by Starr, Mel;
’Twas Arthur who ran up the stairs to seek me that day, having noticed my sign, and met me hurrying down, having glanced through the window at the commotion and seen the wound made.
So it was that I met Lord Gilbert Talbot, stitched up his lacerated thigh, and was shortly after invited to serve him as bailiff to his manor of Bampton. How the course of my life waschanged by a frightened cat! We never know what interventions may make all the difference.
Would I have met Lord Gilbert and entered his service? Most unlikely. Would I have sought parchment and ink to write of the felonies I had solved in Lord Gilbert’s employ? Would I have met Kate at her father’s stationer’s shop? Would I have two babes and a beauteous wife? Even if I did, it would not be Kate, not my Bessie, not little John. Then did the Lord Christ send that cat before the groom’s skittish horse so to set me upon His chosen path? Does He work such things? Or was it my decision to take lodgings above that particular inn that set in train all that has since come to me? Ah, these questions must be crammed with so many others into my bulging mystery bag, to be opened and explained when I meet the Lord Christ face to face.
Arthur and I reminisced as we made our way through the streets back to Queen’s College. I found Master Wycliffe awaiting us, then, whilst he was away kindly depositing my bundle of parchment in his chamber, le Scrope appeared. Minutes later we walked together to Cornmarket Street where two days past Martyn de Wenlock had been seen.
We sauntered up and down the street ’til noon, seeing no sign of de Wenlock but plenty of other young scholars – free of their studies until the Michaelmas Term – frolicking in the way, chasing each other about and poking fun, as lads will do. As I once did. All serious, sober men were once lads who gamboled about in the joy of youth. Do lads ever consider the approach of age and responsibilities? Why should they? I seldom did. Do old men remember when they were lads intent upon a lark? Not often, I suspect, and sometimes when they do, with remorse.
At the same inn on High Street where we had enjoyed our roasted capon just a few hours before, we sought dinner. ’Twas a fast day, so no capons or pease pottage thick with pork were offered. The inn provided eels in bruit, which cost me sixpence and two farthings. I paid the innkeeper with seven pence, and received in return two farthings. I felt an oddity as I slipped the farthings into my purse. My fingertips detected an indentation on one of the coins. When I drew it out for a second look, I knew well the mark. I had put it there. Here was one of the farthings I had punched at Sir Aymer’s house in Coleshill but a few days before. Whoso had gathered the ransom had perhaps purchased a meal or lodging at this inn. Or purchased some goods from a man who then spent the coins here. Whatever the circumstance – he had likely been this way.
I sought the innkeeper and asked if he remembered a man who had paid for his services with a damaged coin. The fellow stared at me as if I was daft. I showed him the farthing and the flaw inflicted upon it. “Nay. As long as folk pay the coin ’tis of no concern to me. Lots of coins change hands here in a day. If you don’t want that one, I’ll exchange it for a better.”
“Nay. ’Tis well enough,” I replied.
Chasing after the man who had spent the dented farthing would be a fool’s errand. But Sir Aymer’s ransom had come to Oxford, that was sure.
“Don’t forget your gatherings,” Wycliffe reminded me.
I would have, had he not spoken, for my mind was consumed with thoughts of a missing lady, an elusive scholar, and blemished coins.
As we approached Queen’s College le Scrope suddenly said, “There he is!” Then he shouted to a distant scholar, “Martyn… Martyn de Wenlock!”
A black-gowned figure fifty or so paces distant turned to see who had called his name. The youth had a pleasant face, light hair, and an intelligent expression as yet unlined with the cares of maturity. He sought among those upon the street for the man who had called his name, saw Eustace, and smiled in recognition. All in all I did not deem his countenance that of a bereaved lover. Perhaps, I thought, de Wenlock had found another lass. But in case not I warned le Scrope, as Martyn approached, that he should not identify my mission.
Eustace, as many scholars, is quick-witted, and understood that he must devise some reason for calling out de Wenlock upon the street. When Martyn came near he said, “I heard you had abandoned us for those pretenders in Cambridge! I am pleased to see ’tis not so.”
“I had thought to do so,” de Wenlock said, “but changed my mind.”
“I am right glad to hear it. Will you continue at Oriel College, or enroll elsewhere? Oh – do you know Master Wycliffe?” De Wenlock bowed to Master John. “He is now at Queen’s College,” le Scrope continued.
“I had heard,” de Wenlock said, “that you departed Canterbury Hall for Queen’s.”
“We at Queen’s always welcome bright lads,” Wycliffe said with a smile.
De Wenlock began to glance about, as if impatient to be away. Le Scrope saw this and apologized for delaying him.
“Think nothing of it,” de Wenlock smiled. “We will meet again over a cup of ale when I am less hurried.”
“Indeed. Fare you well.”
De Wenlock again bowed to Master John, then with a wave turned on his heels and hastened north on Northgate Street before le Scrope had a chance to introduce me and Arthur. We had met the scholar upon High Street. He was walking then beyond the city wall, and left us to continue along that way. What could be beyond the city wall, I wondered, that he hastened to see? Or who, that he hastened to meet? Could it be that Lady Philippa was somewhere near?
“Come,” I said to Arthur. “I intend to follow de Wenlock. He seems too joyful for a thwarted lover.”
“Unless ’e’s found a new maid to take the place of the one ’e lost,” Arthur grinned.
“Aye, perhaps.”
I said a hurried “Good day” to Master John and Eustace, promised Wycliffe I would call for my parchments shortly, and set out in haste to follow de Wenlock. Arthur and I stayed close enough that he remained in sight, but far enough behind that I thought us safe from recognition if he turned to observe the street behind him.
He did so, but his gaze did not linger upon us, so I believed we were not noticed. Although Arthur is a hard man not to notice. At a muddy lane de Wenlock turned to the east, then at Broad Street turned south again, walking briskly, ’til a few moments later heading west he approached the Northgate where he had departed the city but moments before.
“What’s all this about, then?” Arthur muttered. “’E set off like the ’ounds of ’ell was after ’im and now ’e’s come back to where ’e started.”
“He saw us,” I said. “And although he does not likely know me or my mission, he has some secret to hide.”
“The lady?”
“Possibly.”
“What you plan to do? Keep followin’ ’im?”
“We will not need to. He is stopped just inside the Northgate and seems to be awaiting someone. Perhaps us.”
This was so. As we approached, de Wenlock left the wall of St. Michael’s Tower where he had leaned whilst we came near, and stepped out to stand squarely in our way.
“You accompanied Eustace le Scrope,” he said with an accusing tone. “Now you are following me. Why so?”
Clearly I am not adept at deception. I decided to speak plainly.
“Because I wish to learn what you may know, or see what you may see.”
“Who are you, and what is it you think you may learn or see by pursuing me?”
“I am Sir Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his manor of Bampton. Now, as to what I wish to learn or see, I believe you may know.”
This declaration brought a blank stare in reply. “I’ve heard of Lord Gilbert Talbot. And where’s Bampton?”
“You’ve heard of Robert Lewys,” I said. De Wenlock nodded. “He told me yesterday you departed Oxford for Cambridge when Trinity Term ended. And he told me why. You sought to escape seeing Lady Philippa Molyn
s, whose love you once sought, but lost.”
“I never lost her love,” the scholar replied softly.
“Hmmm. But you lost the lady. And Robert said you told him you could not bear the sorrow of seeing her again – which in Oxford you might do, as Lady Philippa resides but a long day’s journey from here. If this is so, why have you returned?”
De Wenlock shrugged, then perhaps realizing this was no good answer, spoke. “I missed Oxford and my friends here. I didn’t like Cambridge.”
“Friends like Robert Lewys? Have you resumed lodging with him? He did not say so.”
“Nay,” Martyn scoffed. “Robert is a drunkard. I’ve lost track of how many times he spewed up his guts in a stupor, then collapsed upon his pallet leaving me to remove the filth.”
“If not with Robert at Oriel College, where do you now lodge?”
“I have a chamber above the Red Dragon.”
“On Little Bailey Street?”
“Aye.”
I knew the place, and the proprietor. Above his tavern were six rooms, no larger than cells, where impecunious scholars might lodge.
“How long since you returned to Oxford?”
“Why these questions? Why does a bailiff of some place I’ve not heard of wish to know of my coming and going?”
I hesitated. He sounded genuinely puzzled. If de Wenlock knew why I wanted to know of his movements for the past days, telling him could not likely harm my investigation. If he did not know of Lady Philippa’s disappearance – which seemed to be the case – then he had nothing to do with it, and informing him would likewise do no injury to my search for the lady. He might even help us find her. So I thought. I told him.
The lad’s eyes widened as he heard from me that Lady Philippa had not been seen for eight days. He seemed genuinely surprised at the news, but I take little stock in such expressions. Some men, and women also, are skilled at deception.
I returned to the previous question. “How long since your return to Oxford?”
“You believe I had to do with Philippa’s disappearance?” he cried indignantly. “Why would I do so? The lady has wed another. I am bereft, with no hope of gaining what is lost.”
“Mayhap. When did you return?”
“Near a fortnight past.”
“What day?”
“Exactly?”
“Aye, exactly.”
De Wenlock counted back the days in his mind, then replied, “’Twas the nineteenth day of June… a Sunday.”
“And you have not departed Oxford since returning that day?”
“Nay. When did Philippa vanish?”
“Two days after. Can any man corroborate your claim that since Sunday ten days past you have not forsaken Oxford, even for a day?”
Martyn shrugged again, glanced about blankly for a moment, then brightened. “He who owns the Red Dragon. He has seen me every day, and will attest what I say is so.”
From where we stood on Northgate Street to Little Bailey Street and the Red Dragon was but a walk of ten minutes, not more. I told de Wenlock we would visit the proprietor and learn if what he said was so. We did, and it was.
“Aye,” the wizened old fellow agreed. “Martyn ’as ’is dinner ’ere every day. Not known ’im to miss a meal since ’e took lodgin’ up the stairs.”
As he spoke he glanced up to the board ceiling above him.
“He took lodging upon a Sunday?”
A moment’s hesitation while the old codger thought. “Aye,” he agreed. “Two weeks Sunday.”
Martyn de Wenlock might know of Lady Philippa’s abduction even if he had naught to do with it. I could not be sure, one way or the other, but he had not participated in the event. I had but one more question for him but did not want to ask it before the man’s landlord. I motioned to the door and said, “Come with me for a moment.”
“When you set off on Northgate Street and my man and I followed, where did you intend to go? You made haste, that was plain. When you discovered yourself followed, you returned to the Northgate. What was your purpose?”
De Wenlock was adept at shrugging his shoulders when he would rather not answer a question. I have discovered that when a man wishes to escape a question it is often best to say no more. This may allow a mendacious man time to invent a falsehood, but the silence often results in such discomfort for the interrogated that they will spill out the truth.
“There’s more’n one lass in Oxford,” de Wenlock finally said.
“Quick work,” I replied, “to meet a maid having returned to the town but ten days past. Or did you know of her before you departed for Cambridge? Nay,” I answered my own question. “You’d not have fled the sight of Lady Philippa had another lass taken your fancy.”
De Wenlock shrugged again.
“Why so secretive? Most lads don’t care if others know they are courting a lass. Especially when the others are men they’ve just met and don’t know.”
Another shrug.
“Lady Philippa’s father was not pleased with your suit, I understand. Who wishes for a penniless scholar for a son-in-law, eh? Is this true also of some new maid?”
Another shrug.
I began to understand that a twitch of de Wenlock’s shoulders was all I was likely to get from him. If he was in Oxford eight days past he could not have taken Lady Philippa with or without her connivance. Although others could have done so with his knowledge and scheming. I must consider this possibility even if I thought it improbable. And I wished to leave Oxford to its residents and be off home. But before I dismissed de Wenlock I asked to see his purse. This caused more than a shrug. The scholar raised his eyebrows but I assured him I had no intention of taking coins from him. The inn was filled with patrons and the street busy, so perhaps he thought it safe to hand the pouch to me. If he raised the hue and cry a dozen men would be after me in an instant.
In the purse I found a groat, six pennies, and five farthings. None of them had a blemish where I had marked the ransom coins. I handed the purse back to de Wenlock without explaining my purpose, then dismissed him. He touched a forelock in respect. I considered that Arthur and I were about to set off on a long, dry ride to Bampton, so I spent four farthings on two cups of watered ale to fortify us for the journey.
Chapter 9
’Twas near to the ninth hour when I retrieved my gatherings from Master John and we mounted our palfreys to set off across Bookbinders’ Bridge, so darkness was close upon us when we reached Bampton. As we traveled I had opportunity to consider what I had learned in Oxford and what I had not. Most provoking was the knowledge that not far from Bampton a maid was taken and three pounds demanded for her return. Would those rogues travel such a distance to seize Lady Philippa as her wagon departed Clanfield? If there was no more likely victim closer to them, surely. Men who become accustomed to ill-gotten gain generally will not give up the source of their income for honest labor, unless compelled.
Kate expected my return. She had kept a pottage of peas and beans near the fire. As I consumed a bowl I told her and my father-in-law of Oxford.
“Mayhap,” Kate offered, “the rogues who seized the lass near Didcot did the same to Lady Philippa – or perhaps they did but supply the notion to others. Didcot is not near, is it?”
“Nay. But near enough that events there may be heard of here, or even beyond, to Coleshill.”
“And near enough,” Caxton added, “that a man might travel from Didcot to Clanfield and return in a day. A long day.”
I fell to sleep that night considering why felons would demand three pounds’ ransom for a lass of but thirteen years, but only two pounds for a married woman. It must be, I decided, that the felons considered the wealth of father and husband. Which might mean that whoso seized Lady Philippa and the lass knew the husband and the father well. If the rogues were the same.
It had been to dark on Wednesday evening when I had dismounted at Church View Street, walked to Galen House, and sent Arthur on to Bampton Castle. I did not follow
him after my supper as I know that, since Lady Petronilla’s death four years past, Lord Gilbert seeks his bed early.
So on Thursday morning, after a barley loaf and ale, I went to the castle to keep my employer informed. There was little to tell him: only the Didcot abduction, and Martyn de Wenlock’s departure from Oxford and hasty return.
When I told Lord Gilbert of de Wenlock’s reason for leaving the town and then returning, he raised an eyebrow. He does this when skeptical or questioning. When I first entered Lord Gilbert’s service I tried to emulate this trait. This was unsuccessful. My brows rise or fall together and I have given over the struggle.
“What of the maid in Didcot?” Lord Gilbert said.
“She was taken whilst marching to the church for Candlemas,” I explained.
“With others to see?” Lord Gilbert asked in disbelief.
“Aye. The abductor was a rogue named Gaston Howes, so all men believe. He and his companions were masked. Three pounds’ ransom was demanded for her release.”
“Her father paid?”
“Aye, he did.”
“The Howes fellow… if he is known in that place, why is he not arrested?”
“He has a protector.”
“Who? Likely I will know the fellow.”
“’Tis said Sir John Willoughby shields the rogue.”
“Hmm,” Lord Gilbert nodded, “I’m not surprised. Sir John will be secure behind Sir William Willoughby.”
“The judge? Sir John’s cousin, I believe.”
Lord Gilbert nodded again. “Aye, the same.”
“Money flows from hand to hand and the rogues escape punishment for their villainy.”
“So it seems,” Lord Gilbert agreed. “Have you carried this business as far as you wish, or will you continue to seek Lady Philippa? I tell you again, you have no obligation to do so. Sir Aymer can seek for his own wife. Perhaps she has already been returned to him.”
“If so it would be helpful if Sir Aymer would report it.”
