A Trail of Ink

by Mel Starr

  “Did the men speak, to you or each other, during the assault?” I asked.

  “Nay, not while they was at us. But when they was done an’ left us in the mud I heard one laugh an’ say, ‘He’ll not be so eager now to seek books, eh?’”

  Sir Simon had visited the Red Dragon seeking, I was sure, Sentences. Was this the felon’s meaning? Or was it me they wished to dissuade from pursuit of Master John’s books?

  Since my time in the castle gaol I had begun to grow a beard. Sir Simon is above average height, as am I, and possesses a large nose, like mine. He wears a fur coat, and was accompanied this day by a squire dressed in black chauces and a blue cotehardie. Arthur wears the blue-and-black livery of a groom to Lord Gilbert Talbot. Was it me that was expected to lay battered and perhaps dying in the street?

  “Was one of the four a large man?”

  “Oh, aye,” the squire agreed. “A head taller than Sir Simon an’ beefy. He swung a cudgel big around as my arm an’ caught Sir Simon in the ribs. Took him off his feet an’ dropped ’im in the road three paces away from where he’d stood.”

  That explained the broken ribs. And if the same cudgel caught Sir Simon across the head it would explain his continued slumber.

  Sir Roger had listened silently to the squire’s tale, now he spoke. “The large man; Odo Grindecobbe of Eynsham, you think?”

  “Aye. He and his band were to seek me, but mistook Sir Simon for me, I think.”

  Lord Gilbert had been leaning against a wall, but stood erect at this assertion. “Why would a servant to the monks at Eynsham wish to harm you?”

  “Because one of the monks has stolen Master Wyclif’s books, and knows I am close on his trail.”

  “Monks are forbidden to leave the monastery without the abbot’s consent,” Lord Gilbert replied. “How could a monk of Eynsham travel to Oxford and return with books?”

  “He did not do so. He planned the deed, and sent servants to carry it out.”

  “What, then, does Sir Simon have to do with these stolen books?” the sheriff asked.

  “Somehow Sir Simon and Michael of Longridge learned that they had in common a dislike of me. My enemy’s enemy is my friend.”

  “Ah,” Lord Gilbert went to pulling at his beard, a thing which he did when puzzling out a riddle, “but how would an abbey’s servants know where Master Wyclif’s chamber is, to despoil him of his books and be seen by no other in the Hall?”

  “I am certain there is among the Benedictines at Canterbury Hall a man who knows Michael of Longridge and who dislikes Master John and would see him driven away.”

  “There is friction among the scholars at Canterbury Hall?” Sir Roger asked.

  “There is always friction among scholars. But ill feelings at Canterbury Hall run deep. Four scholars are Benedictines and eight are seculars.”

  “And Master Wyclif is a secular,” the sheriff completed the thought.

  “The villains who beat Sir Simon and would have harmed you will be on the road back to Eynsham,” Lord Gilbert asserted. “If we return to the castle for horses and men we may overtake them.”

  Sir Simon and his squire we left with the Augustinians and hastened to the castle. There was no time to call at the Stag and Hounds for Bruce and the palfrey, so Arthur and I found ourselves mounted on horses from the castle marshalsea.

  We did not receive the pick of the stables. Lord Gilbert, Sir Roger, the grooms and sergeants galloped on ahead. By the time Arthur and I had passed Oseney Abbey all that remained to show that they had passed were hoofprints in the mud.

  We were near to Swinford when we came upon a cluster of men and horses in the road. As we closed upon the group I saw that two men lay motionless in the mud. One of these was of great size.

  Lord Gilbert stood over the supine form of Odo Grindecobbe. “Did not wish to be apprehended,” he said by way of greeting as I dismounted. The man was alive, but a bloody stain upon his surcoat said he would not be so for long. The wound was through his belly, which no man is likely to survive.

  Lord Gilbert, Sir Roger, and their party had surprised the miscreants but a few moments earlier. Sir Simon’s assailants had made no attempt to scatter or escape, evidently not thinking they were the quarry of the horsemen bearing down upon them. When they learned it was so, two surrendered their weapons meekly. Only two attempted combat. One of these now lay dead, the other, Grindecobbe, lay in the road with his great cudgel beside him. He had made to swing the club at Sir Roger when he dismounted, but the warder saw and ran him through with his dagger before he could complete the stroke.

  There was much I wished to learn from Grindecobbe before he died. I knelt in the mud beside him and saw his eyes turn to me. His lips were twisted in pain and his hands lay pressed against the wound in his belly.

  “I am Hugh de Singleton. Who sent you to Oxford to do me injury?”

  The man did not reply. His eyes traveled to Lord Gilbert, then back to me.

  “’Twas Michael of Longridge, was it not?” I demanded.

  Grindecobbe slowly nodded his great, shaggy head.

  “And he sent you also over the wall of Canterbury Hall to seize Master Wyclif’s books, did he not?”

  “Aye,” he whispered weakly. Perhaps the giant knew that death was near; that speaking truth would not lead him to the gallows. The sheriff does not hang a corpse. And most men would prefer to meet the Lord Christ with truth on their lips rather than a lie.

  “And you broke the thatcher’s ladder while at the deed?”

  Again he nodded, then spoke hesitantly. “Brought a ladder, but seen another an’ put both to use.”

  “You were paid well for this?”

  He nodded again.

  “Why did you murder Robert Salley?” I was not certain he had done so, but thought the accusation could do no harm.

  “Wouldn’t say where the book was,” the dying man whispered. Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth and left a trail across his cheek as it dripped to the road.

  “How did Salley come to have it?”

  Grindecobbe was silent for a moment, as if harboring his strength. “He was kin to Brother Michael. ’E knew the lad would try to sell it… an’ when you learned of it would set you on the wrong trail.”

  By the time Grindecobbe concluded this speech his voice had fallen to a whisper I could hear only with my ear near to his lips. I could learn no more from the fellow. His breath became shallow, then stopped. His eyes stared, unseeing, toward the clouded sky. We who yet lived crossed ourselves over the corpse.

  The two dead men were hoisted across a horse and two of the sheriff’s men doubled upon another. With the two abbey servants afoot, our party splashed across the Thames at Swinford and approached Eynsham Abbey as the sun touched the tree-tops to the west of the town.

  When the porter learned the rank of his visitors he immediately sent for Abbot Thurstan. The elderly monk tottered across the abbey yard a few moments later. He recognized me, and guessed that my appearance with Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger and four of his servants, two now corpses, boded ill for the abbey. He directed the dead taken to the church and ushered me, Lord Gilbert, and the sheriff to his chamber.

  The west windows of the abbot’s chamber were dark when I concluded my account. Some of the tale he knew already. When I was done he rang for a lay brother and sent the man to fetch Michael of Longridge.

  The monk protested innocence when his crimes were set before him. But Abbot Thurstan would have no perjury and soon had truth from him. It was as I had suspected; a monk of Canterbury Hall gave instruction so that the thieves might find Master John’s chamber, have the books, and be gone. Brother Hamon had indeed hoped to force Wyclif from his place as Warden of Canterbury Hall.

  Brother Michael had withheld Sentences when the other volumes were sent to Westminster, for he, like all scholars, admired an excellent book, well bound. Only when he saw I was diligent on the trail of the missing books did he send it to his cousin so as to mislead me when the
book should appear in an Oxford stationer’s shop. He thought Salley would be able to sell the volume and disappear amongst the young scholars of Oxford before any could trace him. The monk seemed genuinely grieved to know his plan led to Salley’s death. Grindecobbe was sent to retrieve the book when Brother Michael saw his plan was failing, and strangled the youth when he would not give it up.

  Brother Michael had sought his old friend Sir Simon’s aid, not knowing the knight had his own cause to dislike me. And when early that day he sent Grindecobbe and three others to Oxford it was to seek and murder me, not Sir Simon. But as we are much alike in appearance, and Sir Simon’s new squire wore apparel of the color expected of Arthur, it was Sir Simon who suffered for my sake.

  “What was to be done with the books in London?” the abbot asked. “Surely the abbey librarian would wonder why they appeared.”

  “I sent word to Brother Giles at Westminster that we at Eynsham had received a legacy. I told him that many of the books in the bequest we already possessed. I offered to sell those, and he accepted. I know how we at Eynsham suffer for our poverty,” he continued, as if to justify his crime.

  “You will set out tomorrow for Westminster,” Abbot Thurstan decreed when Brother Michael had done with his incrimination. “Seek the carters who took the books to Westminster and pay them to accompany you. It is the abbey’s responsibility to redeem Master Wyclif’s books. Tell the carters I will pay what they require. Has Westminster sent payment?”

  “Nay,” Brother Michael muttered. “Not yet.”

  “Then we will not need to take funds. You are dismissed,” the abbot said with a wave of a blue-veined hand.

  Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger were invited to occupy the abbot’s chamber for the night and we other guests were assigned lodging according to rank.

  In the grey light of dawn I bid Lord Gilbert farewell. He would return to Bampton and Arthur and I, with the sheriff and his men, would escort Brother Michael on the first segment of his journey.

  “Now this business is concluded shall we soon have a wedding?” Lord Gilbert laughed.

  “Aye, m’lord. I think so.”

  “The Lady Petronilla will not set off for Goodrich ’til she has seen you wed. She will know the day, and wills me send her coach for your maid when the wedding day be set.”

  Master Wyclif greeted the news with mixed joy and sorrow. He was pleased to learn that his books, had Westminster sold none, would be soon returned, but distressed to learn of Brother Hamon’s duplicity. The monk, he growled, would be sent straightaway back to Canterbury.

  I arrived at Holywell Street at the ninth hour. Kate was pleased, I think, to see me. Word of the brawl on Canditch had come to the shop, and as she had heard nothing from me for a day, worry was gnawing at her. It is not a bad thing when a comely lass is anxious for your welfare.

  It was near dark, and time for supper when I concluded the tale of the past days. A simple pottage stewed upon the hearth, but pottage in company with Kate is much to be preferred over similar fare consumed with the scholars of Canterbury Hall.

  There was now no impediment to our marriage. With her father we set the eleventh day of January for the ceremony. Advent was now upon us, and no marriage possible until Christmas was past. I told Kate that Lady Petronilla had in mind to send her carriage to Oxford. This pleased her. Few maids will ride to their wedding in a lady’s wagon.

  It was near time for curfew when I left Kate and walked with light heart to Canterbury Hall. The only man who might seek me harm lay abed in the Augustinian Friary, but footpads might be about, so I kept a hand upon my dagger until I reached the Hall.

  Master John was pleased to learn that a date was set when I would become a husband and vowed that he would be at the porch of the Church of St Beornwald for the event.

  Next day Arthur and I broke our fast with maslin loaves and ale, retrieved Bruce and the palfrey from the Stag and Hounds, and set off for Bampton. The bells of Oseney Abbey rang for terce as Bruce lumbered past the tower. The bells were pleasant to the ear, but I hoped not to hear them again for many days.

  It was the law of Moses that when a man took a bride he would be free from obligation to go to war for a year, nor would he be charged with any business for that time. I hoped Lord Gilbert would remember the injunction but, alas, this was not to be.

  Although the fault lay not with Lord Gilbert.

  Sir John Trillowe was indeed Sheriff of Oxford from July to November, 1365. I do not know if his term was brief due to illness, death, incompetence, or malfeasance. I chose the last of these.

  A few medieval Oxford streets, like St Fridewide’s Lane, no longer exist. Many other streets have undergone name changes. Here are some examples:

  Today

  1365

  Broad Street

  Canditch

  Queen Street

  Great Bailey Street

  Cornmarket Street

  Northgate Street

  St Aldate’s

  Fish Street

  Magpie Lane

  Grope Lane

  Oriel Street

  Schidyard Street

  Merton Street

  St John’s Street

  Canterbury Hall no longer exists, but its location is preserved in Christ Church’s Canterbury Gate opening into Oriel Square, at the intersection of Oriel Street and Merton Street.

  The conflict between secular and religious scholars was real. John Wyclif lasted only until 1367 as warden of Canterbury Hall.

  Salley Abbey is today, like many other monastic establishments, a ruin. Its current name is Sawley Abbey and the remains lie a short distance north of the A59 in Sawley.

  The current Magpie Lane was indeed the fourteenth-century haunt of Oxford’s prostitutes.

  An extract from the fourth chronicle of

  Hugh de Singleton, surgeon

  Shouting and pounding upon the door of Galen House drew me from the maslin loaf with which I was breaking my fast. It was a fortnight after Hocktide, in the new year 1366, and the sun was just beginning to illuminate the spire of the Church of St. Beornwald. It was Hubert Shillside who bruised his knuckles against my door. He was about to set out for the castle and desired I should accompany him. The hue and cry was raised and he, as town coroner, and I as bailiff of Bampton Manor, were called to our duties. Thomas atte Bridge had been found this morn hanging from the limb of an oak at Cow-Ley’s Corner.

  Word of such a death passes through a village swiftly. A dozen men and a few women stood at Cow-Ley’s Corner when Shillside and I approached. Roads to Clanfield and Alvescot here diverge; the road to Clanfield passes through a meadow where Lord Gilbert’s cattle watched serenely as men gathered before them. To the north of the corner, and along the road to Alvescot and Black Bourton, is forest. From a tree of this wood the corpse of Thomas atte Bridge hung, his body but a few paces from the road. Shillside and I crossed ourselves as we approached.

  Most who gazed upon the dead man did so silently, but not his wife. Maud knelt before her husband’s body, her arms wrapped about his knees. She wailed incomprehensibly, as well she might.

  Thomas atte Bridge hung by the neck from the limb of an oak, suspended there by a coarse hempen cord twisted about his neck. The cord passed round the branch and down to the tree trunk, where it was fastened at about waist height. The branch was not high – did I stretch a hand above me I could nearly touch it. The man’s feet dangled from his wife’s embrace little more than two hands-breadth above the ground. Near the corpse lay an overturned stool.

  “Who found him?” I asked the crowd. Ralph the herder stepped forward.

  “Was on me way to see to the cattle. They been turned out to grass but a short time now, an’ can swell up like. Near walked into ’im, dark as it was, an’ him hangin’ so close to the road.”

  Hubert Shillside wandered about the place, then approached me and whispered, “Suicide, I think.”

  Spirits are known to frequent Cow-Ley’s Corner. Many folk will n
ot walk the road there after dark, and those who do sometimes see apparitions. This is to be expected, for any who take their own life are buried there. They cannot be interred in the churchyard, in hallowed ground. Their ghosts rest uneasy, and are said to vex travelers who pass the place at night.

  “Knew he’d be buried here,” Shillside continued, “an’ thought to spare poor Maud greater trouble.”

  That Thomas atte Bridge might wish to cause little trouble to anyone did not seem likely, given my experience of the man. He had twice attacked me, leaving lumps upon my skull. But I made no reply. It is not good to speak ill of the dead, even this man.

  Kate had followed us from the house, and now she looked from the corpse to Maud to me, and spoke softly. “You are troubled, Hugh.”

  This was a statement, not a question. We had been wed but three months, but Kate is observant and knows me well.

  “I will call a coroner’s jury here,” Shillside announced. “We can cut the fellow down and see him buried straightaway.”

  “You must seek Father Thomas or one of the other vicars,” I reminded him. “Thomas was a tenant of the Bishop of Exeter, not Lord Gilbert. They may wish otherwise.”

  Shillside set off for the town while two men lifted Maud from her knees and led her sobbing in the coroner’s track.

  “Wait,” I said abruptly. All turned to see what caused my command. “The stool which lies at your husband’s feet,” I asked the grieving widow, “is it yours?”

  Maud ceased her wailing long enough to whisper, “Aye.”

  Another onlooker righted the stool and prepared to step on it to cut down the corpse, when I bid him halt. Kate spoke true, the circumstances of this death troubled me.