by Starr, Mel;
If he did, he would not say. I had told Sir Jaket to bind Howes, but without cords this could not be done and Sir Jaket had none. As I departed the shed, blinking in the sun, Sir Jaket and Sir Ralph brought Howes at sword point to the open door. Howes had recovered from our collision but did not seem eager to attempt another escape. Two swords leveled at his belly will marvelously influence a man’s conduct.
Nevertheless I wished Gaston’s wrists tied tight, so I told Arthur to return to the shed and fetch one of the ropes hung neatly coiled on nails in the wall. Moments later he appeared with a length of hempen cord. Sir Jaket sliced off a segment and securely bound Howes’ wrists. I know the cord was tight for I saw Gaston grimace as Sir Jaket made the rope taut.
The priest chose this moment to appear from the church porch. Two parishioners, elderly folk bent with age, followed. His congregation. The priest hurried to us, his robe flapping about his ankles.
He saw Sir Jaket completing the binding of Gaston’s wrists and said, “Release this man. Who are you to seize a man who has sought sanctuary?”
“I am Sir Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert, Third Baron Talbot. This fellow has taken a lass for ransom, and may also have seized a lady.”
“He has sought sanctuary. Release him.”
“In a tithe barn? Sanctuary must be within the church.”
“I am priest here. If I declare sanctuary for Gaston then it is so.”
“You know him? He is not of your parish.”
“Nay, he is not. But I serve all men.”
“Especially if they cross your palm with a shilling or two. How much of Joan le Scrape’s ransom did you receive?” I asked.
The priest became red in the face, but did not answer. I turned to Howes. “Did this priest offer you safety without payment?” Silence followed. No answer was an answer, though incomplete. Coins had surely changed hands, even if I would not learn how many.
“I am going to take this man to the Sheriff of Oxford,” I said. “If you wish to complain that sanctuary has been violated, seek the sheriff and protest to him.”
Joan le Scrape and her family were of this priest’s parish, yet he had connived with those who seized the lass. Here was a priest who served himself rather than the folk of his parish. This priest would soon seek another post, for when Sir Thomas learned of this priest’s perfidy – and he would learn, for I would tell him – he’d see that a new shepherd was found for the flock at Didcot.
Howes now stood quietly, his wrists bound tight behind him.
“Where is Lady Philippa?” I asked.
“Who?” he replied.
“Lady Philippa Molyns. You collected three pounds’ ransom for Joan le Scrope, so decided to seize a lady upon the road near to Clanfield.”
“I’ve never been near Clanfield.”
“You, or mayhap men you sent, found the two pounds Sir Aymer Molyns left as ransom for his wife upon Badbury Hill. But you have not returned the lady. Do you intend to demand a greater ransom?”
“Where’s Badbury Hill?” Howes replied.
“You take a lass at Candlemas, hold her for ransom, but when another is taken in much like manner you claim innocence. Why should you be believed? Where is Osbert? Did you send him to move Lady Philippa to some new location?”
“I don’t know where Osbert went. ’E didn’t want to come ’ere. Said ’e’d find ’is own way.”
“If the lady is without food or drink she will surely die.”
“That’s as may be, but I don’t know who she is or where she is or who’s got ’er.”
“Mayhap the sheriff’s serjeants will persuade you to tell more,” I threatened.
“I can’t tell what I don’t know. An’ Sir John’s cousin, ’im what’s judge of the King’s Eyre, will ’ave a chat with the sheriff.”
Howes said this with a smirk. He had experience of felonies committed and pardoned in the past, so saw his capture as a minor impediment to continued knavery.
We had no beast for Gaston Howes. I thought to require the fellow to walk to Oxford, but this I quickly dismissed. ’Tis more than ten miles from Didcot to Oxford. I wished to travel more rapidly than Howes could – or would – walk.
Walter, one of Lord Gilbert’s grooms, is a small man. I told him Gaston would ride his palfrey in the saddle before him. This did not please the fellow, nor likely did it please Howes. The decisions a bailiff must make are often offensive to others. Even Walter’s palfrey was likely offended.
Arthur and Sir Ralph lifted Gaston to the saddle before Walter. “You are violating sanctuary,” the priest said as I set my palfrey to motion. “Bishop Wykefield will hear of this.”
“A man caught running outside the lych gate has himself forfeited sanctuary,” I replied. “As for the bishop, I trust you will tell him all. If you do not tell him of the perfidious events about Didcot and Coscote, I will.”
The priest seemed taken aback by these words. The more power a man has, the less effective are any threats made against him. Arthur is nearly immune to threat. At least from one man, or even two. My powers are of another sort. Lord Gilbert provides the authority behind my deeds and voice. Perhaps the priest considered this, for he said no more but watched silently as our band set off on the road to Abingdon and Oxford.
I had hoped to return this day to Bampton, either with Lady Philippa or with the knowledge of where she was kept. I would not do either. At Oxford Castle I turned Gaston Howes over to the hands of Sir Roger de Elmerugg, then, without Lady Philippa and without information of her whereabouts, I led our band across Bookbinders’ Bridge and set off for Eynsham Abbey. There we might find succor – for our band had enjoyed no dinner this day and we had broken our fast with but stale loaves and watered ale – and beds for the night.
We found beds, and Abbot Gerleys required of his guest master that a capon be found for us to flavor the plain pottage which was the monks’ supper. But I found little rest. I had, perhaps, ended the villainies of Gaston Howes, but I had not found Lady Philippa. And there was at least one felon at large near Didcot and Coscote. Mayhap Osbert knew where the lady was held, and was either making sure of the security of her confinement, or moving her to another location of which even Gaston would have no knowledge. So even if the sheriff’s serjeants extracted a fingernail or two, Gaston could not tell them where to find Lady Philippa, but only where she had been.
We broke our fast with maslin loaves fresh from the abbey oven and new-brewed ale. I told Sir Jaket, Sir Ralph, and Sir Humphrey to return to Bampton with the grooms – all but Arthur and Uctred – and report to Lord Gilbert the events of the past few days.
In the night I had resolved to return to Didcot with Arthur and Uctred, and seek Osbert. If he believed me to be away, and to have taken Gaston, I thought he might have returned to Coscote. If he had, I thought it likely Lady Philippa would not be far from the village. I thought this because I had not the shrewdness to imagine any other fate for the lady.
Sir Jaket would not hear of leaving the pursuit of the felons who had Lady Philippa. He insisted on returning to Coscote with me. I did not overrule his decision. I had come to appreciate his wit and valor.
As Sir Ralph, Sir Humphrey, and the returning grooms were mounting their beasts, another thought occurred to me. What if more ransom had been demanded, Sir Aymer had paid it, and the lady was returned to Coleshill? I had had no discourse with Sir Aymer for many days. Much may have happened since I was last in his presence.
I told Sir Ralph to inquire of Lord Gilbert if a report had come to Bampton regarding Lady Philippa’s abduction. If so, I charged him to get a fresh horse from the castle marshalsea and seek me immediately in Coscote with the information. If Lord Gilbert had no tidings of the lady, he should mount the fresh horse and make for Coleshill, there to inquire of Sir Aymer if Lady Philippa had been returned. If she had, he must then seek me at Coscote with the discovery.
Sir John was not pleased to see me when, two hours later, we four stopped at
his manor house door. Few folk are pleased to see a bailiff arrive unbidden at their door. A groom answered my rapping and Sir John was summoned. He offered no greeting, did not wish me “Good day.” He likely wished my day would be dreadful and was no doubt willing to do what he could to make it so.
“Has your groom, Osbert, returned?” I began.
“Nay. I’ve not seen him since he ran off with Gaston.”
“Howes is now the guest of the Sheriff of Oxford. Where might Osbert be? Has he family nearby where he might seek to be hidden?”
“Osbert has no wife,” Sir John replied.
“Brothers? Sisters? Cousins, perhaps?”
“A brother and two sisters.”
“Have they tenancy of you?”
“Aye. But you will not find Osbert with them.”
“Why not?”
“Osbert does not get on well with his kin.”
“Does he hold lands from you? Where is his house?”
“He didn’t inherit. His father and him were at odds, so he left Osbert nothing. All went to the man’s brother and sisters. Osbert sleeps in the stables and cares for my horses.”
“So most folk dislike Osbert?”
“Aye.”
“Why, then, has he found a home with you?”
“He does what I tell him and makes no complaints.”
“Even if what you command is to assist Gaston Howes in his felonies?”
“What Osbert does with Gaston is his own business.”
“But you make it yours if they require protection, and you demand payment of them.”
Sir John said no more. He did not deny the accusation. Why would he? I already knew his role in the abduction of Joan le Scrope. Was this the only felony Gaston and Osbert and their companions had done? Not likely. If the rogues had done other evils it seemed likely that Sir John and his cousin, perhaps even the priest of Didcot, had been rewarded often for looking the other way.
We had already searched the crude hut in the forest and discovered no man, or woman, there. That did not mean that no man would be there now. Mayhap Osbert knew I had already found and examined the place, and therefore thought himself safe from discovery if he now sought shelter there. Why would I inspect the hut twice?
Why? Because I had no other thought as to where the man might be, could think of no one who might tell me his whereabouts, and if I could not find Osbert I was certain I would not find Lady Philippa. The lady would not be hidden away alone in the hut, unless bound securely. ’Twould be far too easy for her to break free of the flimsy structure. Where Osbert was, there would be Lady Philippa. So I thought.
We departed Sir John’s presence and rode across the stubble of the hayfield to the wood. I told Uctred to remain with our beasts, then Sir Jaket, Arthur, and I entered the wood. I urged my companions to silence. If Osbert was within the hut with Lady Philippa I did not want him to hear our approach. Although if he did and fled without the lady, my purpose would be served. And if he fled with her, we would surely hear them stumbling through the brush and fallen branches, and overtake them.
I knew the location of the hut but it was so much one with the forest that we were nearly upon it before I saw it. I held a finger to my lips, motioned Arthur and Sir Jaket to remain still, then approached the pile of sticks and branches and vines.
I hesitated before the opening, listening. I heard no voices, no sound at all, but for a jackdaw which gave me a proper scolding. I quietly removed the vines which held closed the door of the hut and slowly drew it open.
I saw the feet first. They were close to the crude opening so the light filtering through leaves illuminated the calloused extremities. The body attached to these appendages lay in dark shadow, garbed in a brown cotehardie. ’Twas a dead man, face down upon the forest floor. I thought I knew who this might be.
Sir Jaket peered over one shoulder and Arthur the other, each wondering, I suppose, why I hesitated to enter the hut after dragging open the woven twigs and vines which served as a door.
“Osbert,” Arthur said.
“Likely,” I replied. “Let’s have him out.”
I bent low to enter the hut, grasped the corpse’s shoulders, and with Arthur at the feet we hauled the fellow out to the mottled light of the wood. Most of what I had seen of Osbert had been at a distance. Only when I had confronted Sir John before his manor house did I look the man in the face, and that briefly and before I knew his name.
I brushed leaves and moss from the dead man’s face and regarded his features.
“This is one of ’em what attacked me an’ Uctred upon the road Monday,” Arthur said.
“You’re sure?”
“Well, not so sure as I’d wager ten shillings on it, but sure enough.”
“’Tis Osbert,” I replied. “Slain. See the gash in his cotehardie?”
Arthur and Sir Jaket peered down at the corpse. A small, blood-spattered slash appeared directly over his heart. The man must have died immediately, for little blood stained the cut in the fabric. He was not long dead. I touched the stain at the edge of the cut in his cotehardie and my finger came away tinged with red.
I re-entered the hut to learn if there might be any sign another soul – a lady – had been recently within. I cannot say what I thought I might find. Perhaps a fragment of fine wool or linen, or even a bit of silk ribbon. Or perhaps a long hair.
On hands and knees I inspected the hut, and even threw off some of the interlaced foliage the better to illuminate the place. I found nothing to tell me a woman had recently been within.
Who had slain Osbert? Did the killer seize Lady Philippa from him so as to keep for himself any greater ransom which might be demanded of Sir Aymer? Possession of the lady might make a man a target for some other knave, as would possession of a sack full of groats. Or was he slain to close his mouth, so others involved in the lady’s abduction might remain unknown? How many others could there be? Four men swooped down upon the Candlemas procession to seize Joan le Scrope. Gaston, Osbert, Randall, and Thomas made four. Would more than four men be required to take Lady Philippa and her maid from their wagon on the Clanfield road? Only if the felons intended combat, if necessary, to snatch her. If stealth was intended, then four would be enough. Perhaps four would be too many for a covert deed.
Might Lady Philippa have found a dagger and at an opportune moment slain her captor? To do such a thing would require courage. Was Lady Philippa such a woman? If felons abducted my Kate, and she was required to slay one of them in order to return to her babes, would she do so? Mayhap most mothers would. But Lady Philippa had no children. Would she risk her own wounding or death to return to a husband who had upon occasion mistreated her? I am a man. How can I know what a lady would do? My Kate will have an opinion.
We slung Osbert’s corpse across Arthur’s beast and all four walked across the hayfield, leading the horses, to Sir John’s door.
He seemed remarkably calm when presented with a dead groom. Had he known Osbert’s fate before he saw the corpse? Did he, or a retainer, slay the groom? Why? To silence him? What more could Osbert tell me about this cabal of felons and their protectors which I did not already know? The whereabouts of Lady Philippa?
If Sir John had not done this murder, or commanded it, then the murderer must likely be Thomas Mowrey or Randall Attewell, for to my knowledge Osbert had no coin or chattels worth stealing, and what could he tell but the place where Lady Philippa was held?
Did Thomas and Randall now have Lady Philippa? Or one of these? Randall had seemed frightened when he disclosed to me his role in Gaston Howes’ felonies. I found it difficult to imagine he would slay Osbert and risk a noose. Of course, risk of a noose he had already undertaken.
“You have brought trouble and now death to Coscote,” Sir John complained. “Did you slay Osbert because he would not cooperate with your nonsense?”
“Trouble may frequently follow truth,” I replied. “Truth has many enemies and often few friends. I suppose you will cont
inue to tell me that you know nothing of the taking of Lady Philippa Molyns or her whereabouts. Or whoso has slain your groom. Dead grooms can tell no one of the evil deeds of their masters. Osbert can now tell me nothing of your part in the taking of Joan le Scrope or any other felonies. I would much prefer the man alive than dead.”
“Osbert had nothing to tell of my deeds,” Sir John growled. “So I’d no cause to see him a corpse.”
“Hah! Someone did. What is your opinion? If you had nothing to do with Osbert’s death, who do you believe may have? Had he enemies in Coscote?”
“No more than most men,” Sir John shrugged. “None who’d risk a noose to be rid of him.”
“Mayhap the murderer had already done evils which would bring him to a scaffold were they known. Thomas or Randall, for example.”
“They faced no scaffold,” Sir John said. “Sir Thomas’s lass was returned to him.”
He might have added that his cousin would see to their immunity and earn his fee.
“But Lady Philippa has not been returned to her husband, so far as I know. Perhaps she attempted escape from her captors and was slain.”
“Nothing I’d know of,” Sir John said. “If Gaston or Osbert or Thomas or Randall had aught to do with the lady’s disappearance, they did not speak of it to me.”
Should I believe the man? He was a felon. He had admitted so. Would a man guilty of one felony lie to escape the consequences of another crime? Will the sun rise tomorrow?
A visit to Southbourne and Randall Attewell might be a waste of time, but time spent in conversation with Sir John Willoughby was also ill-used. And Thomas Mowrey seemed likely less amenable to questions delivered with threats – real or implied – and black looks.
Sir John and his valets and grooms outnumbered us this day, but the knight was sufficiently daunted to give no sign he wished his retainers to do us violence. The name of a baron of the realm has such an effect on most men. The mention of Lord Gilbert Talbot has prevented me much grief, I am sure. Even so I bear scars for my service to Lord Gilbert. My Kate prays daily there will be no more. As do I.
