by Mel Starr
I saw Hawkwode swallow, his adam’s apple working vigorously. Perhaps he spoke true and knew not that when he accompanied Sir Simon to the swineherd’s hut it was to do murder. Perhaps, but perhaps not. Mayhap his unease was due to discovery, not ignorance.
“If ’twas not you came over the wall of Canterbury Hall, who did so?” I continued.
Hawkwode rested his elbows on the table and dropped his head to his hands. He did not speak, but Sir Roger did.
“’Tis near time for dinner,” he said to Lord Gilbert. “You and your man shall join me. This fellow may remain here and ponder his sins and how he may escape punishment for them.”
The castle board was an improvement over the fare at Canterbury Hall. The ewerer presented water for washing hands from a brass ewer of cunning workmanship. And though it was a fast day no pottage was served.
The first remove was of eels baked in spices and pike in galantine. The second remove featured roasted halibut and salmon in syrup, a favorite of mine. For the third remove the castle cook provided roasted sea bass, perch in jelly, and fried mussels. A subtlety of spiced baked pears and apples ended the repast. After such a meal I might have preferred a nap, but Sir Jocelin awaited us in the sheriff’s chamber, hungry and, I prayed, subdued.
Hawkwode’s companions, watched by the warder and two sergeants – who would consume cold fish for their trouble – were seated as they were when we departed the anteroom for dinner. If they were distressed for missing their meal, their bored expressions provided no clue.
Sir Jocelin was also as we left him. I had thought we might find him at the window, but not so. Perhaps he had already visited the opening and found nothing in the castle yard worthy of his attention.
I took my place at the table and Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger again sat behind me. Sir Roger produced an appreciative belch, a response to a good meal. The implication, I think, was not lost on Hawkwode. Did he not provide satisfactory replies to my questions, his future meals might also be in the castle, but composed of stale maslin, cold pottage, and foul water.
“You have had time to consider your position,” I reminded Sir Jocelin. “Before we went to our dinner I asked who it was who came over the wall and took me to the forest if it was not you.”
“I knew them not,” he muttered. “Lads from Eynsham were sent for.”
“From Eynsham?” Lord Gilbert exclaimed.
“Sir Simon sent for the fellows?” I asked. “For the purpose?”
“Aye. He sent for them some days past, as well.”
“You saw these men?”
“Aye.”
“And ’twas a week past, thereabouts, you did so?”
“Aye,” he agreed softly.
A thought occurred to me and it arrived with a vision of a large man, armed with a club, accompanied by a smaller companion, on the road near Swinford.
“Was one of these fellows of great size?”
“Aye.”
“His name?”
“Odo Grindecobbe.”
Climbing over the wall of Canterbury Hall was a thing this fellow had done twice, I thought. I remembered the thatcher’s broken ladder. No wonder a thong broke, was the ladder used by a man the size of Grindecobbe.
But what had Sir Simon to do with thieves? Surely when Grindecobbe clambered over the wall twice, he did so for two different reasons, which I could not see related.
“Did Sir Simon speak of recovering a book from Robert Salley?”
“He didn’t speak a name, not that I heard. An’ didn’t name a book. Just said the fellows from Eynsham was to seek a scholar and recover something that was given to him.”
Something that was given to him? Did this mean that Salley had not stolen Master John’s books, or been any part of the theft? If so, it was as I thought. And if so, who gave him one of the books, and why? Might a relative have done so? This trail led in two ways, one to Eynsham, the other to Sir Simon.
“What did Sir Simon say when you arrived Sunday at the swineherd’s hut and found it empty but for the guard?”
“He was in a rage. Said they’d botched the job twice.”
“They?”
“Whoever it was he sent to Canterbury Hall… Grindecobbe and the others.”
“Did he speak of the first blunder?”
“Nay.”
Sir Jocelin might not have known of Grindecobbe’s first mistake, but I did. He, and perhaps some companions, had murdered Robert Salley but not obscured the deed well enough. Did Salley die because he would not give up Sentences, or to silence him? Hawkwode did not know, so it would do no good to press him about it.
“The first error Grindecobbe made was to leave Robert Salley where his corpse might be found and his manner of death discovered. Sir Simon surely commanded the scholar’s death did he not surrender Master Wyclif’s book. We must next visit Sir Simon,” I said to Sir Roger, “and learn what he knows. Perhaps he will give different witness than we have now heard.”
“I have spoken truth,” Hawkwode replied indignantly.
“Mayhap. But men will say many things to escape a noose.”
The word introduced a new consideration to Sir Jocelin. His adam’s apple again bounced and he was silent while contemplating the thought of hemp encircling his neck. I was convinced the man knew not of Robert Salley’s death or Sir Simon’s part in it. But an accomplice in murder may hang from the same gallows as he who did the crime. While this understanding washed through Sir Jocelin’s mind, Sir Roger spoke.
“Sir Simon would impeach his mother did he save himself from the sheriff’s dance.”
The look in Sir Jocelin’s eyes was one of agreement with Sir Roger’s assertion. I decided to give a small shove to Hawkwode’s train of thought.
“We will not get the truth of his actions from Sir Simon. He will scrape himself clean of any offense and scatter the taint on others. So you must tell all you know, or we shall hear Sir Simon’s account. I suspect you will not play so benign a role in his version of events as in the version you have presented to us.”
“I speak the truth,” Hawkwode repeated, rising from his seat.
“Hmm. Perhaps. But have you spoken all of the truth? You sought to dissemble when first brought to this room, and gave answer only when ’twas shown to you that we knew of your lies. What may you tell us of Sir Simon and the monk Michael of Longridge which we have not asked?”
Sir Jocelin had resumed his chair while I spoke. When I mentioned the monk he straightened as if a dagger had pricked him between the shoulder-blades. This was a most satisfying response, and surprising, for I had convinced myself that Hawkwode knew but an outline of the business and nothing at all of the theft of Master John’s books. Usually I am not pleased to be in error, but in this matter I was.
Sir Jocelin’s posture at the mention of Michael of Longridge gave indication that the monk was known to him, and further, that he had assumed I knew nothing of this portion of the tangle. He could not guess how much or little of the monk’s connection to Sir Simon I knew. I waited in silence for his reply. It did not come soon. He churned over in his mind how much, or how little, he must tell to satisfy me.
I was willing to wait while Hawkwode considered his position, but Sir Roger was not. This was just as well. “Who is Michael of Longridge?” he demanded. “What has he to do with this, and to what house is he attached?”
“Will you tell him,” I said softly to Sir Jocelin, “or shall I?”
He had been studying stains upon the sheriff’s table. He lifted his face to me and it was apparent that what little fight had been left in the fellow was now vanished. He put a hand to his neck, as if he could feel a cord there already, and spoke:
“Brother Michael is attached to the Benedictine house at Eynsham,” he said.
“How is he known to Sir Simon?” I asked.
“They were friends of old, I think… when Brother Michael was a scholar at Balliol and Sir Simon was but a lad.”
“The monk,” I added,
“hired two carters to take a chest to Westminster, to the abbey, but a fortnight after Master Wyclif’s books were stolen. The chest contained books. Were they Master Wyclif’s I know not, but suspect so. Brother Michael,” I added, “and Master John were not friends.”
Silence followed this revelation. In the quiet of the sheriff’s chamber we who were there heard agitated voices through the closed door. Excited conversation could be heard from the anteroom. Sir Roger frowned at this interruption and stalked across the room to yank open the door and deal with the uproar.
Even with the door open I could make no sense of the jumble of voices. Several men were speaking at once and each seemed sure it was his words which must be heard. The sheriff’s clerk seemed to be the recipient of the tumult. Sir Roger frowned through the open door at the confusion, then quieted the chamber: “Silence!” he roared. He was obeyed.
Lord Gilbert moved to the door and I followed. Even Sir Jocelin succumbed to curiosity and followed, peering between us into the now silent antechamber.
The warder was one of those whose excited babble was halted at the Sheriff’s command. Sir Roger looked from him to his clerk, then addressed the clerk.
“What means this prattle?”
“There has been a brawl, m’lord sheriff… at the Canditch near the Northgate. I know nothing more,” he shrugged.
The warder, who it was had evidently brought the news, spoke. “Aye, Sir Roger, five or six men, with daggers and clubs, disturbing the peace near to the Northgate.”
“Put an end to it,” Sir Roger snapped. “Take some men and put a stop to it.”
“Aye,” the warder replied, and immediately left the room. Sir Roger turned back to Lord Gilbert and looked to the ceiling in disgust.
“Have the miscreants locked up for the night,” Sir Roger told his clerk. “I’ll deal with ’em in the morning.”
Lord Gilbert and I stood back to permit Sir Roger to return to his chamber, but before he could do so another voice and hurrying footsteps could be heard in the corridor leading to the anteroom. All there turned to see who would appear at the door.
It was a burgher of the town, from his dress a prosperous man, unknown to me. The fellow did not hesitate at the door but strode purposefully into the clerk’s chamber.
“Sir Roger,” he gasped, “’Tis Sir Simon.”
“Sir Simon Trillowe?” the sheriff replied. “What of him?”
“He lays in the Canditch, near dead.”
Sir Roger glanced back to me and Lord Gilbert, a knowing expression on his face. “Near the Northgate?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“Who else?”
“Sir Simon’s squire, Sir Roger. More than that I know not. Sir Simon had but a moment before stepped from the Augustinian Friars when four men set upon him in the street.”
“Did any restrain the assailants?” Sir Roger asked.
“Nay. ’Twas over quickly and the fellows were gone before aught could be done to stop their battery.”
“Was one of the attackers a man of great size?” I asked.
“Aye… a head taller than most an’ hands like a porringer.”
Sir Roger turned to me: “The servant from Eynsham, you think?”
“Aye. If he lives, Sir Simon would know his attacker.”
“And may need a surgeon,” Lord Gilbert added.
Sir Roger instructed his clerk to hold Sir Jocelin and his companions to await our return. Together with the puffing burgher we three clattered down the stone steps of the passageway and into the castle yard. Arthur followed close behind. It was but a short way to the Northgate. Neither Sir Simon nor his squire were there.
A knot of men gathered in the Canditch told where the altercation had occurred. The warder and three sergeants had arrived at the scene before us, but stood stolidly in the mud and seemed without purpose.
Sir Simon and his squire had been taken, reported more dead than alive, to the Augustinian Friars. The assailants had struck quickly and then run off down Irishman’s Street toward the Hythe Bridge. It was the collective opinion of the witnesses that Sir Simon’s purse was the object of the attack. I knew better. But I was not prepared for the truth of the matter when I discovered it.
Sir Roger stalked off toward the Augustinian Friary. Lord Gilbert, Arthur, the warder, and I followed. The porter directed us to a chamber where the afflicted men were laid out upon pallets. The friary herbalist attended them, but had done little but staunch the flow of blood and then stand back to scratch his chin.
Sir Simon lay unconscious, his fur coat yet upon his shoulders. The garment was torn in several places where daggers had penetrated, and drying blood caked the punctures. A small fire spluttered in a hearth at one end of the hall. I asked for the blaze to be refreshed and the wounded men to be moved closer to the flames.
The herbalist frowned at this imposition in his bailiwick until Lord Gilbert informed the friar that I was a surgeon and would take charge of the wounded men. The fellow had already seen that the injuries were beyond his skills, so required no more urging to do as I had asked.
The squire wore a blue cotehardie and black chauces. He seemed not so badly injured as Sir Simon. I required of the herbalist and his assistant that they strip the youth of his torn clothing and bathe his wounds in wine. The squire was alert to his condition and so was able to raise arms and legs to assist his benefactors. A servant brought an arm-load of wood for the fire while I conducted this brief examination of the squire.
Sir Simon was surely the object of the attack, not his purse, for that was yet fastened to a belt about his cotehardie. I asked the herbalist for a table, and when it was produced two friars lifted Sir Simon to it and placed him before the fire. The blaze and a weak afternoon sun which penetrated the chamber windows gave enough light that I could attend the man’s many wounds.
I would need my instruments, that was sure. I sent Arthur to Canterbury Hall to fetch them and the pack of herbs from the guest chamber, then bent to a closer examination of the wounded Sir Simon.
A blow from sword or dagger had nearly removed his left ear. It dangled from a strip of gristle and would need to be sewn back to his head. Perhaps the same stroke which took Sir Simon’s ear had also left a gash across his cheek. This wound lay garishly open, but did not threaten death. He would go through life with a vivid scar, did not his other wounds dispatch him to the next world. I noted also, with satisfaction, his split and swollen lip, an injury which needed no attention from me.
Sir Roger and Lord Gilbert stood silent while two friars and I divested the immobile Sir Simon of his clothing. He had taken three dagger thrusts. One was upon his leg and was of small concern, but two entered his chest between ribs. If either penetrated to the heart or lungs he must die. Indeed, if one had penetrated to the heart he must be dead already. I laid my ear against Sir Simon’s chest and listened. The heartbeat was steady. I opened his swollen lips and saw no blood there, but was greeted with a foul stench. These were good signs that heart and lungs lay unmarred. Not the foul stink. I knew not the cause of that or what it might signify. Perhaps his fur coat was heavy and the dagger thrusts did not penetrate to his vitals.
Several bruises colored Sir Simon’s body. A great welt was rising and taking color across his ribs. I prodded the bruise and it was well the man was insensible, for I was sure a rib or two lay broken under my fingers. Such manipulation would surely have brought him agony. I found myself wishing he was awake. It is my obligation to aid all men when they are in distress, as it is for all Christian men, but I felt no duty to release such a man from pain he might deserve.
No man will remain so long insensible unless he has taken a blow to his skull. I ran fingers through Sir Simon’s scalp and found a swelling readily enough. This was not so large as to kill a man, I thought. Thomas atte Bridge gave me just such a lump when he knocked me senseless with a beech pole in Alvescot Churchyard.
Arthur arrived breathless with my instruments and herb pouch. I set to
work first on Sir Simon’s ear and lacerated cheek. This was my first opportunity to sew a man’s ear back to his head. It was a more troublesome business than I had imagined. I had misgivings about the task when I was finished. I was not confident the ear would live again, reattached to its accustomed place. Did it not, it would decay and fall away, and Sir Simon would find another reason to wish ill of me.
I next sewed up the gash across his cheek. I used many small stitches, but he would wear the mark of this laceration for what remained of his days.
The punctures in his body and leg were quickly closed, with but two or three stitches at each wound. When I had done I bathed all these perforations with wine and judged myself satisfied. Lord Gilbert, Sir Roger, the warder, and Arthur had looked on silently while I was at my work patching Sir Simon. The warder, I noted, seemed rather green of the face when I looked up from the last sutures on Sir Simon’s leg.
The squire lay in his braes upon another table. He shivered though the fire now warmed his corner of the room. He was a collection of bruises and lacerations, but none would take his life, nor did he require a needle and silk thread to close his wounds. His cuts had been bathed. Time would heal his hurts. I told the herbalist’s assistant to find some garment for the youth. His chauces and cotehardie were torn and muddy and it would not serve to soil his wounds with such filth.
Sir Simon was yet senseless. Nothing could be learned from him of the attack. The squire, however, had recovered his wits, so when he clothed himself I directed him to a bench drawn near the fire and sought to learn more of what I already guessed.
“What happened in the street? Who set upon you?”
“Don’t know. Sir Simon came to this place to find succor after that fellow,” he pointed to Arthur, “struck him.”
“I treated his wounded lip with oil of ragwort,” the friary herbalist commented. That explained the stench when I inspected Sir Simon’s mouth.
“We departed the friary an’ Sir Simon spoke of seeking aid against another attack. We’d traveled but a few paces on the Canditch when four men set upon us of a sudden.”
