of the day. Saturday is, of course, a fast day, so no bits of pork hid in the bowl.

  Master John peered at me from above his spoon throughout the meal. He is an impatient sort. Am I away from the Hall on his business, he will know what I may discover so soon as I pass the porter’s gate. There was no reason to leave him in suspense, so I told him of the carters’ work, Brother Michael of Eynsham, and the injured thatcher and his disjointed ladder.

  “Brother Michael of Eynsham, you say?”

  “Aye, so the carter’s wife did say. You know this monk?”

  “We were students together at Balliol College.” Wyclif grimaced as he spoke.

  “Your face,” I commented, “says more than your words.”

  “We were not friends.”

  “How so?”

  “I had no reason to dislike the fellow when we first met, nor he me, as I know. But we were flint against steel from the first. Did I take one point in a disputation, Michael of Longridge took the contrary.”

  “Did he do so with other scholars?”

  ‘I cannot recall. It was twenty years and more past. Then, in our second year at Balliol another scholar noticed coins missing from his purse. There was reason to suspect Michael, ’though I don’t now remember why. It was my idea to notch a penny, then see did it go missing. It did, and a few days later, when we were at an inn, Michael paid for his wine with the notched coin.”

  “He was dismissed from Balliol?”

  “Nay. He pleaded poverty, which was true enough. Promised to repay all. When he learned ’twas my thought to notch the coin, he had more reason to dislike me, I think. ’Twas Nicholas Map he stole from. Nicholas said he would make no trouble was he repaid, but the theft became known. The tale has followed Brother Michael, I think. He sought preferment, but is at Eynsham – a poor house, I am told.”

  “Have you had discourse with him of late?”

  “Nay. I’ve not seen the man for… ten years, perhaps.”

  “I am about to search at the wall again,” I announced. “Will you come?”

  “Nay. The scholars of Canterbury Hall await my wisdom. What do you seek at the wall?”

  “Kate thought, did the thief use the thatcher’s ladder and damage it, some part of the broken thong used to fix the rungs to the poles might have fallen in the grass. This would be a confirmation, I think, of what we suspect, if such a bit of leather strapping be found.”

  “Aye. I wish you success.”

  We parted, I to the porter’s gate, Master John to the hall, where tables had been cleared and benches moved to turn the space into a place of learning.

  I stepped into Schidyard Street and was surprised to see Kate awaiting me there. She smiled when I appeared. I wish it may always be, that her fair face will reflect joy when her eyes fall upon me. It will be my duty as husband, I think, to make it so.

  “You are about to search the wall for a broken cord of leather?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “I was hopeful I might search with you. Four eyes are better than two, and seeking the solution to a mystery appeals more than stitching gatherings.”

  “Your father can spare you from the work?”

  “He must do so soon. He is seeking an apprentice to replace me.”

  “Come. I will show you the place where the thieves, be that how they entered Canterbury Hall, must have come over the w
all.”

  Two thatchers were busy at the yarn-spinner’s cottage, their work protracted due to the loss of one of their number. They looked up from their work as we skirted the wall. As I think back on the moment, it was probably not “we” they observed so intently. Being in Kate’s company brings a man more attention than he might otherwise receive. And perhaps, more than he might want. I considered this and made note to myself that, was there a time I wished to be incognito, I must not be in Kate’s company. Or would she be a successful distraction? What man, beholding Kate, would remember her unremarkable companion?

  While I considered this we reached the place where, if a ladder was used to scale the enclosure, it would have been placed.

  The thatchers got little work done for the next half-hour. Each time I looked from the grass to the yarn-spinner’s roof, I found them studying me. Or studying Kate, which was more likely. I found occasion to study her myself. Had I been more alert to my business I might have found the leather thong. But it was Kate who did so.

  The leather strip was far back from the wall, five paces or so, well away from where any ladder might have stood. As if, in a fury, whoso had broken the thong then flung it away in anger.

  Kate held the slender strip of leather above her head and laughed in satisfaction. It is not often a woman is allowed triumph over a man. I smiled at her sport, and thought as how a bailiff might be well served to have an observant wife.

  Kate held the thong out to me. There was but one more thing to do with it. I carried it to the yarn-spinner’s home, where the ladder stood propped against the north wall. The thatchers watched me approach, then one recognized me as the surgeon who had treated their companion. He shouted a greeting from the roof, loosened his rope harness, and slid to the top of the ladder. Kate and I met him as his feet struck the ground.

  “You be the leech what set Aymer’s shoulder to rights,” he declared.

  “Aye. I saw him this day. The injury troubles him.”

  “It does. He’ll be more careful, like, on a roof, next job.”

  “He is to come to Canterbury Hall this afternoon for some herbs which will dull the ache and perhaps grant sleep.”

  “’E’ll be grateful, can you do that.”