by Mel Starr
“When you last saw him did he seek your aid? Was he troubled?”
Three of the black-gowned youths shrugged and peered at the other, who had reported seeing Salley earlier in the week.
“Owed me four pence. Said as he’d have it for me soon. Didn’t seem troubled; seemed content. I’ll not see my loan repaid now.”
“And this was four days past?”
“Aye… Monday.”
This news was of interest. Robert Salley thought on Monday he might soon come in to money; from the sale of Master John’s book, I had no doubt.
“Did Salley own many books?” I asked.
“Nay,” they chorused, and laughed grimly, as one. “Had to borrow or rent when a book was needed.”
“I wonder how he thought to come by money to pay a debt? Did he say aught about that? Perhaps he received the coins and another knew of his gain and murdered him for it.”
The four exchanged glances, then the youth who last saw Salley replied. “Didn’t say where he was to find the money. Strange you should speak of books. He did ask if I knew of any who might wish to buy Lombard’s work, Sentences. Didn’t think he sought a buyer for himself. How could he afford such a work? Thought he asked for another.”
As we spoke the sergeant returned with two castle servants and a litter. We watched silently as Robert Salley was rolled onto the frame and carried off toward the East Bridge and the High Street. The servants dealt roughly with the corpse, but Robert Salley would mind little.
I was wet from knees down and chilled, and wished to return to Canterbury Hall and seek dry chauces. But there was more to learn this day.
“Salley wished to find a buyer for Sentences, you say? Where did he keep this book?”
“At his lodgings, I suppose. Didn’t say.”
I decided to be frank with these Balliol scholars. “It was not found there. It was a book stolen from Master John Wyclif many weeks past.”
“Master Wyclif’s book?” one exclaimed. “How would Robert come by that? He was no thief.”
“A man hungry enough might become what he was not,” another of the scholars suggested softly. “You are sure,” he continued, “that this was Master Wyclif’s book that Robert wished to sell?”
“Aye. I saw the book when Salley tried to sell it to a stationer on the Holywell Street. It is Master Wyclif’s book, there can be no doubt. I saw Master John’s mark by a note he made on a page.”
The scholars peered at one another with furrowed brows. “We’ve heard of Master Wyclif’s loss,” one said. “Twenty books stolen, ’tis said.”
“Twenty-two.”
“Did Robert take them,” another puzzled, “why did he seek to sell but one?”
“And where are the others?”
“There are no books where he lodges,” I told them. “I found the place… a tavern on Little Bailey Street. Salley eluded me when I sought him there. Had I caught him, he might yet be alive. Master Wyclif has commissioned me to seek his books. I searched the place where Salley slept. There were no books there.”
“And little else, I’d wager,” a scholar remarked through pursed lips.
“Aye. A bed, a table, a bench, and a small chest with little in it. Did Salley have other friends where he might have left the book ’til he found a buyer?”
The young scholars exchanged glances again, this time with a wary cast to their eyes. I had asked a tender question. I did not press the matter, but waited until one might find his voice and explain. This did not happen readily. I was about to speak again when one found his tongue.
“Robert has… had… kin nearby. Not as he ever won much aid from him. Couldn’t, really, as monks are to own nothing.”
“A monk, in a house near Oxford?”
“Aye. Another cousin to his mother, Robert said.”
“Which house is it?”
“Eynsham.”
“Did Robert travel there often?”
“At first. But not much in the last year. Got nothing when he did seek his cousin, so gave up, I think.”
“Did he name this monk?”
“May have. Don’t remember.” The speaker peered at his companions. They all shook their heads to acknowledge ignorance, but one finally spoke.
“He was from Longridge, or some such place. Robert said as ’twas not far from Salley and the abbey. He’s librarian at Eynsham Abbey.”
Unless another monk from Longridge had place at Eynsham Abbey, Robert Salley was cousin to Michael Longridge. My assumptions regarding the monk were in tatters. If he hired the carters to transport Master John’s stolen books to Westminster, how did Robert Salley come by one of them? Perhaps Longridge took pity on his impoverished relative and gave him a book, knowing well he would sell it to feed himself.
If such a thing occurred it showed a lack of thought on the monk’s part. A stolen book offered for sale in Oxford must soon be identified. Perhaps Longridge had, after all, nothing to do with Master John’s missing books. Perhaps he sent books to Westminster in sale or simple exchange, one abbey to another. Perhaps Robert Salley was in league with other penniless scholars. Perhaps with others who knew the worth of Master John’s books, he conspired to steal, then sell the volumes. Perhaps the other missing books were with Salley’s companions in mischief. There were too many “perhapses” to the business.
I had no more questions for the scholars. What use were more questions when I found no answers for the questions already asked? Kate took my arm and we walked north to the East Bridge. The youths watched us depart enviously. Their wistful expressions caused me to stride with head high and shoulders back. Pride is a sin, but it is difficult to walk with Kate and remain humble.
We walked silently, absorbed in our own thoughts of death and murder. Who would mourn Robert Salley? Is there a greater loss than to die unlamented? Kate must have contemplated similar notions. She broke the silence.
“I wonder will any seek St Ebbe’s Church tomorrow to see Robert Salley buried?”
“There will be few who know he’s dead,” I replied.
“The one who did murder will know. And the Balliol scholars will tell others before this day is done.”
“So among those who will grieve at St Ebbe’s Church tomorrow will be a few of Salley’s friends and, perhaps, a murderer. I will join the mourners.”
I left Kate at Holywell Street. Arthur I found stalking the lanes about the Red Dragon. I told him of Robert Salley’s death and together we made for St Frideswide’s Lane and Canterbury Hall.
After supper that evening I sought Master John and told him of Robert Salley. His eyes gleamed in the light from a cresset as I explained that the dead scholar was a cousin to Michael of Longridge.
“This may be of significance,” he declared, when told of the relationship. “Would you agree?”
“It so may be, but how or why eludes me,” I admitted.
“Me also, but there is a tie between the two and my stolen books or I am much mistaken.”
Master John is seldom mistaken.
Most men, when they die, are borne to church by family and set down in the lych gate. Robert Salley was taken to St Ebbe’s Church by two castle servants. I suspect he spent little time in the lych gate and no priest met him there to escort his corpse to the church.
Arthur and I arrived next day at St Ebbe’s Church as the sacrist at St Frideswide’s Priory rang the bell for terce. Dark days of winter approached, so this was but a short while after dawn. I thought it unlikely that any priest would rise early from his bed to say mass for Robert Salley, and likewise thought it doubtful that any funeral for the poor scholar would last long.
My timing was excellent. A few black-gowned scholars milled about the church porch. Among these I saw the youths who had found Salley in the Cherwell. Some townsmen mingled with the students. With one of these burghers was a maid of perhaps eighteen years. I looked also for a tonsure, but no hooded monk was present. If Salley’s cousin from Eynsham knew of his death, he chose not to
travel to Oxford. Or perhaps Abbot Thurstan refused him permission to leave the abbey.
A priest opened the porch door and bid us enter. There were but twelve souls present to follow him. If the love and respect a man earns in his life is reflected in the multitude who mourn at his funeral, it must be written that Robert Salley died in small repute.
The priest hurried through the mass, the Lord’s Prayer, and the absolutions, then concluded with a brief sermon:
“Good men, ye see here a mirror to us all. A corpse brought to the church. May God have mercy upon him, and bring him to his bliss that shall last forever. Wherefore each man that is wise, make him ready, for we all shall die, and we know not how soon.”
The priest spoke these words with little conviction, as if he, at least, expected to live yet many more years. But his observation gripped me, as if the giant I had seen at Eynsham had wrapped a fist about my heart and squeezed it still. Not for the first time I prayed silently that the Lord Christ would grant me enough days that I might wed my Kate and see children play about my feet.
Robert Salley’s four friends took up his coffin when the priest was done. We mourners followed them from the echoing nave into a churchyard now bright with sunlight. A morning fog had burned away. It was near pleasant enough to dispel grief for those who knew Robert Salley, but not for all. The lass was overcome and sobbed noisily into the shoulder of the older man who accompanied and steadied her. I learned later this was her father.
The priest blessed the ground and grave-diggers bent to their task in a far corner of St Ebbe’s Churchyard. When their work was done the four who bore Salley to the place slipped short ropes under his coffin and lowered him into his grave. I was some surprised to see the coffin go into the hole. Most poor families will rent a coffin from a carpenter, then draw the corpse from it at the grave and bury the dead only in a shroud. Someone thought enough of Robert Salley to pay for a coffin. I wondered who, and if that person knew Salley well enough to know where he might conceal a book.
Sir Simon Trillowe may have sought Robert Salley when he was alive, but he had no interest in him dead. Or did not know that he now slept in St Ebbe’s Churchyard. News of the corpse pulled from the Cherwell had surely been spoken of in Oxford Castle. The sheriff’s officers knew Salley’s name and certainly reported it. I decided that Robert Salley dead was of no importance to Sir Simon. In this I was but partly correct.
Although Sir Simon made no appearance at Robert Salley’s funeral, I wished to be sure that he had no more interest in the youth. I sent Arthur to prowl about the Red Dragon. Someone might visit the tavern to claim Salley’s possessions. I did not think it would be Sir Simon, but I had been wrong about so many things that I was no longer willing to consider any event unlikely.
As with other days, when I could think of no other task, my mind and feet strayed to the Holywell Street. Arthur walked south from St Ebbe’s Church, toward the tavern, and I went north. I was nearly to the Northgate before I realized that I was following the maid whose tears had flowed so abundantly in St Ebbe’s Churchyard. She walked with the man upon whose shoulder she had wept. I was curious about the two, so slowed my steps and followed.
A few paces from the Northgate they entered a cordwainer’s shop near straight across from the ancient tower of St Michael’s Church. This was the shop where Robert Salley had appeared while Kate and I stood watching the Northgate. I decided to enter and learn what I might. I did not expect to be recognized as a mourner at Robert Salley’s interment. I had kept to the fringe of the small assembly, the better to observe those who attended. And the lass and her escort were too much involved with the burial. I did not think they noticed much of their companions in sorrow.
A sign above the door announced that the shop was the place of business of John Stelle, dealer in finest cordovan leather and shoes. Here was no ordinary cobbler. Here was the shop of a man who could well afford to pay for a coffin, did a weeping daughter ask.
I was leaping to conclusions as I walked through the door. Sometimes the leap to a conclusion over a chasm of ignorance may land a man in error and affliction. I have known it so often enough that I try to avoid such a vault. But there are occasions when such a jump results in benefit and wisdom. This day was such a time.
It was John Stelle who attended Robert Salley’s funeral. The man who now stood behind a table of leather goods and shoes was the same who mourned at St Ebbe’s Church. He greeted me politely, with no trace of recognition in his eyes.
“Good day, sir. May I interest you in any of these fine goods?” The fellow eyed my fur coat and decided I was a likely customer. As he spoke he swept a hand over a table of costly items from Cordova. There were sheaths of finest goatskin for daggers, and shoes of goatskin and horsehide. Yes, I thought, you may surely interest me in such wares, but not today.
The cordwainer’s red-eyed daughter watched me from an open door at the rear of the room. The lass would have been no beauty when at her best. But now her cheeks were pale and swollen and her eyes red. Her nose was over large. So is mine, truth be told. But the grieving maid’s nose ended in a bulbous appendage the size, if not the color, of a grape. Unkempt hair splayed from under her hood. A belt of her father’s finest cordovan circled her cotehardie. Her father’s prosperity was reflected in her ample waistline.
This shop was much like Robert Caxton’s business. The front room held goods for sale and could be opened to the street with shutters which were lifted in clement weather.
Behind this room was another, entered through the door where the maid now stood. I imagined it to be, as with the stationer’s shop, a workroom. In a rear corner of the front room a steep, narrow stairway led up to what was surely private quarters above. The shop and its goods spoke of success and prosperity. It is, no doubt, easier to live well selling to the rich than to the poor.
“You have just come from Robert Salley’s funeral,” I replied.
“Aye,” the cordwainer agreed, somewhat startled at my assertion. The lass choked back a sob and stumbled away from the door. I heard her sit heavily upon a hidden bench in the workroom. She was a well-fed maiden who would sit heavily regardless of the time or season, but her collapse was, perhaps, more pronounced this day.
“Did you know him well?”
“Well enough,” was the reluctant reply.
“Had you cause to see or visit with him since Monday?”
“Aye. Why do you ask? Who are you?”
“I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon, and bailiff for Lord Gilbert Talbot at his Bampton estate.”
I saw the fellow’s nose wrinkle, as if I had tracked manure from the street into his shop. Such is a common reaction when men learn I am a bailiff. Most such officers are noted for their ability to cheat both their employer and his tenants and villeins.
“What does a bailiff from Bampton have to do with poor Salley? ’E wasn’t from there.”
“No. From the west riding of Yorkshire.”
“Aye… and a scholar at Balliol College.”
“When he could afford it, I am told.”
“He was goin’ to resume ’is studies next term,” Stelle declared.
“He’d come in to money, then?”
“In a way.”
“What way? His friends told me he was alone in the world but for a cousin at Salley Abbey and another who is a brother at Eynsham. He’d get no coin from a monk.”
“Why do you care where ’is money come from?” The cordwainer spoke with some hostility.
“Because it may have been ill gotten.”
“What? Robert Salley was an honest lad.”
“Then why did he try but a few days past to sell a stolen book? One book will hardly finance a return to Balliol College. But the book he tried to sell was one of twenty-two stolen a month past.”
“The books what was taken from Master Wyclif?” Stelle asked with incredulity. “Robert wouldn’t steal another scholar’s books.”
So word of the theft at Canterbury
Hall was now known even on Northgate Street.
“He may not have stolen it, but he had it in his possession and tried to sell it to a stationer on the Holywell Street a week past. I saw the book, and saw him with it. ’Twas Master Wyclif’s book, there can be no doubt.”
To this the cordwainer had no reply. His mouth worked, open and closed, like a fish in Shill Brook.
“I suspect that others know of this book, and his possession of it may have to do with his death,” I concluded.
“His death? He drowned in the river. So the sheriff’s men said.”
Here was interesting news. The sheriff’s men knew that Salley was likely murdered. I showed them the bruise upon his neck. They, or the sheriff, had no interest in seeking the murderer, so had apparently told Salley’s friends that he was drowned in the Cherwell, and there would be an end to the matter.
“Robert Salley did not drown,” I told him.
“What? He was found face down in the Cherwell near to St Clement’s Church.”
“I know where he was discovered. I happened upon the place shortly after his friends found him… although they did not know who was in the water when they saw him. ’Twas me who drew the corpse to the bank.”
I heard another choking sob from the workroom in response to the word “corpse”. The maiden who occupied the chamber was much stricken by this business. I decided to avoid the word in what remained of the conversation at Stelle’s shop.
“If you pulled Robert from the water, then you’ll know ’e drowned,” Stelle countered.
“I am a surgeon, trained in Paris. When I see the print of fingers about a dead man’s neck I know what has sent him to the next world.”
The cordwainer’s eyes opened wide and his mouth worked open and shut again before he managed to speak. “His neck? There was a mark upon Robert’s neck?”
“Aye. And no water in his lungs. He was dead before he went into the river. You knew him well, you say. Did he speak of any who sought him harm? Was he troubled, or did he seem fearful of his safety?”
