by Ann Swinfen
‘Nay.’ He smiled gently. ‘I wanted to do it for the lad. The best way you can help is by continuing our search for anything which might lead to his killer.’
‘I went to Merton this morning and asked to see the Irish Psalter, but Phillip Olney would not permit it. He claimed that it was in poor condition, too fragile to handle or even be seen. Yet when I last saw it, I swear to you that it was robust, in as sound a condition as a book made in our own lifetime. Olney seemed very wary and nervous.’
‘Odd.’
‘I do not think the book was there. The box that contains it was there, but he would not even let me look inside without touching. He fended me off and saw me out of the book room.’
‘So you think–?’
‘I am certain it is not there. But why? And whether Olney is complicit in removing it, I could not say. He claimed that Allard Basset had given orders that it was not to be touched until it was repaired. Basset has always taken a particular interest in the book, but Olney may simply have been trying to shift the responsibility on to someone else’s shoulders. It may have naught to do with Basset.’
‘If it is not in Merton, where can it be?’
‘Wherever William was making his copy,’ I said. ‘It must have been somewhere private, a clean place to work, although he had only been writing the text and outlining the illuminations so far. He had not progressed to using coloured inks.’
‘Well, it certainly was not done in Hart Hall,’ he said. ‘He could hide his pages under the mattress, but there was no sign of the book, and he could not have done the work there, under our noses.’
‘Nay, he could not.’
‘I wonder where he planned to buy his colours,’ I mused. ‘There are few places in Oxford. I am the only stationer to stock all the colours he would need, unless he bought from the paint-maker who supplies the abbeys. I buy lapis from him, but all his colours are expensive.’
‘It seems these two men seen by Dafydd Hewlyn bought the parchment. Perhaps they also bought the colours.’
‘Of course, you have the right of it, Jordain! I need to ask some questions. Are you still ready to come with me to follow that branch of the Cherwell up river tomorrow?’
‘Aye, I will come. But now I must go back. The lads will be home by now. I should have no lecture tomorrow, but because I was interrupted for the inquest, I must give that lecture again. I will come to the shop when I have finished. Then we may go out to the Cherwell in the afternoon.’
I nodded my agreement. ‘God go with you, then, Jordain,’ I said.
‘And with you.’
While we had been talking, I had walked halfway up Hammer Hall Lane with him. As I turned back and passed the church again, I saw that the churchyard was empty except for the sexton, who was slowly shovelling earth back into the grave. I shivered. If William’s mother wanted his body sent home, it must needs be dug up again, not a pleasant prospect. It was as well Jordain had paid for a coffin.
As I walked slowly back home, I brooded over the whole strange affair. In the serious consideration of who had murdered William, one was apt to lose the other threads of the matter. Certainly it was clear that William had been secretly copying the ancient Irish Psalter. I was convinced he would never have done so on his own account. Someone must have persuaded him to do it. In any case, how would he have gained access to the book? We knew now that two men, strangers, whom Dafydd Hewlyn judged untrustworthy, had purchased the parchment William had been using. Therefore, they must have given it to him. Had they also, somehow, provided him with the Irish book?
The black ink he had used for the lettering had nothing unusual about it and could have been obtained anywhere, even from me. It would, however, be worth making enquiries to discover whether those same two men had been buying the coloured inks William would have needed to complete the illuminations. And he would also have needed gold foil for the gilding. As far as I could remember, there was a good deal of gilding in the original book. The colours also had been wonderful when I had seen them, as rich and bright as a stained glass window, not faded in any way by the years. To copy them accurately would have required inks of the highest quality. William would have enjoyed the work of completing the illustrations. I remembered how he had admired my own book of hours. It was comparatively modest, but very beautiful.
So much for the materials required, but how had William been able to copy from the book itself? The detailed precision of his outline drawings showed that he must have had the book open in front of him as he worked, they could not have been done from memory. I ran over in my mind my encounter with Phillip Olney that morning. He had always been a difficult, short-tempered man, but his behaviour when I had asked to see the Irish book had been decidedly peculiar. His hasty, unconvincing argument as to why I might not even look at the book was clearly spurious. Could he have asked William to copy the book? Nay, that made no sense. Olney was a true-blooded bibliophile. He would never have entrusted Merton’s greatest literary treasure to a mere student. Did that mean it had been stolen, and he was terrified that the theft would be discovered? But it could not be concealed for ever. Master Basset, for one, would want to see it. I did not believe for a minute that he had told Olney no one was to touch the book until it was repaired.
If Olney hoped to conceal the disappearance of the book from Master Basset, he was deluding himself. But perhaps Basset already knew, and the two of them were trying to keep the fact from the Warden and the other Fellows?
I was still revolving all the possibilities in my mind when I reached the shop and went in, paying little heed to who was there. Two students, a monk who worked in the scriptorium of Osney, come to purchase parchment.
And, as if summoned up by my thoughts, Master Allard Basset.
He waited until all my other customers had left, pretending all the while to study the books displayed on my secondhand rack, none of which could have held any interest for him. He was a big man, impressive, I would judge, riding a fine stallion out to the hunt. I knew that he came of a noble family in Sussex, but not being the eldest son, his ambitions lay elsewhere. I thought he aimed for the wardenship of Merton, or another college. Or perhaps he would leave the academic world for a position in King Edward’s every-growing royal service. He would not be contained by a mere Fellowship for ever.
As the shop emptied, he turned and confronted me, where I had taken refuge behind the counter. I had thought of retreating to the house and leaving Walter to attend to him, but that would have been the act of a coward. If he was determined to confront me, I must face him sooner or later. I wondered why he had not spoken to me at the funeral, but perhaps he preferred to have no audience, since he had now waited for the students and the monk to leave. Walter and Roger, however, were still present, making themselves as inconspicuous as possible, heads down, meekly writing.
Basset came close to the counter and leaned over it, till his face was barely a foot from mine.
‘And just what do you mean by it?’ he demanded angrily.
I gaped at him, for he seemed to be taking up the thread of a conversation that had never occurred.
‘Mean by what, Master Basset?’ I said, when I could persuade my voice to function.
I had never seen him like this. At one time I had near worshipped the man, for he was a famous scholar, corresponding with distinguished men in Prague, in Bologna, in Paris, the great universities of Europe. When I had first come to Oxford as a boy of fourteen, drunk with the excitement of books and learning, I had attended every one of Allard Basset’s lectures, awed by his immense learning. Later, when he had taken me under his wing and encouraged my intellectual ambitions, I had been pathetically grateful, treasuring the books he loaned me, working until all hours by poor rushlight so that I might live up to his expectations. When he had undertaken to sponsor me for a Fellowship at Merton, I had believed my ambition could soar no higher.
Then I had met Elizabeth again. When I had seen her first, we were both children, but w
hile I had been climbing the shaky ladder of academic achievement, she had been away, living for a time with her mother’s parents in London. She returned, a beautiful young woman, in the fatal summer before I was to take up my place at Merton, and I was lost.
Allard Basset had never forgiven me.
Since then, he had displayed an anger both cold and cutting, treating me with contempt and scorn whenever we encountered one another – which was as rarely as I could possibly contrive. Now, however, he seemed incandescent with rage, and I was baffled.
‘I do not understand you, Master Basset,’ I said, withdrawing a step or two.
‘I hear you dared to invade our book room and demanded to see the Irish Psalter. I will not have you sullying our greatest treasure with your tradesman’s hands!’
Inadvertently I glanced down at my hands. As usual, they were somewhat ink stained, but otherwise perfectly clean. Very much like Basset’s own hands, in fact.
‘Your description of my visit to Merton,’ I said levelly, having regained my poise, ‘does not quite accord with the facts. I came first to collect overdue payment from your bursar. I then went to see Master Olney, in order to tell him about a bestiary I have acquired, that I thought might interest him. We had some discussion about it, and I promised to take it for him to inspect on Saturday. As I was leaving, I asked whether I might look at the Psalter. I have had some dealings with books of hours recently, and I was interested to look at it again, at how the Hours were set out, not having seen it for some time.’
I was pleased that my voice sounded calm and normal, though I was aware that my heart was beating rapidly.
He drew a deep breath, as though he too were trying to steady his voice.
‘The book is in a very fragile state, and must not be touched until we can arrange for its repair.’
‘So Master Olney said. I was surprised. When I saw it, I recall that it was in very robust condition. How can it have fallen into such a state in so short a time?’
‘Hardly a short time,’ he said curtly. ‘It is all of seven years.’
Aye, I thought. He would know exactly how long it was since I had the temerity to turn down his patronage and go my own wilful, secular way.
‘Even so,’ I said, ‘it can hardly have received rough usage in the intervening years, being the treasure that it is. I hope you may find a craftsman skilled enough to carry out the repairs without harming the book. Henry Stalbroke is the best man in Oxford, probably in England.’
He opened his mouth as if he were about to say more, then closed it with a snap. His gown whirled about as he turned to leave, and Roger leapt from his desk to open the door for him. I watched him striding away up the High Street toward Magpie Lane. Even his back looked angry.
‘You may close the shutters while you are about it, Roger,’ I said, sinking on to my stool, feeling suddenly weak about the knees. ‘It is a little early, but I think we will close for today.’
When Roger came back inside, both scriveners looked at me curiously.
‘What did he mean by all that?’ Walter asked, clearly speaking for both of them.
I shook my head. ‘I cannot tell. Master Olney was in a strange mood this morning as well. They both declare the book is in a terrible state, which I find hard to believe.’
‘Perhaps it is not worn with age,’ Roger suggested, ‘but someone has damaged it. Dropped it, perhaps, or broken the spine by forcing it backwards. And they are trying to hide the damage until they can see it repaired.’
‘You may be right, Roger,’ I said. ‘But that book is always kept in a magnificent box, on a shelf by itself, in a room where Master Olney sits all day. I am sure he locks it up at night.’
‘Perhaps one of them damaged it,’ Walter said.
‘Nay, I do not think so. Both of them love books more than people, and that book is their greatest treasure. If there were to be a fire, and that book was in the room with a baby, I know which one they would rescue.’ I sighed. ‘It baffles me, but it is their affair. Let me see what you have both done today. I have hardly been here. Let me light a candle.’
In order to give their work full attention, I lit a wax candle to provide a clear light. Roger had made good progress copying the Arthur and Guinevere tale, leaving a blank page for a large illustration and merely outlining the initial capital for each section, to be worked up later.
‘This is excellent, Roger. Off with you now, and I will see you in the morning.’
He went off pleased with both the praise and the early end to the day. I preferred, however, to see what Walter had managed to write without Roger peering over our shoulders.
‘I’ve done as you suggested, Master Elyot,’ Walter said diffidently, ‘and started with Hob-by-the-Fire. I fear ’tis a fine old mess at first, but I got more into the way of it as I went along.’
Clearly nervous, he handed me several sheets of paper. Indeed, there were many crossings-out and insertions on the first three pages, and some of the language here was stilted, but after that it flowed much more freely. We discussed the changes he might make to those early pages and he began to look less anxious as we worked.
‘There,’ I said at last, ‘I think we have the start of an excellent tale here, and you should be able to finish it tomorrow, do you not think?’
He was leaning over with both arms braced on the counter, but looked up now and beamed at me. ‘Aye, I think I have the trick of it now. To think, my mother’s simple tales, made into a book!’
‘It is not so strange,’ I said. ‘I expect those famous tales that Roger is copying started in the same way, told aloud by the fireside. It is just that they have become better known.’
I tapped his pages together and handed them to him.
‘Now, Margaret will have supper ready soon. Come you in with me, and join us. It is quite a while since you have been to a family supper. And afterwards, perhaps Alysoun can persuade you to tell us another of your mother’s tales.
As our midday dinner had been a hurried affair, before I went off to the funeral, Margaret had prepared a more substantial supper than usual, roasting a joint of mutton on the iron turnspit before the fire. This was one of the new-fangled ones operated by weights, requiring neither kitchen boy nor turnspit dog to rotate it. She had declared that one would save her precious time in the kitchen if she need not be forever rotating the roast before the fire by hand, so I had had one made by a blacksmith in Fish Street. Walter was mighty impressed by it.
‘Jordain would not come for supper,’ I explained, ‘for he felt his students needed him this day.’ I did not enlarge on the reason why, for we had been doing our best to keep word of William’s death from the children. Rafe might not remember him, but Alysoun certainly would, for he had made quite a pet of her.
‘Instead, I have brought Walter,’ I said. ‘And I hope we may persuade him to sing for his supper by telling us a tale afterwards.’
‘Oh, aye, Papa!’ Alysoun exclaimed, grabbing Walter by the arm and swinging on it. ‘But will he sing it?’
‘’Tis but a saying.’ I smiled at her. ‘I am sure he will tell it in the usual way.’
We sat down to our ample supper of mutton, beans, and cabbage, with batter cakes fried by dropping spoonfuls into the sizzling fat dripping from the meat. We do not usually eat meat for supper, but I was well ready for it after such a day. For some reason Margaret’s cabbage does not have that mouldy, penetrating smell that seems to hang about all student halls. When Jordain and I lodged in the student rooms in the hall at the back of Tackley’s Inn, both inn and hall were permeated with the smell every day.
‘I helped Aunt Margaret to make the dried apple pie, Papa,’ Alysoun said, bearing it with pride to the table. ‘She says I have a good hand with the pastry.’
‘Aye, it will do for now,’ Margaret said, ‘but you need not roll it out with such fierceness. You are not crushing cockroaches.’
Nevertheless, I could see that she looked pleased, but I hoped that this was
not a strategic move to woo Alysoun away from her lessons.
‘Can you fetch the cream, Rafe?’ Margaret said. ‘Be careful, now.’
Rafe went to the pantry, where the cream was kept on a cool stone shelf, and returned carrying the jug in both hands, his eyes fixed anxiously on his feet, for the puppy Rowan was skittering about, chasing a ball Alysoun had made for her out of red cloth stuffed with wool scraps.
When we were replete, Walter and I sat by the fire while Margaret and Alysoun cleared and washed the dishes, leaving them stacked to dry on the table. Rafe climbed on to Walter’s lap, while Margaret brought her mending close by the fire, the better to see her stitches. It was the gown Alysoun had torn on the apple tree.
‘Come, Alysoun,’ I said, ‘even though you can bake an apple pie, you are not too big to sit on my lap to hear a story.’
When she was comfortably perched, I rested my chin on the top of her head. Margaret, I saw, had attacked the tangled hair with a comb.
‘So, what is it to be, Walter?’ Margaret asked. ‘Nicholas tells me you are to make a book of your stories.’
Walter looked embarrassed. ‘He thinks they will make a book, Mistress Makepeace, but they are nothing but simple old stories.’
‘They are good stories,’ Alysoun said judiciously. ‘Anyone would want to read them. Which one will you tell us?’
‘I have been thinking on that. I do not think you have heard this one. I had forgotten it myself until something reminded me today.’
‘What is it called?’
‘It is the tale of Jestyn the Trickster. It is a short tale, for I think this little lad should soon be in his bed.’
Rafe groaned and protested, but Walter only smiled.
Once on a time, he began, when the world was young and England had many kings, there lived a young man called Jestyn.
‘But how could there be many kings?’ Alysoun objected. ‘There is only one king, our King Edward the Third.’
