by Starr, Mel;
“Don’t get too close,” I replied. “The scholar may remember you.”
I dared not enter the shop for fear de Wenlock would remember me if he saw my face at close range. At a distance I would appear as any other scholar, and if he noticed me walking along behind him, there would likely be others garbed in black abroad on the same streets, as likely behind as before.
I thought it possible the man might leave his toil and seek dinner at some nearby inn, so I hung about close to the shop as noon approached. My hunch proved true. Moments after the noon Angelus rang out, my quarry departed the shop and strode to the corner of Cornmarket Street. I followed and watched as he entered an inn. I glanced behind me and saw Arthur and Uctred cautiously peering around the corner to see where de Wenlock and I had disappeared to.
My stomach took that moment to growl. How could I watch for de Wenlock’s departure from the inn and yet see to my own empty belly? I trotted back to the corner, withdrew a few pennies from my purse, and told Uctred to enter the inn and purchase loaves and a ewer of ale – for de Wenlock knew Arthur, but not Uctred.
He returned before de Wenlock had finished his meal, so when the scholar set out and I followed I did not need to do so upon an empty stomach.
De Wenlock did not return to his pen. From the corner of Cornmarket Street and High Street he continued north. Was he going to lead me to Lady Philippa, or return to his lodging at Balliol College? A quick glance back over my shoulder reassured me of Arthur and Uctred coming after, Arthur yet chewing upon his loaf.
De Wenlock did not seem hurried. He sauntered well past Balliol College, toward a water meadow bordering the Thames. Here he found a log at the riverbank, likely deposited there in some freshet, and sat, looking out upon the river. At this distance from the city wall there were few others upon the street, so I continued past de Wenlock until I found a path leading east which I hoped would lead me to the Banbury road.
Arthur and Uctred saw me stroll past the seated scholar and they likewise sauntered by. I glanced back from the path, and so far as I could tell de Wenlock paid them no heed. His gaze seemed fixed upon the stream. Behind Arthur and Uctred two more scholars walked the street. I hid myself behind a bush and watched as they also passed de Wenlock. Again, he paid no notice.
Arthur and Uctred soon caught up with me and joined me behind the shrub.
“What you s’pose ’e’s about, just sittin’ there watchin’ the river?” Uctred said.
“Perhaps he enjoys a quiet moment,” I said, “away from Oxford’s noise and stink.”
“Quiet enough ’ere,” Arthur said. “What you going to do now?”
“I’ll wait. And if I can, without being noticed, I’ll follow him when he’s had enough silence. You two had best follow this path ’til it comes to the Banbury road. Follow that back to Oxford. I’ll join you there at Queen’s College.”
Every day it was the same, but for Sunday, when de Wenlock did not go to the stationer’s shop but rather attended mass at St. Michael at the Northgate. But each day he took his dinner at the same inn, then walked nearly a mile north and sat upon the same log for an hour, staring at the river.
Perhaps, I thought, ’twas not the river which captures his attention, but the orchard on the west side of the stream. But why study apples so intently? And from a distance of two hundred paces? Occasionally I saw black-clad forms amongst the trees. The orchard must, I thought, be the property of some abbey. Godstow Abbey, perhaps. I knew there were several abbeys and priories and such places to the north and west of Oxford.
I followed de Wenlock for five days, becoming increasingly exasperated with the man. He never varied his routine. At the stationer’s shop by the third hour. Away to the same inn at the sound of the noon Angelus, then off to the north up the Woodstock road to sit upon the exact same log, from that seat to spend a full hour intently studying the river or the orchard – whichever had so consumed his interest that he could not ignore it, even for a day. Thence returning to his labor at the stationer’s shop until the light began to fail.
On Tuesday he had wit enough about him that when he sat down he swiveled about upon the log to peer behind him. He had never done so before, never taking more than a sideways glance at any of those who might have been upon the road before or behind him – and usually there were several besides me. He saw me approaching from a hundred and more paces behind, and I think ’twas then he remembered that he had seen a similar scholar appear from the same direction at the same time for the past several days. Had there been some other path leading from the road I could have turned aside to it, but there was no other and it would seem suspicious for a scholar to suddenly leave the road and wander off into the bushes.
De Wenlock stood and turned to face me. I walked on, feigning disinterest. He studied me intently as I approached, but said nothing. I touched my hood as I passed, walked on as if with purpose to the path to Banbury Road, then from the convenient bush parted a few branches and examined the log. De Wenlock was nowhere in sight, but Arthur and Uctred were. They had just then reached the log and seemed to be casting their eyes about, seeking me. I moved from behind the bush and called softly to them.
“That fellow took off back toward town in a tearin’ ’urry,” Arthur said. “’E looked us over good as we passed by, too.”
This exercise had been futile. Whatever his purpose in his daily jaunts, ’twas not to have chat with Lady Philippa. I had followed de Wenlock once too often, and now he had seen my face clearly I could no longer trail him without being identified as one who had been taking a great interest in his life.
I missed my Kate. She was alone with her sorrow, but for the children and Adela. I told Arthur and Uctred that our visit to Oxford was at an end. We would return the worn scholar’s gown to Master Wycliffe, take a quick dinner at the White Boar, retrieve our palfreys from the Catte Street stable, and set off for Bampton. I had failed to find Lady Philippa and was willing to admit it.
Chapter 17
We could not travel all the way to Bampton before dark. As I have done many times in the past, shortly after we splashed across the Thames at Swinford we halted before the gatehouse to Eynsham Abbey.
The abbey entrance looked crowded, and from the back of a horse I could see why. The almoner was passing loaves to poor folk, food left after the monks had enjoyed their supper. Most days monks have but one meal each day, but in the long days of summer, when the hours of labor are extended with the hours of the light, they will partake of a simple supper.
The porter recognized me, as well he might, for I have visited the place often. He sent his assistant to fetch the guest master. Our palfreys were soon ensconced in the abbey stables, and we three in the guest house, where we were told that bowls of pease pottage and loaves would be brought for our supper.
The novice who served our meal bowed and said that, when I had eaten, Abbot Gerleys waited on me to attend him. I had done the abbey some service a few years past, discovering who had slain a novice attached to the abbey. At the time Brother Gerleys had been the novice master. In the process of finding a murderer I had learned that the prior, whom all thought would supplant the aged abbot, was a heretic. So when Abbot Thurstan died, it was Brother Gerleys whom the community elected as their abbot. I have never been quite sure if he is pleased with the advancement.
I needed no guide to lead me to the abbot’s chamber. I had visited the place many times. His door stood open, and when he saw me he lifted his eyes from the book upon his desk and bade me enter. He held in one hand a round glassy object fixed to what appeared to be a bone handle – a glass just like Master Wycliffe used.
Abbot Gerleys saw me glance inquisitively at the object, held it up before me, and explained: “’Tis a glass which will enlarge the words upon a page. My eyes serve me less well for reading and study than when I was young. This is a great help. Come, see for yourself.”
He took the book he had been examining, lifted it around so that it faced me, then offered
the glass. The apparatus was slightly larger than the palm of my hand, and ’twas exactly as the abbot said. The delicate letters and columns of numbers upon the page were startlingly enlarged. The exact cost of five gatherings of vellum leaped forth from its surroundings to gain my attention. Even a man near blind, I thought, could read using this glass.
“Spectacles help many,” Abbot Gerleys said. “Brother Simon and Brother Andrew of this abbey use them. But I find this glass of greater help. Tomorrow, when the sun has risen, before you travel, I will show you an amazing thing this glass can do.
“When I heard you and your men had stopped to ask our hospitality I sent for you. When you travel to Oxford ’tis usually because some mystery must be untangled or some evil put right, or both. Which is it this time? Life in an abbey can be dull. I would have you enliven my day.”
“Have you heard of Sir Aymer Molyns, of Coleshill?” I asked.
“Sir Aymer?” The abbot pursed his lips and finally admitted ignorance of the name and man.
“He was traveling from Coleshill, with his wife, her servant, and his retainers, to another of his estates. He intended to interrupt the journey at Bampton and enjoy Lord Gilbert’s hospitality for a day or two.”
“Intended?”
“Aye. Lady Philippa and her maid traveled in a wagon, closed against dust and sun. When Sir Aymer’s party reached Bampton Castle the wagon was found empty.”
“The lady had vanished?”
“Aye, she had. And is yet missing.”
For the next half-hour I recounted my fruitless efforts to find Lady Philippa. Abbot Gerleys listened intently, his chin resting upon his fists, elbows upon the table. I spoke of Martyn de Wenlock’s curious behavior of the past days and concluded the tale. We looked at one another.
“You’ve decided to give up the search?”
“Aye. I can think of no other path which might lead to the lady.”
“Sir Aymer has lost a wife and two pounds.”
“So it seems.”
“Well, that’s odd,” Abbot Gerleys said, turning the book to himself again and picking up the glass. “Here is an entry for two pounds.”
“You examine the accounts of the abbey?”
“An account ledger, true enough, but not for Eynsham Abbey. For Godstow Abbey.”
My puzzled expression drew forth an explanation. “Godstow Abbey is nearly bankrupt. The nuns there have no sense of responsibility. Most are daughters of knights and bannerets and an occasional earl, and they’ve never in their lives needed to restrict their expenses. So the bishop has made me keeper of Godstow Abbey. The abbess doesn’t much like it, but I’ve put my foot down. There are twenty in orders there now, and I’ve made it a rule they may have one servant and one chaplain each, no more.”
“You spoke of an entry of two pounds to the abbey’s account,” I said. “How long ago was this entered?”
“Three weeks ago. When you mentioned the ransom I remembered seeing an entry for exactly that sum just before you came to my chamber. Our sacristan has a head for figures and keeps the entries up to date, but I review the ledger every week or so.”
“When a woman, or a man, enters into a vocation,” I said, “are they expected to make a contribution to the house to pay for their keeping?”
“They are.”
“Does Godstow Abbey have an orchard?” I asked.
“Aye.”
“Is it close along the river?”
“It is. Fertile soil. An excellent garden, as well, and the river provides water for fishponds. There’s no reason the sisters should be so penniless but for their extravagances.”
For several days I had watched Martyn de Wenlock study that very orchard. I recalled to my mind’s eye that beyond the orchard, just visible through the trees, arose a wall, and beyond that the peak of a church roof. And occasionally I had seen black-clad figures walking under the trees of the orchard. Nuns of Godstow Abbey, surely. Although from where I had walked ’twas too far to make out if those who roamed the orchard were male or female.
Did Martyn de Wenlock walk north from Oxford each day hoping for a glimpse of Lady Philippa? Did she connive at her own disappearance? Was the two pounds entered into Abbot Gerleys’ ledger the ransom I had carried to Badbury Hill?
If so, ’twas no wonder I had been unable to find the lady. She was safely hidden behind an abbey wall. She could not have put herself there alone. John Cely, her loyal man, must have turned his blind eyes and deaf ears from the wagon when she left it. Perhaps Maurice and Brom were given a few coins to ride ahead of the wagon as it slowed upon the hill, and a servant and chaplain of Godstow Abbey came to Badbury Hill to collect Sir Aymer’s ransom. A hill they had not likely visited, but was described to them by a lady who knew it well. She knew, furthermore, that those who lived nearby would not be persuaded to deliver a ransom to the place for fear of the spirits thought to dwell there at night, and that the ransom exchange would not likely, therefore, be interrupted.
I explained to Abbot Gerleys the pattern I had before thought unlikely but now believed to be the solution to this mystery: Lady Philippa had conspired in her own disappearance.
“Who is abbess of Godstow Abbey?” I asked.
“Agnes de Stretely.”
“If I travel there tomorrow will she see me?”
Abbot Gerleys scratched at his chin. “If she knows, or guesses, why you’ve come, likely not.”
I was silent for a moment. I had entertained many thoughts as to who might have taken Lady Philippa and where she might now be, but all of these had proven false. Now here was a new possibility. But without access to Godstow Abbey and the cooperation of the abbess, how could I know if the lady had sought refuge under holy orders?
“What are you thinking?” Abbot Gerleys said, breaking in upon my thoughts.
“May a married woman take holy orders without her husband’s knowledge or approval?”
“Nay.”
“So Lady Philippa could not legitimately be of Godstow Abbey now, even though there is evidence that it may be so?”
“If Abbess Agnes decided to ignore the rule, and she is one who would do so, your lady may be there.”
“If ’twas known that Lady Philippa had gone off to an abbey, and was yet alive and well, Sir Aymer would not be free to wed another,” I thought aloud.
“Unless he could have his marriage vows annulled,” the abbot said.
“And that would cost him a few shillings,” I said.
“Shillings? Hah. A few pounds, more likely.”
“The knight is already proclaiming his belief that felons took his wife, and she is slain. He intends to ask Bishop de Brantyngham to pronounce it so and grant him permission to wed again.”
“Three pounds,” Abbot Gerleys said.
“What?”
“I know the Bishop of Exeter well. He will require at least three pounds of the knight.”
“If I seek Godstow’s abbess tomorrow, you believe she will avoid me?”
“Probably. Especially if the lady is within and Agnes guesses your mission.”
“Why would she?”
“You have been seeking the lady for four weeks. Do you suppose knowledge of your search has remained confidential?”
“I suppose not. What would you suggest?”
“I will journey to Godstow with you tomorrow. Agnes will not turn me away. I hold her purse strings, and can draw them tight if I wish. I probably should, anyway, whether Agnes will cooperate or not. The woman is much too profligate.”
From Eynsham to Godstow is but five miles or so. After breaking our fast with wheaten loaves and ale Arthur, Uctred, and I met Abbot Gerleys and two of the abbey monks before the gatehouse. Both abbot and monks were mounted upon mules – a symbol of humility, I suppose.
We traveled through Wytham and by the third hour arrived before the gate of Godstow Abbey. I was surprised to see it standing open, no porter in sight, with men entering and leaving the environs freely. Abbot Gerleys sa
w my astonishment.
“Visitors and merchants come and go here as they please. The abbess will not control this, and I cannot be here each day to do so,” he said.
“The nuns are permitted visitors?”
“With some limits. And they are often seen upon Oxford’s streets.”
“Not Lady Philippa, if she is here. Someone would eventually recognize her.”
“Just so. Well, let us seek the abbess and learn if she has a new novice.”
I saw none of the sisters about the gatehouse, but chaplains and friars apparently attached to the abbey were present. Several of these glanced toward Abbot Gerleys and their expressions indicated neither surprise at his presence nor ignorance of his identity.
No man came to greet us or offer to see to our palfreys and mules, so the two monks, along with Arthur and Uctred, took the beasts in hand and led them to a shady corner behind the church.
“The abbess’s chamber is there.” Abbot Gerleys pointed and led the way to the door.
The chamber was sited as it would be in any monastery, with an inner door which would open eventually to the cloister, and an outer door where visitors could gain entry without disturbing monks or nuns in the cloister. There was no man at the abbess’s door, nor woman, either. No one to announce us. Abbot Gerleys wore a thin-lipped expression. He was not pleased, I think, with this welcome.
He pounded upon the chamber door, none too gently. The response was nearly instant with his last strike. The heavy oaken door swung open and a young woman, surely a novice of the house, stared at us with wide eyes.
“I am here to speak to Abbess Agnes.” Abbot Gerleys did not need to introduce himself. The woman knew who he was.
The young woman turned to look back over her shoulder. She surely knew of Abbot Gerleys’ authority over Godstow Abbey and perhaps thought her abbess would prefer to avoid the conversation.
If Abbess Agnes was within she must have heard Abbot Gerleys announce his presence. She was, and she had. The novice looked back to us, bowed, and stepped aside, conveying her superior’s invitation to enter.
