by Starr, Mel;
“We have seized no woman,” Benedici replied indignantly.
“If you will not answer perhaps I must compel you to come with me to Bampton, where your carts and wool sacks may be examined.” How Arthur and I might compel six men to reverse their journey I did not at that moment consider. There are limits even to Arthur’s strength. But Lord Gilbert’s name is stronger yet.
I hoped the threat would loosen tongues. It did.
“The man you speak of, he found the cotehardie this morning. His own was tattered.”
“Come. I must speak to the fellow, and you must require of him that he provide truthful answers to my questions.”
Once again I passed the line of carts and runcies, this time with the wool buyer following. I reined my palfrey to a stop before the blue-clad drover and studied his garment. I saw what I had not noticed the first time I passed by the fellow. Near to the cotehardie’s left shoulder, high upon the breast, the garment was torn. A patch of wool nearly the size of a mussel shell was ripped away.
“This man,” Benedici said in his accented English and nodding to me, “wishes to know how you came by your new cotehardie.”
The drover glanced resentfully at me, as if he thought I intended to take it from him, which at that moment I did.
“Found it, didn’t I,” the man muttered.
“Where?”
“Aside the road, in a thicket where beech trees was coppiced.”
“What were you doing there?”
“We stopped so we could relieve ourselves.”
“And you entered the thicket?”
“Aye… for privacy, like.”
“And this cotehardie was there?” I said.
“Aye. But for the tear there’s no reason ’twould be cast away.”
“Was it well hidden, in the coppiced grove?”
“Aye.”
I looked to the hem of the garment. It had been crudely hacked short so as to be more comfortable for a mounted man.
“I am Sir Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his manor of Bampton. I seek the woman whose cotehardie you now wear. She was seized upon the road north of Clanfield, on the way to Bampton.”
“I didn’t find it near that road,” the drover said. “’Twas by the road to Black Bourton.”
“Where an oat field lies east of the road?” I said.
“Aye. So ’twas.”
“Did you cut away part of the cotehardie there?”
“Aye.”
“And discarded it?”
“Aye. Tossed it aside the wall. No good to me.”
I was uncertain if possession of the cotehardie would help me find Lady Philippa. What use the garment would be to my search was small compared to the value of the garment to the poor drover. I decided to allow the man to keep it. I would return by way of the Black Bourton road and seek the fragment the drover had slashed away.
I briefly considered requiring the Italians to allow me to peer into the carts, under the wool packs, to see if Lady Philippa and Milicent might be hidden there. But I had already demanded much of the fellows, and feared that even if they had no women hidden in a cart they might rebel against any further imposition. And women concealed in a cart would hear my words and make themselves known. If they were concealed against their will.
I bade the wool buyer “Fare well,” and with Arthur at my side set off for Radcot Bridge, which was visible in the distance.
Rather than taking the Bampton Road at Clanfield we traveled north to the oat field I had first examined days earlier. As the drover said, I found the scrap he had severed from the cotehardie close against a corner of the field.
I raised my eyes to the nearby wood and some twenty paces away saw a copse which resembled a coppiced grove. The shoots had grown thick and tall and would provide dense cover for a man who wished to do nature’s work privily. Indeed, I soon found evidence that the drover’s tale was true.
But although I stumbled about between stumps and shoots I could find nothing to indicate that Lady Philippa had disrobed here. The place was so difficult to enter that I would not have investigated it but for the drover’s testimony. Perhaps, I thought, the lady donned some other garment at a place not so thickly overgrown, and the blue cotehardie was then tossed into the copse because the trees grew so densely that those who placed it there believed it would never be found.
For what reason would Lady Philippa change her apparel? To escape detection. But was this substitution her doing, or the plan of some other? Some other, likely, else why a ransom demand? And when the lady departed this place, what then was her garb?
Hiding anything in a coppiced grove is not a sure way to conceal it. The shoots which emerge from the stumps, when new and tender, are useful as arrow shafts. Grown larger they may become fence posts and rails in places where stone is lacking. When larger still the growths may be used for rafters for sheds and small barns, even for modest houses. Perhaps the man, or woman, who discarded Lady Philippa’s cotehardie was unfamiliar with the ways of villagers and verderers. A lady might be so ignorant, and also her captors if she had been taken by city folk. Any of these might not understand that coppicing is done for a purpose. A coppiced grove is likely to occasionally be visited, and what may be hidden there discovered.
Folk in Black Bourton and Alvescot told me they had seen a cart pass to the north the day Lady Philippa disappeared. Was she hidden in the cart, under a canvas, wearing only her chemise? Or was it planned before she was removed from her wagon that she would change from her blue cotehardie to some other garment? If so, who made these plans? Such a provision would not be made upon short notice. Would men of Clanfield have time after seeing the wagon pass through their village to acquire some other clothing for their victim?
I had inspected the place several days earlier, but now that Lady Philippa’s clothing had been found Arthur and I performed another search. We found nothing else to indicate that folk had passed the copse and field a few days before.
The sun was low in the northwest. I told Arthur we would give up the search, and with the fragment of Lady Philippa’s cotehardie across the pommel of my saddle we returned to Clanfield and the Bampton road.
At the entrance to Bampton Castle forecourt I dismounted and bade Arthur see the palfreys to the marshalsea.
“And let Lord Gilbert know I will call in the morning to tell him all.”
Chapter 7
’Twas nearly dark when I reached Galen House. My Kate had not yet barred the door for the night, so I did not need to bruise my knuckles to gain entrance.
“I have looked for your return all day,” Kate said. “What has delayed you? You were to deliver the lady’s ransom last evening, were you not?”
“Aye, I was. And did. But I am too weary and hungry to relate all at this moment. If you feed me I will regain enough strength to tell the tale.”
“Come,” Kate smiled, and led me to the kitchen. There, upon our table, I saw thick slices of cyueles and a wheaten loaf with honeyed butter. ’Twas good to be home.
My father-in-law had retired to his bedchamber, but left his bed when he heard my voice and looked on approvingly as I consumed his daughter’s culinary creation. Kate sat across the table waiting for me to eat my fill before speaking of my journey to Coleshill and return.
Adela had already put Bessie and John to bed, and gone to her home in the Weald. I drew a bench from the kitchen to the back garden and Kate, her father, and I sat upon it, backs against the warm kitchen wall, and watched the dark sky over Lord Gilbert’s forest to the west.
“A feminine hand, you say?” my Kate commented when I had related the tale of my unsuccessful journey to Coleshill.
“Mayhap. The characters were writ small, as the parchment was not large. Of necessity the letters were precise. It may be that is why I took the message to be inscribed in a feminine hand.”
“A careful scholar might be responsible for such a script,” Caxton said. “Poor students often write small to
save parchment. Even copyists. I have seen it so. There is a monk at Osney Abbey who can place two chapters of the Gospel of St. John upon half a leaf, and the entire Gospel upon less than a gathering. Of course, only the young can read such work.”
“Sir Aymer’s squire learned that Lady Philippa was courted by a scholar before she wed Sir Aymer,” I mused.
“You suppose the man would seize her?” Kate said.
“Men have done stranger things for love,” I replied. “Consider Paris and Helen.”
“But why demand ransom, then?” Caxton asked. “If some disappointed swain took her he’d not likely return the lady for any amount.”
“Aye,” Kate said. “But two pounds would pay for lodging and food for two for many months.”
“You think the disappointed suitor has her, and that Lady Philippa is complicit in the business?” I said.
“Neither she nor the maid cried out when they were taken. Why so?”
“If a dagger was to their throats and silence commanded they might obey,” I replied.
“Mayhap,” Kate replied skeptically.
“Who is this unsuccessful suitor?” Caxton asked. “Have you a name?”
“Martyn de Wenlock.”
“Of which college?” Kate asked.
“That I do not know. But ’twould be of interest if he remains in Oxford, or has departed his college in the past few days.”
“You think,” Caxton said, “that if he took the lady he would flee the town?”
“Aye. Too many folk might recognize Lady Philippa if she was kept in Oxford.”
“Unless she was made a prisoner,” Kate said. “Which I doubt. If this scholar had to do with her disappearance, likely she was a willing accomplice to her abduction.”
“And the maid’s gift to the squire puzzles me,” I said.
“The ring?”
“Aye. Why say to Giles that the ring would cause him to remember her except that without it he might forget her?”
“Which he would not do was she serving her lady daily at Coleshill,” Kate said. “Perhaps she wished to escape Sir Aymer’s attentions – you said many of the knight’s servants knew of this – and had resolved to flee her employment. Mayhap the ring had naught to do with her disappearance with the lady she served… that was merely happenstance.” I pursed my lips and Kate continued. “Nay, I don’t really think it so, either. ’Twas but a thought.”
“Will you seek this de Wenlock fellow?” my father-in-law said.
“I am charged to find the lady, but I have few threads to pull which might unravel the riddle. The scholar is one, so I will seek him in Oxford and give him a yank, to see if he can be tattered.”
“When will you be away?” Kate asked.
“Tomorrow,” I sighed. “A trail is like a pease pottage, best when hot.”
The next day I awoke early, as does every man whose wife possesses a rooster. Kate has named hers Roland, for he sings well and believes that the sun rises to hear him crow.
Arthur is not reluctant to travel. The man seems to enjoy adventure even though he nears the age when men would rather sit by a fire and entertain grandchildren than set off upon the back of a horse. So when I found him at Bampton Castle he readily accepted my requirement that he make ready two palfreys so as to accompany me to Oxford. While he did so I sought Lord Gilbert and told him of the sorry business at Coleshill.
“So Sir Aymer has lost two pounds and a wife,” my employer said after I related the tale.
“So it seems, although I suppose the lady may yet be released.”
“Not likely, though, eh?”
“Aye.”
“What now? Do you wish to wash your hands of the matter and allow Sir Aymer to seek Lady Philippa on his own?”
I did not immediately answer. The thought of abandoning the search had not before occurred to me. Now, when I considered it, the idea had some appeal.
But I dismissed the notion. If I forsook the quest it would be ever with me, like a splinter in a thumb, reminding me of its presence until I had it out. Until Lady Philippa was found.
“You do not reply,” Lord Gilbert said.
“Words often do not improve upon silence. I am considering what I must do.”
“Must do, or wish to do?”
“Occasionally they are the same,” I replied.
“And occasionally not.”
“In this matter I believe they are. I wish to see the business concluded, and for my own tranquility I must find the solution.”
I could not then know, seated in Bampton Castle’s solar, how little tranquility the resolution of Lady Philippa’s disappearance would bring to me and others.
“I will not require of you that you pursue the matter,” Lord Gilbert said. “The lady was not taken upon my lands, so you are free of the obligation to find her.”
“But I have your consent if I wish to proceed?”
“Certainly. Sir Aymer is a friend. I would see his wife returned to him. What will you now do to continue the search?”
“I have told Arthur to prepare palfreys. We are off to Oxford to seek the scholar who courted Lady Philippa before she wed Sir Aymer.”
“Scholars can be a testy lot,” Lord Gilbert mused. “I well remember the St. Scholastica Riots.”
“Aye. Some prefer tumult to scholarship.”
“If Lady Philippa scorned the fellow he may resent her rejection.”
“Possibly. But Sir Aymer’s squire told me the match with Sir Aymer was Lady Philippa’s father’s doing.”
“Ha. I can believe that. Felbridge was always seeking preferment.”
“Felbridge?”
“Sir Warin Felbridge. Lady Philippa’s father. A minor knight of Sussex. Never misses a chance to appear above his station. Would surely be furious if his daughter chose to wed a poor scholar. No matter that the fellow might rise some day. Some scholars do.”
“And some,” I said, “remain paupers. Unless some great lord employs them.”
Lord Gilbert grinned. “Aye, but some become bishops and who will live better?”
“But if they become bishops they will not marry.”
“Has that ever stopped a bishop from taking to himself a woman?”
The question needed no reply.
“If,” Lord Gilbert continued, more seriously, “Sir Warin demanded his daughter wed Sir Aymer, and ’twas against her will, mayhap she plotted to go off with the scholar.”
“Mayhap,” I agreed. “This must be considered.”
“Sir Aymer would be furious to know his wife preferred another man.”
“Any man would,” I agreed.
“He has always seemed a pleasant enough fellow. I would think Lady Philippa would be content with such a man.”
I did not reply for a moment.
“Ah… silence again. You know something of the match which you will not speak of.”
“I do. And you speak true. I’d rather not speak of what I have learned.”
Lord Gilbert frowned, but did not demand that I tell him of Sir Aymer’s mistreatment of his wife because she had produced no heir. Perhaps he deduced this. Lord Gilbert is no dolt. He employed me, did he not?
Lord Gilbert bade me a safe journey and I departed the solar for the marshalsea. Arthur awaited me, impatient to be off. He enjoys the chase and capture of felons as a baron enjoys following his hounds in pursuit of a stag.
’Tis sixteen miles or thereabouts from Bampton to Oxford. We arrived before the noon Angelus Bell rang from the tower of St. Aldate’s Church, and took a dinner of roasted capon and barley loaves at The Fox and Hounds before we set off for Queen’s College, where my master at Balliol College, John Wycliffe, now resided, taught, and studied for the degree of Bachelor of Theology. Master Wycliffe is well known amongst Oxford’s scholars, if not always admired, and likewise knows many who bend over books in Oxford’s halls and colleges. I thought he might know of Martyn de Wenlock.
I found the scholar at his work, confoundi
ng a flock of lads who had been sent to Queen’s College because they were thought precocious. Most were foolish enough to believe this, until they sat at Master Wycliffe’s feet and were disabused of the notion. When I was a lad it took but a few days of Master John’s instruction before I understood how much I had yet to learn.
Wycliffe has a room at Queen’s College, and ’twas there I found him. Arthur and I waited outside his door until his lecture was done and the students departed.
Too much study, crouched over books, or writing his own, in the dim light of candle or cresset has, I fear, weakened Master Wycliffe’s eyes. He held a glass between his face and a book he had just opened. I had seen spectacles before, but this was the first time I had seen a glass used. When I entered his room he looked up, blinked, and waited for me to speak. Perhaps he thought I was a scholar who had returned to have some point clarified.
“’Tis Hugh de Singleton,” I said.
“Ah… Master Hugh. Nay, Sir Hugh. I have heard of your elevation. ’Tis of much benefit to have the ear of a great prince.”
Master John knows the truth of this. Prince John of Gaunt, Prince Edward’s younger brother, is well disposed to Master John and his views.
“You have come from… Bampton, is it? On some business, no doubt. Is it a matter with which I might help you?”
“Aye, on both counts. A lady has disappeared while traveling to Bampton.”
“And you seek her? How may a bachelor scholar assist in the search?”
“The lady is wed to Sir Aymer Molyns, of Coleshill, beyond Faringdon. But before she became Sir Aymer’s wife an Oxford scholar paid court to her.”
“You think the lady may have abandoned her husband to run off with this scholar? What is the fellow’s name?”
“Martyn de Wenlock. Mayhap she did abscond with him, or perhaps he seized her against her will.”
“While traveling? Upon the road to Bampton? Surely she did not journey alone. How could such a thing be?”
Like most scholars, I think, Master Wycliffe enjoys puzzling out a riddle. I told him of the events of the past week and he listened intently, chin resting upon a fist.
