A Trail of Ink

by Mel Starr

  I caught movement from the corner of my eye. Stelle’s daughter had reappeared in the doorway. We both turned to her when she spoke.

  “He had something others wanted, he said. They was seekin’ him so he could not go to his lodging. Asked to sleep in the workroom for a few days.”

  “Did he say what it was these men sought?”

  “Are you one of those who sought Robert?”

  “I am. You heard me tell your father that Robert Salley possessed a book stolen from Master John Wyclif. I know not who else may be seeking the volume, or if the book was their reason for pursuing him. Perhaps it was some other possession of his they sought?”

  “Not likely,” the cordwainer said softly. “The lad owned nought but the clothes upon his back.”

  “Yet he was to renew his studies next term?”

  “We, ah, had an arrangement,” Stelle replied. I heard the daughter sob softly again. I said nothing and waited to hear if this arrangement would be told me. It was.

  “Robert was to wed Bess,” Stelle said, with a nod toward his daughter. “Wanted to take up law.”

  “So you were to finance your future son-in-law’s education?”

  “Aye.”

  “The thing that others wanted,” I said to the lass, “did Robert keep it with him?”

  The lass hesitated and glanced at her father. From the corner of my eye I saw him shrug. He would leave this decision to his daughter.

  “Kept it ’ere. Wrapped in a linen cloth,” she replied.

  “You’ve seen the parcel?”

  “Aye,” she sighed.

  “Is it much like a book in size?”

  “Aye… it is.”

  “Where is it now?”

  Bess turned her head slightly toward the workroom. “On a shelf, with father’s leather goods.”

  “If you will bring it here you will discover, I think, that the linen wrapper conceals a book. Sentences, writ by Peter Lombard. On some pages you will find notes written in the margins, and initialed by the maker ‘JW’.”

  “John Wyclif,” Stelle muttered.

  The cordwainer looked to his daughter, nodded toward the workroom. The lass rubbed an eye with a knuckle, then turned and disappeared into the room. She appeared a moment later with a parcel wrapped in unbleached linen of rough weave. This she placed on the table before her father.

  Stelle seemed reluctant to touch the package. I waited for him to do so, although it required great patience. I thought it best for him to discover the truth of my prediction than for me to produce the volume.

  A slender hempen cord held the linen wrapping in place. Stelle began to struggle with the knot. His thick fingers were unsuited to the task, as he soon recognized. He drew a small dagger from his belt and sliced through the cord.

  It was indeed Sentences which appeared when the cordwainer drew the linen from the book. He opened it at random and turned a few pages until he found a note written in the margin. “I have no Latin,” Stelle said. “I cannot read what is writ here, but you speak truth. The comment is initialed.”

  He pointed to the page and Bess peered over his shoulder to see for herself. “This is one of Master Wyclif’s stolen books?” the lass asked softly. “This is most unlike Robert. He once spoke of Master Wyclif. He had great admiration for his teaching.”

  The lass sniffed, and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ’Twas most unappealing. “An’ Robert, even so poor as he was, was not a man to take another’s goods. I have heard him speak harshly of those who do so.”

  The cordwainer nodded solemnly in agreement with his daughter. “We who do business in the town,” he added, “may not be scholars, but we are not fools. We know where Master Wyclif stands, and most approve. When news of his loss came to Northgate Street, near all who seek custom on the street were woeful for his loss.”

  I made to reach for the book, but Stelle placed a hand upon the open pages. “May be all is as you say, you seekin’ Master Wyclif’s books. But I don’t know you. I’d be more content did Master Wyclif himself call for the book. I’ll not hold what belongs to another, but I would see it go to its proper place.”

  This seemed to me a reasonable precaution on Stelle’s part. There was a fleeting thought that, if I left to seek Master John, the cordwainer might hide the book and deny knowledge of it when I returned. I put the notion from my mind. Employment as a bailiff has created suspicion of all men in my mind. Perhaps a healthy skepticism is useful to my profession, but it is no pleasant way to live.

  I told Stelle that I would return with Master John immediately and set off at a trot down the Northgate Street. I found Wyclif in his chamber, awaiting the cook’s summons for dinner. I was breathless but managed to blurt out news of my discovery. Master John did not hesitate, but sprang from his bench. Together we set off for the cordwainer’s shop, Master John’s gown and beard flowing in the north breeze like that of an Old Testament patriarch.

  Stelle stood in the same place as when I left him. The book had not been moved, not even a leaf was turned, for Master John’s marginal note and initials were plain on the page.

  Wyclif moved cautiously from the shop entrance to the cordwainer’s table, as if he feared that his book might take fright and flee did he approach too hastily.

  “Master Wyclif,” Stelle greeted him with a bow. “You honor my shop. This fellow tells me he seeks your stolen books, which near all in the town know of, and that this volume is one of yours stolen some weeks past.”

  Master John moved around the table for a better view of the open book. He scanned a few pages, inspected the cover, then spoke: “Master Hugh speaks true. I asked him to find my stolen books and he has done so… one of them.”

  As he ended his claim Master John lifted his eyes from Sentences and gazed quizzically at me. I knew his thought.

  “Did Robert Salley speak of other possessions kept elsewhere?” I asked Stelle.

  “Not to me. Bess!” he called for his daughter. When the maid appeared he addressed her. “The book is indeed Master Wyclif’s. You were near married to a thief. Did Robert speak of other goods he might have hidden elsewhere?”

  The lass sniffed loudly and shook her head. The cordwainer turned first to Master John, then to me. “I am much grieved to know I have harbored a thief. Please accept my apology.”

  Wyclif nodded. “I hold no grudge against an honest man betrayed by another. Master Hugh, our dinner awaits.”

  “I will join you soon,” I replied. “I would have more conversation here.”

  Wyclif shrugged, lifted his book, and turned to the door. “As you wish. I will tell cook to keep your meal hot ’til you appear.”

  Good, I thought. Even the warm pottage at Canterbury Hall holds few charms. Cold pottage does not own any appeal. Perhaps I have dined too often at Lord Gilbert’s table in Bampton Castle. To a beggar or mendicant friar the pottage at Canterbury Hall might seem a feast, hot or cold.

  Wyclif disappeared through the shop door with Sentences clutched tightly to his chest in both arms. He was unlikely to allow the book from his sight, I thought. Perhaps he might sleep with it under his pillow this night.

  “There remain two questions,” I said to Stelle. “How Robert Salley came by Master Wyclif’s book, and who murdered the poor scholar.”

  “He was a thief,” the man muttered. “Probably died at the hands of one of ’is band.”

  “I have doubts,” I replied.

  “What? That a friend did away with ’im?”

  “Aye, that, and that he was a thief.”

  “He had a stolen book. He was a thief. An’ I nearly wed my daughter to ’im.”

  “True, he possessed a stolen book, but was he one who would despoil another? You said he was not.”

  “So I thought. Been wrong before.”

  “Perhaps, but there is much about this business which rings a false note.”

  “How so?”

  “There are yet twenty-one books missing. No man could carry of
f twenty-two books from Canterbury Hall by himself.”

  “So he made off with a book to sell to his own profit, an’ his fellows learned of it an’ slew him.”

  “That could be how it was,” I agreed. “But I think it sure that possession of Master Wyclif’s book caused Salley’s death. You should take care. Those who took his life might trace the book here. They have killed once for it. They might be willing to do so again.”

  Stelle blanched at this thought and glanced to the workroom door. His daughter had disappeared but I could read his thoughts. Children are a great joy; also a great worry.

  “How did Bess come to meet Robert Salley?”

  Stelle was silent for a time, then spoke hesitantly. “Bess was comin’ back from the baker with loaves for the day. A company of young scholars began to follow… an’ taunt her. She’s no beauty, I know that well enough. One of the lads took no part an’ finally spoke up for her. Made the others stop, Bess said, and walked with her to the shop to see they didn’t start in again.”

  “This was Robert Salley?”

  “Aye.”

  “Would a lad so troubled by those who would hector a maid then commit an injustice himself? Stealing another’s books does not fit the character of such a fellow.”

  I might have added that Robert Salley’s appearance may have led to his also receiving mocking words. Perhaps he came to the maid’s aid because he had been jeered in similar fashion.

  “I was ready to think ill of a dead man who cannot defend himself. You think then he was no felon?”

  “He possessed a stolen book, which he would have sold. Perhaps he knew the book was stolen, perhaps not. I think he knew… mayhap not at first, but when I pursued him from the stationer’s shop on the Holywell Street he must soon after have known what he possessed.”

  “Then where did he come by the book?”

  “The very question I asked. And did another want the book so badly they would do murder for it?”

  “’Tis but a book,” the cordwainer sighed. “Surely not worth a man’s life.”

  “The book? No. But the circumstances of Robert Salley’s possession of it… that might be worth a life. To someone it was.”

  Two days past I had but to seek stolen books. Now a corpse lay across my way. I believed that solving Robert Salley’s murder might set me on the path to Master John’s books. I resolved to begin the work promptly. But first I would seek a belly full of pottage at Canterbury Hall.

  The scholars had finished their meal when I entered the hall. I had always imagined some disdain in their eyes. I was but a bailiff, and a surgeon, not a physician. But this day I felt a new respect. They knew I had recovered one of the stolen volumes. My new-found status might have been severely reduced had they known the part simple good fortune played in the discovery. Or perhaps it was God’s doing. Master John would say so.

  I saw no gain in sending Arthur back to prowl the streets about St Ebbe’s Church and the Red Dragon. I bid him accompany me and after dinner we set off for the Canditch Street and Balliol College. I sought the four scholars who carried Robert to his grave. There was, I believed, more to learn from them than I had thought a few hours before.

  Our arrival at Balliol College was fortuitous. As we drew near I saw the scholar to whom Salley had owed four pence departing the place. I hailed the youth and he paused to allow us to approach.

  East of Balliol on the Canditch there is a tavern where scholars often gather. I invited the lad to enjoy a cup of wine with me. He was pleased to do so, as I knew he would be. I was once a Balliol scholar. I know how such fellows think.

  The tavern was quiet. There were few patrons at such an hour. I motioned to a wine-stained table and, cups in hand, Arthur, I, and the scholar sat on benches about it.

  “You have lost four pence,” I began.

  “Aye. Dead men pay no debts.”

  “I have learned some things about Robert Salley this day, and about you.”

  “Me?”

  “You and your friends. Robert Salley’s friends. He did not seek other lodging only to preserve his meager funds, did he?”

  The youth did not reply, but I said no more. I have learned that those who own a troubled conscience dislike an uneasy silence and may soon fill it with words. I was not mistaken.

  “Robert was annoyed with us, ’tis true.”

  “You maligned his appearance and his poverty ’til he could bear no more, is this not so?”

  “’Twas all in jest,” the youth agreed softly. “He laughed with us.”

  “His heart did not laugh with his lips.”

  “Nay. We saw that when he left us to seek other lodging.”

  “But it was your belittling the lass that finally drove him away, was it not?”

  The youth was silent again. He had not touched his wine. He looked from me to Arthur as if seeking comfort. He found none.

  “We did not guess he fancied the maid.”

  “Would you have chosen your words with more care had you known?”

  “Aye. We did not purpose to be cruel.”

  I made no reply. Perhaps this assertion was true, perhaps not. I had other concerns. “Have you and your friends thought about who might have wished to murder Salley?”

  “We spoke much about this long into the night. He was not the kind to make enemies. He would challenge us only when we made sport of the lass. He moved to other lodgings rather than dispute with us.”

  “He was in possession of one of Master John Wyclif’s stolen books.”

  “Robert?” the scholar exclaimed.

  “The book was returned to its owner this day. There can be no doubt. Before your words drove Salley away, did he speak of fear for his safety?”

  “Nay.” The youth finally took a swallow from his cup. “’Twas the opposite. Seemed sure of his future. Was to renew his studies next term. And spoke to me but a few days past of paying what he owed.”

  “When death came upon him he was unprepared?”

  “Aye, so we believe.”

  I learned nothing from the conversation but that the young can be cruel and thoughtless. I knew that already. I was once young. I drank the last of my wine, bid the youth good day, and motioned for Arthur to follow. We left the scholar staring over his half-empty cup.

  My mind turned to the small chest I had seen in Robert Salley’s chamber. Rather than return to Canterbury Hall, I told Arthur we would once again seek the Red Dragon. The place was as bereft of custom as the tavern on the Canditch we had recently visited.

  The scrawny proprietor sat where I had last seen him, his elbows on a crude table. He peered from me to Arthur with curiosity. He had seen both of us in his tavern, but not together. He croaked a greeting and asked did we seek wine.

  “Nay. The young scholar who lodged with you, Robert Salley, is dead. Have you been told?”

  “Aye. The young gentleman who sought ’im two days past was here ’bout the sixth hour. Told me the lad was murdered an’ the sheriff would have his goods, to see could anything be learned from what ’e owned.”

  “There was little in his chamber but an old chest.”

  “That was all the fellow took. Just the chest.”

  I thanked the man for his time. I needed no more wine this day, a thing which the tavern keeper’s expression indicated was a disappointment to him. It was also to Arthur, I think.

  So the sheriff knew that Robert Salley was murdered and Sir Simon used the knowledge to claim Salley’s chest. Yet other of the sheriff’s men told John Stelle that the poor scholar drowned in the Cherwell. There was much amiss here.

  I had seen nothing in the decaying chest but worn and tattered clothing, so could not say if some other thing might have lain below the garments. Sir Simon Trillowe thought so, else why claim the old chest. But it was sure twenty-one books were not hid beneath the clothing in the chest.

  Arthur and I stood in the muddy street before the Red Dragon and exchanged puzzled expressions. Was Lord Gilbert Talbot p
resent he would have lifted one eyebrow to show perplexity. I had tried to master the expression, but failed. I could no more raise one brow at a time than I could discover a murderer or twenty-one missing books. I had succeeded in but two endeavors since beginning the quest for Master John’s books: I had found Sentences, and I was soon to wed a comely and agreeable lass.

  Why, I wonder, must it be that my failures so occupy my mind that I spare little thought for my successes? I resolved to think upon more cheerful things. This would have been less difficult had events of the next hours chanced differently.

  The sun was low in the southwest when Arthur and I approached the gate to Canterbury Hall. Few townsmen or scholars were about. Streets were near empty. Was our return earlier in the day, when folk were about their business, I might not have noticed the giant from Eynsham Abbey. Indeed, the fellow was a hundred paces and more behind us. The light was poor, and he trod the shaded side of the street, so that his face was obscure. His size was not. He walked with another of normal stature. Had he been alone, at that distance I might not have noted his bulk. But aside a man of ordinary height his size was obvious. That I noticed him at all was but a matter of a random glance up the street before I passed through the gate.

  Even so I might have given the man no more notice. But when he saw that I studied him from before the gate of Canterbury Hall, he and his companion seemed to exchange words and turned quickly into an alley off St John’s Street.

  Arthur had paid no attention to me or those I observed, but strode on through the gatehouse. When he saw I lingered on the street he returned, a puzzled expression upon his face. Perhaps he worried that we might miss our supper of warmed-over pottage did we not hasten to the hall. I thought an explanation due him.

  “Two men have followed us, I think.”

  Arthur peered up St John’s Street in the direction of my gaze.

  “They have ducked into an alley, or perhaps set off up Grope Lane.”

  “You think they sought your purse? ’Tis not yet dark enough for thieves to be abroad. Perhaps they were about some business.”