The Bookseller's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 1)

by Ann Swinfen

  We were in luck, which was as well, for we were both tired and discouraged. I knew the fisherman slightly and when I hallooed across the river he fetched us over in his coracle one at a time, landing us near the far end of the bridge. After bestowing profuse thanks on him, together with some coins, we made our way across the bridge and into Oxford as we had left it, by the East Gate.

  ‘I must look at William’s shirt before I do anything else,’ Jordain said.

  I nodded. ‘Will his body still be in St Peter’s?’

  ‘Aye, though he may be coffined by now.’

  ‘You mean we may have to open the coffin?’ I shivered. It seemed sacrilegious to me.

  ‘I suppose we may.’ Jordain sounded grim, but he led me determinedly to the church.

  As we expected, the coffin was there, laid on the steps before the altar and covered with the parish cerecloth.

  ‘We cannot open the coffin without speaking to the rector,’ I whispered, feeling more and more unhappy at the thought.

  The rector was by the west door of the church, speaking to an old woman, so we waited nervously until she had left. Jordain explained about the torn cloth and our need to examine William’s shirt.

  ‘Oh, but you need not open the coffin!’ The rector, who had initially looked shocked at the suggestion, now smiled with relief. ‘The young man has been prepared for burial by my housekeeper and her sister, and sewn into a shroud. They will have his clothes back at the rectory. Come with me.’

  He led us into the rectory kitchen, where the housekeeper and another woman were preparing supper. The women were puzzled at our request to see the clothes, but fetched the pile of neatly folded garments for us to examine.

  ‘I was going to send them round to Hart Hall in the morning, maister,’ the housekeeper said. ‘There’s wear in them yet, once the tear in the cotte is mended, though the poor lad’s shirt is in a worse case.’

  Jordain and I exchanged a glance, then he lifted the shirt – which had been washed and dried – on to the table. As soon as he unfolded it, we could all see the jagged tear. I held my breath as he took the fragment of cloth that we had found from his scrip and smoothed it out beside the shirt.

  It fitted perfectly.

  Chapter Six

  Early the following morning, I presented myself at the gatehouse of Merton College. It occupied a large site south of Merton Street, the grounds reaching as far down as the town wall, which formed their southern boundary. The porter knew me well by sight, for Merton was a wealthy college and I had supplied it with a number of books in recent years. They were always in the market for anything fine or rare, although they would haggle over every last penny of the price. For some time they had talked of building a special library to house their collection, but the loss of Fellows during the pestilence, and the loss of income from their tenants at the same time, meant that nothing had come of these plans as yet. I also supplied the college with numerous articles of stationery. They were one of my largest customers, although not one of the best, since they were not prompt in paying.

  Having sent Walter with a second bill several days ago, which had still not been paid, I considered that this was sufficient excuse to call on the bursar and politely request settlement. The porter nodded me through without question, and I made my way to the bursar’s office, on the ground floor of the first quadrangle.

  ‘Indeed, indeed, Master Elyot,’ he said fussily, and with some annoyance. ‘I have your money here. I intended to send it over to you today by one of the servants.’

  He unlocked a strong box, requiring three keys, and drew out a fat purse, which he tipped out over his desk. I caught a half noble and two groats just as they rolled to the edge.

  ‘It is all here,’ he said, counting the coins out somewhat ostentatiously in front of me.

  ‘Perfectly correct,’ I said. ‘If you will hand me the bill – the second copy of the bill – I will sign it to indicate that I have received your payment.’

  He avoided my eye, and passed the bill to me, which I signed with an excessive flourish. I was never sure whether the delays were due to policy or neglect on his part, or whether he was instructed by the Warden to take as long as possible in settling the college’s debts. Whatever the reason, it was a constant annoyance. Like many townsmen with small businesses, I found myself for ever needing to pay out immediately for any goods I bought, but having difficulty in extracting payment from my customers, especially when those customers were the colleges or the larger religious houses. However, I thanked him and stowed the purse inside my scrip, which was all I was carrying today, having no need of my manuscript satchel.

  On leaving the bursar’s office, I made my way across the quadrangle to the staircase leading up to the set of rooms which were used to house the college’s collection of books until the proposed library could be built. As I expected, Phillip Olney, the Fellow of Merton who acted as their librarius, was there, seated at a desk, turned over the pages of a large volume and making notes on a sheet laid on the writing slope.

  I was designated a librarius because I bought and sold books; Master Olney, because he was in charge of the college’s books. It should have made for an amicable relationship, but that was not quite the case here. For some reason, small crabbed Olney always seemed to regard me with suspicion, as though I was designing to cheat him whenever I sold him a book. He would inspect every page of a proposed purchase, pressing his face close (he suffered from short sight), testing the binding, peering into the spine quite as if he expected to find a colony of worms nested there. I suppose the fact that I had abandoned the chance to become a Fellow of Merton in order to marry Elizabeth had forever tainted me in his eyes. I had betrayed the sacred life of the celibate and dedicated scholar for the earthy and secular pleasures of the married life. Certainly Master Basset, my former tutor, who had sponsored me for admission as a Fellow, had never forgiven me.

  ‘Good day to you, Master Olney,’ I said, attempting a pleasant tone as I took a seat (uninvited) on a bench opposite his desk.

  He glowered at me. ‘What do you want?’

  It was an inauspicious beginning, but I gave him a cheerful smile. ‘I have been offered a small library of books by a widow dwelling in Banbury,’ I said. I did not mention that I had not yet received her agreement to my offer of a purchase price. ‘Most of them would not be of interest to you, but amongst them there is a very fine bestiary. The calligraphy is of the very best. The illustrations are exceptionally fine. And the binding is imported Spanish calf skin, tinted maroon. Gilt edges. Virtually no wear and not a single blemish. It has been maintained with the greatest care.’

  I still intended to approach the Fellow of Gloucester College, who had a particular interest in bestiaries, but there was no harm in setting up a little rivalry between two book collectors. I saw the gleam in Olney’s eye.

  ‘Have you brought it with you?’ he said, softening a little.

  ‘Nay, I came on business with the bursar, but then it occurred to me that the bestiary might interest you, so I thought I would call on you and mention it, while I was here.’

  I had definitely caught his attention and he began to question me closely about the book. I answered in scrupulous detail, and watched his enthusiasm get the better of him, so that he became quite civil to me.

  ‘Well,’ I said at last, ‘would you like me to bring the bestiary for you to inspect?’

  Master Olney would never demean himself to visit my shop. I was obliged to carry any books which were of interest to him down to Merton for him to examine.

  ‘Of course,’ I added, guilelessly, as he hesitated, ‘Master Caundish of Gloucester College will also be wanting to see it. As you know, he is assembling a special collection of bestiaries.’

  I had not yet approached Master Caundish, not until I had the widow’s agreement, but I knew he would seize upon the book with glee. And so did Master Olney.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, attempting, not very successfully, to hide his e
agerness. ‘You had best bring it for me to inspect. I doubt it will be of the quality we would want for Merton, not if it has been in a layman’s possession.’

  ‘I understand he was educated by the monks at Abingdon,’ I said, ‘and so halfway to becoming a scholar.’

  I regretted the words as soon as I had spoken them, for in Olney’s eyes, I too had been halfway to becoming a scholar. His face showed his distaste, but before he could say anything, I added, ‘You need not worry about the condition, it is immaculate.’

  ‘Then you had best bring it round this afternoon,’ he said, with affected carelessness. ‘I would not wish Merton to miss the chance of a bestiary, if it should prove to be all that you say it is.’

  ‘I am afraid I must attend a funeral this afternoon,’ I said. ‘The student who was found in the Cherwell.’

  He looked at me blankly. If he had even heard of William’s death, it had made no impression on him. His world was made up entirely of the volumes in these two rooms.

  ‘Tomorrow then,’ he said.

  ‘And I shall be out of Oxford tomorrow.’ It was the only way I could think of to refer to my proposed visit to the upper reaches of the Cherwell with Jordain. ‘I can bring it to you on Saturday, without fail.’ I hoped that I would have heard from Banbury by then, for I could not sell the book to Merton until I had the widow’s permission.

  ‘And you will not show it to Master Caundish before that?’

  ‘I promise that you shall have the first view of it, Master Olney.’

  ‘Very well.’ He stood up. It was a gesture of dismissal.

  I turned toward the book shelves behind me, and made no move toward the door.

  ‘Since I am here,’ I said, as though it had just occurred to me, ‘I wonder whether I might look at the Irish Psalter? I have had an order for a book of hours, copied from my own, and recently I saw a fine new example of one that Henry Stalbroke had just bound. It has started me thinking about the various arrangements in which they are set out, including within a Psaltery. I have not seen the Irish book for some years and wonder whether I might look at it now, as I am here?’

  I looked toward the lowest shelf, which held nothing but the ornate box in which the book was housed, but I kept my hands to myself and did not reach out for it, much though I was tempted.

  Master Olney hurried across to place himself between me and the box. He seemed flustered, and his face had flushed.

  ‘Nay, you may not!’ he said vehemently.

  I stared at him in astonishment. You might have thought I proposed stealing it, or setting it afire. Seeing the look on my face, he began to bluster.

  ‘The binding grows loose. It is so ancient. It has become fragile. Master Basset has instructed that it should not be handled until it has been repaired.’

  I knew that my former sponsor had always taken a proprietorial interest in the Irish book, but I also remembered that when I had seen it, and handled it, the book had been in good condition. It had been written on the very highest quality parchment and the binding was as firm as the day it was made. That had been seven years ago, but it could not have deteriorated so much in so short a time, for it was only taken out of its box to be lovingly admired a few times a year. Together with the copied pages we had discovered under William’s mattress, Olney’s reaction made me instantly suspicious. I wished I might simply lift the box. Its weight would tell me at once whether the book was within.

  ‘You will commission Henry Stalbroke to carry out the repairs?’ I said, as though I believed him. ‘He is surely the finest bookbinder in England.’

  ‘Aye, I believe . . . that is what Master Basset has in mind. I do not think he has approached Stalbroke yet.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I might just see the binding, without handling the book? If you would be so kind as to open the box yourself?’

  ‘Nay.’ He began to edge me toward the door. ‘It is not to be touched, or exposed to the air.’

  I found myself at the top of the stairs, the door firmly closed behind me. Thoughtfully I began to descend them to the quadrangle. Even if the binding had become loose – which I did not for a moment believe – opening the box could not possibly have harmed the book, even as old as it was. My world was made up of books, and I knew just how robust that Psalter was, despite its age.

  My purpose in coming to Merton had been two fold. Collecting the money owed to me and wooing Master Olney with the prospect of the bestiary had been merely the excuses. In the first place, I wanted to assure myself that the precious Irish Psalter was still safely in the custody of Merton’s temperamental librarius. Second, I was anxious to ascertain that no harm had come to it through clandestine copying.

  Having been unable to examine it, I could make no judgement on the second point. As for the first, I was very nearly certain that the priceless book was not safely in its elaborate box. The book, I was sure, was missing.

  The funeral of William Farringdon, untimely dead by violence, was held that afternoon in his parish church of St-Peter-in-the-East. I had not thought that many would attend, but to my surprise the church was crowded. All his fellow students from Hart Hall were present, but also at least twice their number of students from other halls, including Peter de Wallingford from St Edmund’s Hall. I recalled Peter had mentioned that William had often given him help, and from a few whispers I overheard as we were waiting for the service to begin, Peter was not the only student to have benefitted from William’s generosity with his time and his learning.

  Not only students were present. There were a number of townsmen – which I had not expected – although I suppose it was not surprising that the two coroners had come, as well as several constables, including Crowmer. Some other townsmen might well have come from mere curiosity, after that hasty and unsatisfactory inquest. However, I was surprised that at least a dozen senior members of the university had chosen to attend, amongst them four from Merton, the college that William would have joined in the autumn to pursue his advanced studies as a junior Fellow and scholar. One of the four was my former sponsor, Allard Basset. I kept well out of his line of vision, for encounters with him were invariably painful.

  The rector entered, preceded by one of the churchwardens carrying the great gold cross and followed by the choir. I was certain that Jordain had paid for the funeral mass out of his own limited means, but I was taken aback that he had arranged for a full choral mass. It was sad that the boy’s mother and sister could not attend, for it might have provided them with some small measure of comfort to see the number of mourners and the splendour of the service.

  I have attended too many funerals in late years, and I no longer find anything uplifting in the service, although it is far less distressing than a few hasty mumbled prayers over a mass grave in time of plague. The music helped to lift the spirits a little, but even so I was exhausted after the two hours standing on the stone floor, in a church which seemed unseasonably cold. Or perhaps the cold came from within me.

  When at last the service was over, six of William’s fellow students lifted the coffin from its place before the altar, and we followed it out into the churchyard, where a sharp wind was scattering the last of the apple blossom from St Edmund’s over the grass, like snow in May.

  The sexton had dug the grave around at the back of the church, where the churchyard had recently been extended. The turf, which had been stacked neatly to one side, was dotted with the tiny blue flowers of forget-me-nots, a sharp reminder, to any who paid them heed, that the town authorities had shown an eagerness to forget and to bury the investigation of the boy’s murder along with his body.

  We gathered in an uneasy group around the damp hole, its sides gleaming moistly where the sexton’s spade had sliced through the earth that morning. The student bearers, unaccustomed to the task, lowered the coffin awkwardly down into it. Jordain must also have paid for a coffin, for William’s body was not lodged temporarily in the parish coffin before burial in nothing but a shroud. The r
ector began the final prayers and blessing for the dead, marking each phrase by sprinkling holy water over the coffin from a silver-handled aspergillum. Some of the students shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, as though, having done their duty by their friend, they were anxious to escape from this place of sorrow and take up the reins of their young lives again.

  I had managed to avoid Master Basset in the church and as we made our way to the churchyard, but now I suddenly found him opposite me across the open grave. He was not looking at me, but down at the coffin, with a strange look on his face, a mixture, so it seemed to me, of horror, distress, and fear. I suppose any man may feel fear when confronted by the death of one so much younger than himself, but this seemed more personal, although I could not have said why this crossed my mind.

  As the rector concluded, closing his Bible and turning away. Master Basset looked up and caught sight of me staring at him. I averted my eyes quickly, but not before I had caught his look of hostility tempered with fear. I drew back into the crowd and followed the students out of the gate. Hostility was normal in Master Basset’s reactions whenever he met me, which I did my best to make as infrequent as possible. But why should he show fear? Unless it arose from his sobering contemplation of the dead.

  Usually when I came to St Peter’s churchyard I would visit Elizabeth’s grave, to say a prayer for her and whisper a few words to her about our children, but I would not venture near it amongst this great crowd. There was a burst of loud talking, interspersed with an occasional awkward laugh, the usual signs of relief after a funeral. I caught up with Jordain in the lane.

  ‘Margaret has bid me tell you that you are very welcome to sup with us tonight,’ I said.

  He shook his head. ‘I had best stay in with the lads tonight. They will be feeling William’s loss all the more acutely after the funeral. Give Margaret my thanks.’

  ‘I will do so.’ As he turned away to follow his students back to Hart Hall, I laid my hand on his arm. ‘Jordain, the cost of a choral mass must have been very great. Will you let me help?’