Without a Trace

by Starr, Mel;

  “Aye, ’tis so,” Stonor agreed. “But will the fellow be able to use the arm as well as he could three days past?”

  “Ancient folk do not heal of wounds and injuries so quickly as a lad like you, but in a fortnight he may discard the sling which now supports the arm. By Martinmas the dislocation will likely be as restored as ever it can be.” But there was something else I wanted to ask Giles Stonor. “Who is Isobel Davies?”

  “You met her?” The squire grinned.

  “Aye. Sir Aymer said she is a guest.”

  Giles softly snorted in derision. I waited for an explanation.

  “She’s not Sir Aymer’s first guest at Coleshill,” he said.

  “The second, then? Or have there been more? All women?”

  “The second, so far as I know. When I came to Coleshill as a page to Sir Aymer, his guest was Maud Corbet.”

  “How long did that visitor remain?”

  “Till Sir Aymer made his suit for Philippa Felbridge.”

  “After plague took Sir Aymer’s first wife he took up with Maud? But he did not wed her?”

  “Nay. She was of the commons. Her father is but a smith of Highworth.”

  “No dowry there, eh?” Arthur observed.

  “And Isobel?” I asked. “What of her?”

  “Her father had a yardland and more of Sir Reginald Peor of Faringdon.”

  “Had?”

  “He’s been dead these three years, she said. Her mother has the tenancy now.”

  “But the woman does not prosper?” I guessed.

  “That’s right. She does not. So when Sir Aymer offered, Isobel accepted.”

  “When was this?”

  “She’s been here four days.”

  “It didn’t take him long to seek feminine companionship,” I observed. “Of his two wives and first mistress,” I continued, “he has no offspring?”

  “None. His wives were as barren as granite, and Maud also.”

  “Sir Aymer seems honestly distressed that Lady Philippa has not been returned to him.”

  “Aye. He’s fond of her. He’ll warm his bed with Isobel ’til his lady is released, and then he’ll send Isobel away.”

  “Does she know of Lady Philippa?”

  “Aye – and she knows that when the lady reappears she’ll be sent packing. Perhaps with a few shillings for her trouble.”

  “And she is content with this?”

  “Who can say? Last year’s harvest was poor, her mother has three younger children to feed, and there’s a month and more ’til this year’s harvest. I suspect Sir Aymer left a groat or two with Isobel’s mother to fill the vacancy of her departed daughter.”

  Then if Lady Philippa never returned to Coleshill, what would become of Isobel, I wondered? Sir Aymer would surely not wed the lass, even if it became known that Lady Philippa had been slain – and for the same reasons he did not take Maud to wife; she is of the commons, and would come to him with no dowry.

  “Isobel has an advantage that Lady Philippa had not,” Giles continued. “She will not be beaten if she does not conceive. Probably not.”

  “Was Sir Aymer so furious that he abused Lady Philippa often?”

  “Not often, but as I told you, when he’d consumed too much wine he’d consider his childless state and berate her.”

  “And words would betimes lead to blows?”

  “Aye.”

  Two pounds Sir Aymer had laid down for his wife’s return. I wondered again if she did not wish to be free of her captors, whoever they might be.

  Holy Writ asks, “Who has sorrow? Him that looks upon wine when it is red in the cup.” Solomon might have added that the drunken man’s wife would sorrow as well – or the drunken woman’s husband.

  Giles fell silent and glanced over my shoulder. I turned and saw Sir Aymer enter the stable. Arthur and Uctred stepped back respectfully.

  “I have given much thought to your search for my wife,” he began. “I see that I have been inconsiderate. Lord Gilbert was not answerable for her seizure, and my loss is not of your bailiwick. You should feel yourself free of any responsibility to me or Lady Philippa.”

  I nodded understanding and wondered why he would not wish to see all possible be done to recover his wife. Perhaps he was satisfied with her temporary replacement.

  “You and your men will continue to seek her?” I asked.

  “Surely, but ’tis my judgment that the rogues who have her will soon demand more coin of me. They saw I was willing to part with two pounds, so will likely demand more. Meanwhile I might search the country from here to London and not find my wife. She will be hidden away where no man will find her.”

  This was true, or nearly so, but I could not at the time know it. My thoughts rather centered on Sir Aymer’s lack of concern for his wife’s whereabouts and well-being. I did not understand the man. One day he was determined to seek his wife; another he seemed careless as to her fate.

  The grooms had saddled our palfreys while I spoke to Giles and Sir Aymer. I bade the knight and his squire “Good day,” Arthur and Uctred tugged their forelocks, Sir Aymer wished us fair travel, and we rode from Coleshill.

  I could not help but gaze at Badbury Hill as we passed. Arthur and Uctred did likewise. What secrets did this place hold, I wondered? Well, I knew of one, and was about to discover another.

  Arthur and I looked away but Uctred continued to observe the hill. “Look there!” he yelled, and pointed to the copse of trees which adorned the crown of the hill. I did, and saw a figure disappearing into the grove, about two hundred paces from the road.

  “A fellow come out of the wood, right there, an’ when ’e saw I was lookin’ at ’im ’e scurried back into the trees!”

  If, I thought, some man did not want to be seen prowling about Badbury Hill it may be that he had done so before and suffered consequences for it. If he frequented the place, perhaps he would know of men who came in the night some days past and made off with four sacks of coins. Perhaps he was the man who did so. Was he then also involved in seizing Lady Philippa? If not, and those who took her did not gather the coins, mayhap that was why the lady was not released. But why, then, had Sir Aymer not received an angry message threatening Lady Philippa and demanding the uncollected ransom?

  I motioned for Arthur and Uctred to halt, and hurriedly devised a scheme to speak to this man who clearly did not want conversation with travelers upon the Faringdon road. I sent Arthur ahead, to the path we had followed from the back of Badbury Hill to the road. I told him to climb the hill from the rear. Uctred and I would wait here ’til we were sure he was in place, then we would leave our palfreys at the fringe of the hilltop wood and enter from opposite sides. Perhaps we might snare the reticent fellow and learn something from him.

  The grove at the top of Badbury Hill is no more than a hundred paces from one side to the other, but thick with fallen branches, even whole trees down, and so contains many places where a man might hide – especially one familiar with the place. The clutter of fallen, uncollected branches, must, I thought, be due to the reputation the spot had for uncongenial spirits.

  Was the fellow armed? Likely. Would he use his dagger if discovered? There was but one way to answer that question. Discover him.

  “The fellow ducked into the wood just there,” Uctred said, and pointed to what may have been a game trail where deer, who concealed themselves in the grove in the day, ventured out to the grassy rings to graze in the night.

  I entered the shadowy copse, following the track, and but a few paces into the wood saw our quarry. ’Twas but a youth. Had the lad lain silent against a log we might have passed him by. But out of fright he took to his heels. He soon vanished amongst the foliage, but we heard him crashing through the undergrowth and followed the sound.

  Moments later I heard Arthur bellow, “Hold, you rascal! I have you!” The sound of feet running through leaves and twigs became the thrashing of someone captured and attempting escape.

  Uctred and I bro
ke into a tiny clearing and saw Arthur sitting upon a struggling lad. The captive was screeching a demand for his freedom. Arthur saw us approach, grinned, and seized the fists that were ineffectually pummeling him.

  “Daft lad,” Arthur observed. “Ran right into my arms. Lookin’ behind ’im as ’e came. Never saw me ’til I had ’im.”

  “Let him stand, but keep a tight hold of him,” I said.

  Arthur did so, and moments later a youth of likely no more than fifteen years stood quaking with fright before me.

  “It was only coneys,” he said with a quivering voice. “I never took no deer.”

  We had caught a poacher, likely while he was placing his snares. I did not know what gentleman held Badbury Hill – and nor, apparently, did the lad, for he perhaps thought I was the man and was likely to see him hanged or blinded. In such a pass I would have quivered myself.

  “You set snares here atop the hill? For hares and coneys?”

  The youth’s eyes dropped. “Not many. Only three.”

  “Are you successful?”

  My question surprised the boy. “Sometimes,” he finally said.

  “Once or twice each week? Or more? Or less?”

  “About that.”

  “I am Sir Hugh de Singleton, bailiff” – at this announcement the youth started as if pricked with a goad – “of Bampton. Have you heard of the town?”

  The lad shook his head.

  “As I am not of this place, it means nothing to me if you snare a coney or two. But there is another matter I do care about. Answer my questions and I will have my man release you.

  “You set snares in the day, when you can see what you are about. Is this so?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do others do so also?”

  “Not many.”

  “Because they fear the spirits said to abound in this place?”

  “Aye.”

  “But you do not?”

  “I fear ’em, but I fear the pangs in me belly more,” the youth said.

  “Just so. You lay your traps in the day. Do you then return next day to see if they’ve succeeded?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When else are you likely to return?”

  “I come at night.”

  “When the spirits are said to be about?”

  “Aye. But I’ve never seen any. I’ve heard ’em, though.”

  “If you’ve heard ghosts here, how do you dare visit at night?”

  “There’s other folks what’s hungry.”

  “Ah… and they know you, or someone, sets snares here, atop the hill. Is that it?”

  “Aye. There’s folk who’ll come an’ take from me snares in the daylight. They can’t see in the dark to know where my snares is set, but a man can ’ear a coney tryin’ to free itself.”

  “Do you come in the middle of the night, or just before dawn?”

  “I come up early. Coneys come out soon as sky grows dark, an’ if I’ve caught one I need to have it before someone else might.”

  “Five or so days past did you inspect your snares in the night and see or hear other folk about the hill?”

  “Aye. I thought they was spirits, at first.”

  “At first? But not so? Did you see men?”

  “Aye, I did.”

  “Show me where you saw them.”

  With Arthur keeping a strong grip upon the lad’s wrist there was little chance he would free himself. Although if he could he would likely show his heels to the three of us. Uctred’s joints are stiff with age, Arthur’s legs are stout and short, and my Kate’s cookery has slowed me somewhat.

  I followed Arthur and the lad from the copse and when free of the trees the youth turned to follow the path cut through the rings. Beyond the first ring he turned into the trough between the first and second rings and went straight to the place where I had deposited the four sacks of coins. There he halted.

  “You saw men here? How many?”

  “Two. I thought they was specters at first, but when I crept close I saw they couldn’t be.”

  “Couldn’t be? Why not?”

  “No spirit goes about in a priest’s robe, I think.”

  “It was dark. Are you sure one of the men was a priest?”

  “A friar, mayhap, or a monk,” the youth said. “When ’e bent over I seen ’is rosary danglin’ from ’is belt. I knew then ’twas no spirit.”

  “Indeed. What specter would go about with a rosary fixed to his belt? Show me where you were when you saw these men. Arthur, go with him.”

  The lad scrambled up the first ring, which gave Arthur some trouble, as he maintained his grip on the boy’s wrist. Just over the lip of the first ring the lad fell to hands and knees and peered into the trough. He was no more than six or seven paces from where I had left the four sacks of coins. Even in the dark a lad with sharp eyes could identify a priest.

  I motioned for Arthur to return with the youth. When he did so I said, “You were near enough to hear men speak. What did they say?”

  “I couldn’t hear much. They was whisperin’.”

  “But what could you hear?”

  “One said, ’Are there four? I see but three.’ An’ the other said, There’s four – here’s another.’”

  “Nothing more?”

  “They turned an’ I feared they might see me, so I crawled back to the trees, as quiet as I could.”

  “You did not see them depart?”

  “Nay.”

  “What was it they had four of?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. It was too dark to tell. Whatever it was, though, they could carry it off.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I stayed hid in the wood until dawn, then I came back here. I wanted to see. But whatever they had there was four of, they took away.”

  “Did you see any other men come here shortly after dawn?”

  “Nay. I’d got nothin’ in me snares, so I went back ’ome.”

  “Where you may now go,” I said. Then, to Arthur, “Release him.” He did so.

  “As you came here to poach your lord’s coneys, I think you will not speak of this encounter. Am I correct?”

  “Aye.”

  “Good. Tell no man of who I am, nor of the questions I have asked.”

  The lad promised silence, scurried off to the path through the rings, and disappeared.

  I had heard tell of villainous priests and abbots who protected felons in return for a share of the loot. Was Lady Philippa held by such men? If the scoundrels who seized the lass in Didcot were the same who now held Lady Philippa, they would not have returned to Didcot in the night after they collected the ransom. No man, even a felon, would want to be upon the roads in the night with four sacks of coins. Likely they sought an inn or some such lodging, perhaps in Faringdon.

  Why had I not thought of this before? If two men, one a priest or friar, had sought accommodation at some inn in Faringdon, the proprietor would have been more likely to remember soon after the event than he would be now. Nevertheless, I decided to seek the owners of such establishments there.

  Faringdon boasts but one inn. We dismounted before the place, and to improve the proprietor’s mood purchased three cups of ale.

  ’Twas yet morning, so custom was slight. One man was before us, and he emptied his cup soon after we entered the inn and straightaway departed. Three strange men will do that to wary folk, especially if one of the three is constructed like Arthur.

  I could think of no way to tactfully introduce the subject of Lady Philippa’s disappearance, and I soon learned there was no need to do so. Everyone in Faringdon knew of it, the man said, when I spoke of the matter.

  “About five days past, did two travelers seek lodging for the night – one a priest, or friar?” I asked. “They would have come after dark.”

  The fellow scratched his shaggy chin. “Nay,” he said at length. “None like that ’ave sought shelter ’ere.”

  Would two men travel at night laden with bags of c
oins? Perhaps accomplices waited on the road for the two to collect the coins, then in a larger party the rogues might travel at night in safety. To Didcot? Or Clanfield? Or might two men find other shelter than an inn? Or might an innkeeper, for a few coins, obligingly forget men who stayed under his roof? How could I know?

  We left Faringdon on the Radcot road, as I had done several times in the past few days. A half-mile or so to the north of town, at a settlement folk call Wyke, there is a grange. Would a priest or monk seek lodging in such a place? Monastic houses are pledged to offer hospitality to travelers, but must a subsidiary grange also do so?

  This particular grange is large, containing houses for the lay brothers and a great barn for storage of grain ’til it may be sent to Beaulieu Abbey. I told Arthur and Uctred we would visit the place, and turned my palfrey from the road to the lane leading between the stone walls to the main buildings. A lay brother emerged from the barn, saw us approach, and waited, hands upon hips.

  “I bid you good day,” I said.

  “And to you,” the fellow replied.

  “Do travelers sometimes seek accommodation for the night here?” I asked.

  The fellow glanced to the sun, climbing in the sky, and then cast a puzzled eye to me. Why would I seek lodging when the day was not half done? I explained.

  “About five days past, did two men seek shelter here for the night? One was garbed as a priest, or perhaps a monk or friar. They would have come after dark.”

  “Nay. We’ve little call to provide lodging.” He looked about, then said, “Them as travel on Radcot Road ain’t much taken with what they see an’ pass by… just barns an’ such.”

  “But if men did desire hospitality, would you provide it?”

  “Aye. Such as we ’ave we’d share.”

  I knew of no abbeys or priories nearby where the men I sought might have found shelter, but I wondered if there might be other granges near. I asked.

  “Oh, aye. At Great Coxwell,” the lay brother replied.

  I remembered the name. “That is a hamlet just off the road from Faringdon to Coleshill, is it not?”

  “Aye. They be Cistercians of Beaulieu Abbey, as we are, and” – here he glanced to the barn he had just left – “they ’ave a great stone barn, as we do.” There was pride in his voice.