by Mel Starr
The small footprints in the mud where we had found John Whytyng’s boot and pouch came to my mind. Were these the marks of a maid, rather than a lad? It seemed possible. Had Maude’s father learned of previous trysts beside the fishpond and followed her? Had he been so angry at finding the lass with a novice from the abbey that he plunged a dagger into the youth three times? As I sat across from Osbert and Henry I began to think my investigation of John Whytyng’s murder nearly complete.
Arthur’s bulky shape darkened the door behind the novices as these thoughts passed through my mind. He was not smiling, and when he saw that his arrival had caught my eye he shrugged and rolled his eyes. I was unsure of his message, but was convinced it betokened no good thing.
I had learned what I could from Osbert and Henry of John Whytyng and comely maids, so excused myself, nodded from Arthur to the door, and led the groom from the novices’ chamber. We had walked but three or four paces from the door when we heard Brother Gerleys begin to speak of misdeeds and contrition and chastisement. Osbert and Henry, I thought, would not much enjoy the next few days, even though ’twas John Whytyng who had transgressed the Rule. Aye, for not informing Brother Gerleys, Osbert and Henry had also flouted the Rule and would suffer for it. Perhaps a night upon the cold tiles before the church altar was yet in their near future.
“Nobody in the reeve’s house heard anyone out in the night after curfew,” Arthur said. “You’d think they was all deaf. Even the reeve said he’d heard poachers back in the summer.”
“Men, and women too, are more likely to sleep with the shutters open in the summer,” I said in their defense. “With the shutters closed against an autumn chill a man might not hear poachers throw a net into a pond.”
“Aye. But might also be that Simon atte Pond’s servants don’t much care if folks they know take a fish or two from abbey ponds. What them novices ’ave to say?”
I told Arthur of John Whytyng’s carnal boasting. He was silent for a moment, then thought, as I had done, of Maude atte Pond and the smallest footprints we had discovered.
“Think someone came upon the lovers there by the pond? Another suitor, mayhap?”
Here was a new thought. I had considered the reeve to be a likely felon, protecting his daughter’s honor. Which was more than the lass did, was it she who left the small footprints beside the pond. A lass like Maude would attract many lads. But why would some other suitor be prowling about the abbey fishponds at midnight so as to come upon John and Maude in the dark?
“Possibly,” I said, “but I hold with the maid’s father. He may have heard his daughter leave his house, followed, and come upon an embrace which would surely have infuriated him.”
“Oh, aye. A lass might do well was she kept by a bishop, but she’d ’ave little was she tied to a monk… ’less he was abbot.” Arthur grinned sarcastically as he spoke.
“It would be good to speak to Maude atte Pond,” I said. “If ’twas she who left the small footprints at the pond, she will know who struck down the novice.”
“Might not want to say, was it her father.”
We approached the reeve’s fine house from the rear, from the direction Maude would have chosen if it was she whose footprints mingled with John Whytyng’s aside the pond. Smoke rose from the toft, and when we drew near we saw that the fumes came from a small shed. White smoke wreathed the hut, filtering out through chinks in the daub and the thin thatching of the roof. A youth stood near the door of this shed, and as I watched he opened the door and tossed a small log into the structure. ’Twas the lad who had yesterday answered the reeve’s door, and his task this afternoon was to see to the smoking of hams and bacon from the reeve’s freshly butchered hogs.
The youth saw us approach and tugged a forelock. He watched warily as we circled the house, then turned back to keep an eye on the smoke which billowed from every crevice of the shed.
My knock upon the reeve’s door was not soon answered. When the door did open a woman of formidable proportions stood in the opening. She wore a cotehardie of fine russet wool, a heavy silver cross hung about her neck, and her pompous gaze left no doubt that here was the mistress of the house. I had the momentary impression that no matter how prosperous her husband might become, his success would be inadequate in this woman’s eyes. ’Tis no great achievement for a young woman to be fair to look upon. But a woman who remains comely when her daughter is of marriageable age has achieved a rare thing. The reeve’s wife had failed this test.
The woman did not speak, but stood gazing imperiously at me. The ensuing silence was not broken until the matron looked over my shoulder, saw Arthur, and spoke.
“You was here before… talkin’ to the servants.” She made the statement sound like an accusation. “What do you want now?”
Although the question was directed to Arthur, I replied. “I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot on his manor at Bampton. Abbot Thurstan has charged me with discovering who murdered a novice of his house a few days past.”
“What has that to do with us, or our servants?”
“Perhaps nothing. My man has spoken to your servants. I wish to speak to your daughter.”
“Which one? Why?”
“Her name is Maude, and as she visits the abbey each week, with another, doing the monks’ laundry, I would like to know if she has seen anything out of the ordinary in recent visits, or heard some whispered conversation.”
I wished to know other things as well, but thought it not the moment to mention this. Mistress atte Pond turned to the interior of the house and bawled out Maude’s name. The woman was clearly accustomed to obedience, for three heartbeats later, no more, the lass scurried into view from a side chamber. The maid approached with her eyes downcast, and, it seemed to me, nearly flinched as she came near her mother.
“These men wish to speak to you about your work for the abbey,” the woman said, then folded her substantial arms and awaited my questions and her daughter’s replies. The interview was not going according to plan.
“I would like for Maude to show us the path she customarily follows when she walks to the abbey laundry and returns,” I said.
If the mother had any wit she would have recognized the subterfuge, but I needed to get the maid away from her mother, and this ploy was the first thought which came to my mind.
I led Maude from her front door to the abbey gatehouse, with Arthur following. From the gatehouse we circled past the guest house and the monks’ dormitory, then approached the east fishpond. All this time I said nothing but to tell the lass to follow. I glanced at Maude as we passed the laundry house and saw a tear fall from her eye. Perhaps she perceived where I led her, and why.
I stopped at the place where Arthur and I had found boot and pouch. As there had been no rain, the dry, hardened footprints were yet visible. I told the maid to place her foot beside one of the smaller prints, which she did without protest. Here, I thought, was a lass who had been taught to obey, and from the way Maude shrank from her mother when she came near her I could guess how the lessons were administered.
Maude’s shoe matched the small footprints in the mud. Arthur glanced toward me and nodded knowingly.
“How many times after Lammastide did you meet the novice John Whytyng here?” I asked.
Maude did not soon reply, but cast her eyes about as if seeking upon the dried mud some explanation for the match made by her shoe when placed alongside the smaller footprints. I thought she was about to deny the accusation, and indeed, other than the similar footprints and John Whytyng’s boasting, I had little evidence for the charge.
“Thrice,” Maude finally whispered. “Must you tell my mother of this?”
“Not if I have the truth of matters from you. Where else,” I said on impulse, “did you meet the lad?”
She raised her eyes to her father’s holding some two hundred paces distant, and said, “The barn, when it rained.”
“Last week, when you met the novice here by the pond, you
r father followed, did he not?”
“Oh, nay, sir.”
Arthur and I exchanged frowns, and Arthur said, “Told you she’d say that.”
“John Whytyng was slain that night, while he was here with you. If ’twas not your father who did murder, who was it?”
“Don’t know,” Maude said softly, and tears began to flow copiously down her cheeks.
“You were here when he was struck down, were you not?”
“Over there,” she pointed to the nearby wood. “John told me to hide myself in the shadows,” Maude sniffled.
“Why? Did you hear some man approach?”
“Aye. I came to this place first, an’ John came soon after. A moment later we heard someone coming near. John whispered that he must have been followed, that I must conceal myself among the trees, and he would remain, so that whoso followed him would find him alone.”
The maid’s tears flowed freely as her thoughts returned to the night John Whytyng was slain.
“Did you see who approached?”
“Nay. ’Twas too dark. There was no moon.”
“Did they speak? Were you close enough to hear?”
“I hid behind yon beech tree,” Maude said, and pointed to a tree twenty paces distant. If John Whytyng and whoso followed him spoke softly, the lass would have heard little.
“I heard John greet a man,” she continued, “and there was a reply.” The maid swallowed and choked upon her tears, then resumed her discourse. “I heard only whispering. ’Twas as if John and the other feared that some other man might hear their words.”
“You think the other fellow knew that you were in the shadows?”
“Nay. He did not seek for me after…” The maid’s sobbing again overwhelmed her words. “After he murdered poor John.”
“If the fellow had known you were hidden in the wood he might have slain you as well,” I said. “If the felon was not your father.”
“If ’twas dark and moonless,” Arthur said, “how do you know ’twas not your father who stabbed the novice?”
“’Twas not his voice I heard,” Maude replied.
“But you said they spoke softly, so you could not hear their words,” I said.
“They became angry,” she said, “and began to speak so I could hear.”
“What was said?”
“John said, ‘I will never do so.’”
“What did the other man say in reply?”
Maude was again wracked with sobs, but eventually gained control of her voice. “‘You leave me no choice,’ the other said. Then, ‘Do not turn from me when I speak to you.’”
“And this was when the man spoke loudly enough that you knew ’twas not your father?”
“Aye.”
“What then?”
“Nothing more was said. All was silent for a long time. I thought perhaps John had returned to the abbey. I was about to leave my hiding place when I heard a thump, then a cry, and then more blows. A moment later came a splashing from the pond, then all became silent again.”
“What did you then do?”
“I dared not move from my place. I knew someone had gone into the water, but not who. I was too affrighted to leave the shadows for half of an hour. But when I heard no man move or speak I took courage and approached the pond.”
“Did you see anything there?”
“Aye,” she sobbed. “A man floated in the pond. I feared it might be John, and was about to draw up my cotehardie and wade out to the man when I heard footsteps and whispered conversation. I fled back to the shadow of the wood.”
Maude seemed to find courage as she related the tale. Her sobs interrupted less frequently.
“Two men came and drew a corpse from the pond?” I asked.
Maude nodded. “I could see little, but heard some of their whispers. One man said, ‘Where shall we take him?’ The other said, ‘It need not be far.’”
“Did you know then ’twas John Whytyng who was slain?”
“Aye,” Maude said. “Even though the men spoke softly, I knew that neither was John… so the corpse in the pond must be him.”
“You told no one of this,” I said, “’till now?”
“I could not. I wanted to. To do so would place me together with a novice in the dark of night.”
“Why did you do such a thing?” I asked.
“John wished to leave the abbey and return to his father. Said he was not suited for a monk’s life.”
“What did he intend? Did he speak of it?”
“He had no prospect of lands,” Maude said. “He thought to travel to Oxford and become a scholar… study law or some such thing.”
“And call for you when he had completed his studies?”
“Aye,” Maude whispered. “So we planned.”
Whether or not John Whytyng would have kept this bargain no man can know. Maude is a comely lass, but there are other fair maids. Some inhabit Oxford, although one the less since I married Kate and took her from the town. A few pretty maids may have the prospect of lands, which increases their beauty manyfold. I did not know if Maude was likely to inherit property or not. Her mother had mentioned a sister. If the lass had brothers or not I did not then know. I soon discovered that she did not, and her lack of brothers might have done more to ensure John’s return than her pretty face ever could.
I now knew what had happened the night John Whytyng was slain, if Maude atte Pond spoke true. I did not know why it happened, or who was involved. But knowing what is an excellent first step toward knowing why and then who. Or who and then why.
Arthur and I escorted Maude back to her home. It would have been quicker to approach the reeve’s house from the rear, but I did not want her mother to see us arrive in the toft from that direction. I knew it was likely that someone in the abbey had looked out across the fishpond and seen Arthur and me prowl the meadow and wood the day before, and might now see us circling the abbey buildings with Maude. That could not be helped.
So we walked around the abbey and approached Maude’s home from the street. This route took us past Sir Richard’s manor house, from which upper window I had seen a man watching women cutting chaff. I glanced to the window as we passed and saw the same fellow gazing from it. He was finely garbed, so I bowed my head in greeting and the man did likewise.
Maude saw the movement from the corner of her eye and turned to see the cause. I saw her glance to the window, then quickly look away without acknowledging the man standing there. I thought I saw her shudder.
The youth at the window was not handsome, as John Whytyng was reported to be before the birds found him, and was stout, but I could see nothing about his appearance or demeanor which might cause a maid to tremble.
“Is that Sir Richard?” I asked.
“Oh, nay, sir. Sir Richard is older than my father. That is his son, Sir Thomas, home for a time.”
“He lives elsewhere?”
“Aye. Near to Swindon, I am told, where he serves Sir Andrew Myhalle.”
I thought Sir Thomas had looked down with some appreciation upon Maude as we passed, and wondered if he might somehow have discovered her secret meeting with John Whytyng, his appreciation of Maude’s beauty causing the knight to follow her unseen. Of course, that a man would look approvingly upon the reeve’s daughter should not make him suspect to murder, else all of the male population of the realm might be charged.
I glanced back over my shoulder at Sir Thomas as we approached the reeve’s house and saw him yet watching. Did the young knight know of the mutual attraction between Maude and John Whytyng? How could he? He lived elsewhere, and John Whytyng was quite new to Eynsham Abbey. And what if he did? Perhaps I am too suspicious, but ’tis what bailiffs are paid for.
We left Maude before her door, then returned to the abbey guest house. Night was near, the air was chill, clouds obscured the setting sun, and I wished for my fur coat. The guest-master had laid a fire upon the guest house hearth, anticipating our return, and although the blaze h
ad burned low, it warmed the chamber. More logs were ready at hand, and Arthur soon had the fire renewed, so that when the lay brother brought our supper we consumed the pottage with warm fingers wrapped about our bowls.
I slept through the ringing of the church bell for vigils, so when the thunderous pounding erupted upon the guest house door I was deep aslumber. Arthur and I stumbled to our feet in the darkened chamber and nearly collided as we both made for the door. A few embers faintly illuminated the hearth, else we surely would have become entangled.
I opened the guest house door and saw before me a monk. In the dark I could not recognize the man, but he breathlessly introduced himself.
“I am Brother Guibert, infirmarer. Brother Gerleys has told me that you are a surgeon.”
“Aye, I am.”
“Come, then… don your cotehardie and come quickly. Abbot Thurstan has fallen.”
I did as the monk asked, as did Arthur, who followed me into the night as I followed the infirmarer. The moon illuminated our path to the west range and the abbot’s lodging. Monks crowded the corridor outside the abbot’s chamber, but melted aside as Brother Guibert and I appeared. The infirmarer led me into the chamber, and by the light of several cressets I saw the motionless form of Abbot Thurstan upon his bed. Prior Philip, Brother Gerleys, and two other monks hovered over the supine abbot, but parted when the infirmarer and I entered.
I spoke to Brother Gerleys, of the monks present the one I knew best, but ’twas the prior who answered when I asked of the abbot’s injury.
“We were returning from vigils,” he said. “He stumbled at the top of the stairs leading from the south transept to the cloister. I reached out to steady him, but he fell from my grasp. We carried him here, to his bed. He has been insensible since, and breathes but does not move.”
I brought a cresset near to the white fringe of hair about the abbot’s skull and found the cause of his stillness. A few drops of blood had dried upon a lump growing above the abbot’s right ear. His tumble had no doubt ended against the stones of steps or wall or floor.
