A Trail of Ink

by Mel Starr

  “What else did the monk say, besides reducing what he owed?”

  “Asked did anything spill from the chest to the mud of the road. I did as you said an’ told ’im the split in the chest was small an’ no harm come to the books what was in it.”

  “Was the monk relieved to learn this?”

  “Aye. Then, when he turned to leave me he thought better of it, come back, an’ said, was any to ask what was in the chest, I was to tell ’em I knew not. In truth I did not see what was in the chest, an’ have but your word on it. So wouldn’t be like a lie.”

  I thanked the carter for his service and set off toward St John’s Street with Arthur trailing. The carter’s words stung me. I had paid a man to deceive another. Doing so had discovered, perhaps, the location of Master John’s stolen books. But was it acceptable in God’s sight to discover one sin only by committing another? This worry did not trouble Arthur. He spoke gleefully as we turned the corner from Grope Lane to St John’s Street.

  “Reckon we know where Master Wyclif’s books has gone to an’ who stole ’em, eh?”

  “It does seem so. Although how to prove it so is another matter. Monasteries often trade and sell books, so they may be copied and libraries enlarged.”

  “Oh,” Arthur replied thoughtfully, and walked on in silence. As we approached Canterbury Hall he spoke again. “So, ’less you could prove the books was Master Wyclif’s, the monks would say they was tradin’ an’ you couldn’t say otherwise?”

  “Aye. And perhaps they were. We do not know that the books in the chest were Master John’s.”

  “Was it not so,” Arthur mused, “why did that monk in Eynsham tell the carter to say nothin’ of what was in the chest?”

  “It is suspicious, but I must be sure before I make any charge.”

  “How will you do so?”

  “I know not. But I will tell Master John what has been learned. He is a wise man. Perhaps he may suggest a path to follow.”

  Master John Wyclif is indeed a wise man, but not well-versed in the ways of felons. He was attentive to my tale of books in a chest taken to Westminster, but was at as much a loss as I as to how to discover if the volumes were his or not, and if his, who had stolen them and how they came into the possession of a monk at Eynsham. We three sat, silently considering the issue, when the cook’s bell called us to our dinner. Another pottage. I had two good reasons to solve this puzzle. When I found Master John’s books I could wed Kate, and I could return to Bampton and escape the pottages of Canterbury Hall.

  I was not yet finished with my dinner when I heard excited voices approach the hall. The door banged open, bringing a frown to Master John’s face, and the porter entered, accompanied by another man, unknown to me.

  The porter cast about, found me in the dim autumn light which managed to penetrate the windows, and pointed my way. His companion nodded and strode vigorously toward where I sat with Master John. The man who approached was a solid, bull-necked fellow, dressed well, and clearly accustomed to dining from a full trencher.

  “Master Hugh de Singleton?” he asked when he stood before me.

  “Aye.”

  “I am Sir Walter Benyt, come from Bampton at Lord Gilbert’s urgent request.”

  “Urgent?” I replied stupidly.

  “His lad, the young Richard, has broken his leg… playing on the castle parapet and tumbled off. As I am on my way to London, Lord Gilbert asked me to seek you and beg your speedy return to treat the lad.”

  “I will do so,” I announced, and pushed back my bench so abruptly it tumbled over on the flags. Arthur was up from his place at the same instant, for he had overheard the plea. I had not before heard of this knight, but Lord Gilbert often entertains new guests.

  “Young Master Richard is a good lad,” Arthur observed, “but of strong will. I heard the nurse screechin’ at him some time past to stay off the parapet.”

  Master John sat near and heard the exchange. I promised him I would return so soon as I might, sent Arthur to the Stag and Hounds to ready the horses, and announced that I was off to the Holywell Street to speak to Kate and would join Arthur at the inn.

  I went first to the guest chamber where lay the sack of herbs and instruments I had brought to Oxford. This I threw over a shoulder and hastened to the porter’s gate, which I reached as Sir Walter mounted his horse and with his squire clattered across the cobbles toward Schidyard Street.

  I wondered briefly that Sir Walter’s beast seemed so fresh and willing, prancing about, eager to be off. The horse appeared to be young and strong. His sprint from Bampton seemed to do the animal no harm. Concern for the horse was no concern of mine.

  I delayed at Caxton’s shop only long enough to speak briefly to Kate and explain my mission. She kissed me lightly on the cheek and bid me farewell and good success in the task before me.

  Arthur had Bruce and the old palfrey saddled and waiting when I arrived, breathless, at the Stag and Hounds. Streets were crowded but we urged our mounts through the throng as best we might. Once we were past the castle, the mob thinned and we pushed the horses to a trot as we approached Oseney Abbey.

  Riding Bruce at a trot is not an experience I would wish for any. Well, perhaps for Sir Simon Trillowe. The old dexter was not bred for such travel and I was severely jostled while trying to maintain my place upon his broad back. Arthur had much the easier time of it upon the old palfrey, but it soon became clear that his ancient beast could not keep up the pace and would fail long before we reached Bampton. I signaled Arthur to slow his mount. We continued at a fast walk, a gait more suited to both horse and rider.

  The road west toward Eynsham and Bampton passes Oseney Abbey, crosses the Thames on Oseney Bridge, then leads through fields for the first two or three miles. It then enters a dense wood before a gentle decline to the river crossing at Swinford. My mind was occupied with the treatment I would undertake when young Richard was in my care, so I gave no notice to the two men, one large, one small, who walked before us on the road.

  We were nearly upon the fellows when they turned, having heard our approach, and I saw that the smaller man held a sword close to his leg, so as to disguise that he had it unsheathed and in his hand. Arthur saw the weapon at the same instant, and frowning, turned to me. The larger man carried a cudgel.

  As I turned in the saddle to Arthur I caught movement from the corner of my eye. Three horsemen broke from thick cover some hundred paces behind us. These three carried short swords which they waved over their heads as they charged down upon us.

  The choice was plain: two men afoot in one direction, one with a sword, or three mounted men in the other, all armed.

  “To the river!” I shouted to Arthur, and jabbed my heels into Bruce’s elderly, tender flanks. The old horse lumbered into a gallop and bore down upon the men before us who, I think, had thought to block the way. A second glance at Bruce’s ponderous approach convinced them of the impractical nature of the task and I caught a glimpse of them diving into the shrubbery beside the road as Bruce thundered past at full gallop.

  I turned to see if Arthur followed. He did, urging the old palfrey to greater speed with a swat of his hand upon the beast’s rump. Behind Arthur the swordsmen careered in pursuit.

  These fellows were mounted upon fleet coursers. Already they had halved the distance at which I had first seen them. Ahead lay the Thames and Swinford. It became my goal to reach the river before these attackers were upon us. Why hope of the river was confused in my mind with safety I cannot say. But it was certain the three who charged after us had evil intent, and Arthur and I were the object.

  It was my purse they sought. So I believed. But I gave no thought to halting Bruce and surrendering my coins. Too many times I had heard of men waylaid upon the road, robbed, then put to the sword, their corpses tossed aside into the forest. Dead men cannot identify those who have despoiled them.

  We won the race. Bruce galloped into the Thames with a mighty splash. Arthur on his palfrey was but a fe
w strides behind. Bruce seemed to understand the urgency of the matter. He plunged into the current, creating a wash in which Arthur and the palfrey followed. A few paces behind Arthur the first of our pursuers, a red-bearded fellow wearing a green surcoat, also splashed into the stream.

  Bruce’s great strength and longer legs caused him to leave the palfrey farther behind as together we plunged through the deepest part of the ford. I turned to urge Arthur to haste, as if such admonition was necessary, and saw him do a strange thing.

  He leaped from the palfrey’s back into the current. A log, which I had not before seen, drifted nearby. Arthur splashed, waist deep, to the log and lifted the water-soaked timber above his head. This was a feat of which I, or any normal man, would have been incapable. But Arthur is a sturdy fellow.

  Arthur crouched in the frigid stream, turned to the first of our pursuers and, when he judged the distance reduced enough, threw the log over his head with both hands toward the man’s horse.

  Arthur’s aim was remarkable. The log struck the beast squarely between the eyes. The horse staggered for a moment, then plunged and reared on the slippery stones of the ford. The rider yanked mightily on the reins, trying to control the frightened animal. Instead, he persuaded the horse to rise on hind legs, forefeet flailing the air little more than an arm’s length from Arthur’s chin.

  The beast danced thus in the ford for a moment, then lost his balance and with a great splash toppled over backward into the river. His sword-wielding rider disappeared beneath the struggling animal into the waist-deep water.

  Without its rider the palfrey had slowed its progress through the river to a near standstill. Arthur forced his way through the current to the horse, found a stirrup, and raised himself, dripping, to the saddle. With a kick of his heels he put the old horse again into motion and was soon up to Bruce. I had become so captured by the events unfolding behind me that I had neglected to continue prodding Bruce across the stream.

  Together Arthur and I and the two old horses emerged dripping from the Thames. Behind us, midway across the river, the upturned horse continued to struggle, belly up, hooves flailing the air, nostrils blowing gouts of water. Of the animal’s rider all that was visible were his boots. What remained of him was in the Thames, under the struggling horse, for he had not thrown himself free before the beast pitched over backward upon him.

  His companions pulled their mounts to a halt in the midst of the ford and went to work extricating the drowning man from under his frightened horse. To remain and observe this work would have been entertaining. Perhaps a similar event may occur when I will have leisure to enjoy the spectacle.

  Bruce and the palfrey clawed their way up the west bank of the river and together Arthur and I prodded the beasts to a gallop. It was but a mile, or little more, to the abbey at Eynsham. I thought our mounts might travel that distance before they collapsed, and thus bring us to safety.

  A few moments later our wheezing beasts drew up before the monastery gatehouse. The hosteller was within, discussing some matter with the porter. He remembered me, but peered disapprovingly at men who would misuse their horses so.

  Arthur was drenched through and shivering from the cold. I asked the hosteller was there a fire where we could warm ourselves and poor Arthur might dry his dripping clothes.

  I thought some explanation for our state in order, and so told of our close escape. The hosteller’s expression softened and he sent for a lay brother to care for Bruce and the palfrey while Arthur and I sought the calefactory and the fire which Benedictines keep burning in winter months, unlike Cistercians, who seem to believe that one grows closer to God as the temperature falls and chilblains increase.

  We were eager to continue our journey. Arthur was dry and warmed on one side, and nearly so on the other, when Abbot Thurstan entered the calefactory.

  “Master Hugh; we meet again. Brother Jacob has told me of the circumstance. I am pleased our house may offer respite.”

  “We are in your debt,” I acknowledged. “Do thieves often prowl the forest between here and Oxford?”

  “Nay. Years ago a band of young knights, finding no employment to their liking, for England was at peace then, would sometimes venture south from their lair near the King’s hunting lodge at Woodstock. But not for many years have they made an appearance. I am sorry to learn they may have returned. Even the monastery was not safe from their pillaging, and villagers suffered often their looting and rapine.”

  Arthur, steaming by the fire, growled a response to this information. “They wasn’t no common brigands. They had fine coursers under ’em, an’ their tunics an’ cotehardies wasn’t such as folk livin’ hard in a forest is likely to wear.”

  I thought back to the attack and found myself in agreement with this assertion. “This is so. Their garments were more suited to an Oxford street than a forest glen.”

  The old abbot seemed glum. Our observations did not bring him joy. “It will be a time of trial, should it be that free companies have returned to the shire.”

  “Surely the sheriff will see them harried out of his bailiwick?” I protested.

  “If he had a mind to do so. But even so, they strike and are gone before the sheriff can be summoned. So it was when they tormented us in past times.”

  “Perhaps Lord Gilbert may take a hand in the matter,” I suggested.

  “It would be a great mercy did he do so,” the abbot sighed. “But some gentlefolk turn away from free companies, do they leave their manors untouched. If a lord choose to drive them from his lands, they will then turn a special visitation upon his tenants and villeins. So some lords think ’tis best to leave them to their thievery, if they practice it against others.”

  “Are they likely to prowl the road to the west? Toward Witney and Bampton? We are called to Bampton on an urgent matter. Lord Gilbert’s son has broken his leg. I am a surgeon, and am summoned to deal with the injury. This delay will cost us the light of day as it is.”

  “In earlier times they did not strike much in that direction. There are few forests there to hide them, ’til one is past Burford, I am told.”

  “Aye,” I agreed. “Lands between here and Bampton are flat and fertile and many prosperous manors are there. But since the plague the forest now encroaches. Much assarting will be needed before these lands may be again put to the plow.”

  “After the swim one of their fellows took,” Arthur chuckled, “perhaps they will think better of attacking us again.”

  “Or,” I mused, “they may wish revenge upon us and lay in wait beyond Eynsham.”

  “This eve?” Arthur asked. “They will think us secure and well bedded for the night in the abbey’s guest chambers. Better we be on our way now. Tomorrow they might well set upon us.”

  Arthur’s argument made sense. The abbot insisted we visit the kitchen for a loaf and ale to refresh us for the journey, and sent a lay brother to the stable for Bruce and the palfrey. They had been fed, the lay brother announced. Bruce seemed to observe me with an accusing eye, removed as he was from a comfortable stall to set off again on a muddy road into the setting sun.

  We entered Bampton on the High Street well after dark. No brigands sought our coin on the road from Eynsham. We saw no living soul until at the marketplace we came upon John Prudhomme attending upon watch and warn. The beadle challenged us, for it was dark and he could not see who rode upon the village streets after curfew. I asked of news of Richard Talbot, but John had none, being unaware of the child’s hurt.

  Bruce knew he was home. He turned without guidance into the castle forecourt and halted obediently before the darkened gatehouse.

  Wilfred the porter is no light sleeper, nor is his assistant. I banged away on the gate with the pommel of my dagger until finally a sleepy challenge penetrated gate and portcullis. I shouted that I was returned as Lord Gilbert required, and shortly I heard the wheel creaking to lift the portcullis, then the bar was lifted and the gate swung open.

  All was dark in the cas
tle yard. I thought there might be a light from the windows of the solar, but even that chamber was dark.

  “Where is the lad?” I demanded of Wilfred.

  “Lad?” he blinked.

  “Aye… Richard. Arthur, take the horses to the marshalsea and wake a groom to see to them. I will find John Chamberlain and be about my business.”

  Wilfred watched as Arthur and I set about our tasks. It seemed a night for rousing sleeping folk. The chamberlain was also slow to answer the pounding upon his chamber door. I heard him shout that whoso thumped upon his door should cease, and that he would attend directly. His word was true. The door soon opened and John stood, cresset in hand and bare feet upon the cold flags of his chamber.

  The light from his cresset told him who it was who had awakened him. “Master Hugh… you have returned late from Oxford. Are Master Wyclif’s books found?”

  “Nay. I am come to treat Richard, as Lord Gilbert requested.”

  “Richard?”

  “Aye. Sir Walter delivered Lord Gilbert’s summons.”

  “Sir Walter?” John replied sleepily.

  “Sir Walter Benyt. He rode to Oxford at Lord Gilbert’s request to seek my return.”

  “Lord Gilbert said nothing to me of this charge.”

  “I am to attend Richard. The lad fell from the parapet, so Sir Walter said, and broke a leg. I was to hasten to deal with the injury. Is the child with his nurse?”

  “I, uh, suppose so. But he has no broken leg. Least not since I saw him chase a duck near the mill pond after terce this day. And who is Sir Walter Benyt?”

  “You have no knowledge of this knight? He claimed to come from Lord Gilbert.”

  “He may have claimed so, Hugh, but no knight of that name has dined at Lord Gilbert’s table. Do you wish me to wake Lord Gilbert so you may report this tale to him?”

  “Nay… so long as you are certain no injury has befallen Master Richard.”

  “Of that I am certain.”

  “Then I bid you good-night, and apologize for troubling your slumber.”