by Mel Starr
“Saw you with Maude atte Pond,” the knight snarled. “You’ll learn ’tis best to keep to your own business.”
Sir Thomas turned and strode off toward Swinford, hoping, no doubt, to find his horse before he reached the ford.
I turned from the departing knight to the wounded yeoman. Mallory was fixed to the place where he had stood when he was cut, as if unable to comprehend the injury done to him. I hurried to the fellow to learn how deep was his wound.
When I came near, Mallory looked up from his dripping arm and spoke. “You saw… this cut may be the death of me. See to it the sheriff knows.”
“A man may survive such a wound,” I said.
“Who are you?”
“I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot, and also a surgeon. I can sew you together again.”
I took one elbow, and Arthur the other, and together we helped Mallory through the open door of his house and set him upon a bench. He stumbled upon the threshold and I feared that he was already grown weak from loss of blood. Much gore had puddled his toft where he stood immobile after being wounded, and a trail of large drops followed from the place to his doorway.
With my dagger I completed the work which Sir Thomas had begun and opened Mallory’s ripped sleeve until I could see his wound clearly. The cut was as long as my hand, and when I spread the edges it bled copiously again. But I saw in so doing that the gash was not deep. It had laid open flesh, but not to the bone.
“The cut is not severe,” I said. Then, to Arthur, “Make haste to the abbey and fetch my pouch of instruments. And bring a flask of wine. Explain to the cellarer that it is needed to wash this man’s wound.”
“What did you do to bring such fury to Sir Thomas?” I asked when Arthur had left us.
“Nothing, yet. ’Tis what he fears I may do which caused his choler.” The man spoke strongly even though wounded.
“What could a yeoman do to so anger a knight?” I thought I knew the answer, but wished to hear it from Mallory.
“Nothing of your concern… but I do thank you for driving the fellow off.”
“Sir Thomas seems to hold a grudge.”
“Aye,” Mallory managed to smile through his pain and thickening lips. Sir Thomas had landed a fist or two, as well as a dagger stroke. “That he does.”
While he spoke I lifted the lid of a chest and found there a kirtle. I used it to press against Mallory’s cut and staunch the blood which yet flowed, if more slowly, from the wound.
“No doubt the grudge has to do with Maude atte Pond,” I said.
Mallory looked as if Sir Thomas had caught him upon the ear with one of those large fists. His mouth worked open and closed several times before he replied.
“’Ow’d you know that?”
“Eynsham gossip has it that you’ve an interest in the maid, as does Sir Thomas… and others.”
As I spoke, the child, evidently reassured that angry adults no longer contended with one another, appeared in the doorway and stared open-mouthed at her bloodied father.
“And others,” Mallory agreed. “I’ve near as much land of Osney Abbey as Maude’s father has of Eynsham Abbey, an’ more than Sir Thomas, but no title, so ’er father refuses me permission to pay her court.”
“You have asked him?”
“Twice. Always, ‘Nay.’ Wants Maude to rise above ’er station. Be a lady.”
“Does Sir Thomas know that Maude’s father has forbidden your suit?”
“Don’t know. Guess not, else ’e’d not have come here today.”
“His purpose was to dissuade you from seeking the lass’s favor?”
“Dissuade? Hah. His purpose was to threaten.”
“Which you did not take well? Simon atte Pond forbade your suit, you say. Who did he favor? Who did Maude favor?”
“Dunno. Couldn’t find a way to speak to Maude but once, an’ atte Pond wouldn’t tell me even did he prefer Sir Thomas over that squire.”
“You spoke to Maude? When? How so?”
“Michaelmas. Went to Eynsham with some others to watch the horn dancers. I’d seen Maude before, in past years. Knew her father. But she’d grown up, like, an’ me bein’ alone since me wife died, I spoke to the maid.”
“Did you offer to pay her court?”
“Aye.”
“How did she respond?”
“Said she must ask her father. My hopes was high, for I’d known Simon for many years. But when I spoke to him later that day he refused. Surprised me. I’d make a good husband for a reeve’s lass.
“Odd thing about Maude that day, though. Some of the monks come from the abbey to watch the horn dancers. Maude spent more time watchin’ them than the dancers. Probably never seen much of monks.”
“You said her father refused you twice?”
“Aye. Maude’s not an easy lass to forget. Went to Eynsham a fortnight later to see could I change Simon’s mind. He’d hear none of it. ’Twas then ’e told me of Sir Thomas an’ Ralph. Can’t blame a man for wantin’ to see a daughter well settled, I s’pose. But, despite having no ‘Sir’ before me name, no man would do better by Maude than me.”
“You said that while watching the horn dancers she gave attention to the monks?”
“Aye.”
“Could you tell if ’twas any monk in particular?”
“Nay. Why’d she do so? Them monks was all standin’ together, anyway, so if there was one she was watchin’ more than the others no man could tell. Why do you ask?”
“A novice of the abbey was slain four days past.”
“Heard about that. What’s that to do with Maude?”
“Perhaps nothing. But the lad had boasted to his fellows of his prowess with maids, and Maude enters the abbey each week to do the monks’ laundry. He might have made her acquaintance at such times.”
Mallory was quick of wit. “So you’ve come to see if I might have slain the novice, seein’ ’im as competition for my own suit. But I’ve got no suit. Not unless Simon atte Pond relents, which I don’t see ’im doin’.”
“Perhaps Sir Thomas thought he might,” I said, “or finds his own suit faltering, and believes you the cause.”
“He’d be mistaken. I’ve given up on the lass. Tried to tell that to Sir Thomas, but ’e didn’t come here to talk, or listen.”
The conversation seemed to tire Mallory. I bid him say no more, held the bloody kirtle firm against the gash, and awaited Arthur’s return.
I did not wait much longer. Palfreys are not speedy beasts, but Arthur must have put his heels to the creature’s ribs, for ’twas not long before I heard the hoofbeats of a galloping horse. The animal halted before Mallory’s dwelling, and a moment later Arthur plunged through the open door, my instruments sack in one hand and a flagon of wine in the other.
“Pity to waste that,” Mallory said with a grimace as I poured wine into his laceration. I sopped up the excess with a corner of the blood-stained kirtle, then threaded a length of silk through a needle.
I closed the yeoman’s wound with twelve stitches, urged him to avoid labor with that arm for a fortnight, and told him that I would return about St. Nicholas’s Day to remove the sutures.
“How much do I owe you for this?” He pointed to his arm.
“Two pence.”
“A bargain,” Mallory replied. “Most work I can deal with myself… but not such as this.”
The yeoman cautiously stood, prodded the stitches tentatively with a finger, then spoke to the child who had watched us suspiciously from a far corner of the house. “Get the little box for me… there’s a good lass.”
The girl went to her father’s bed, ducked and crawled under it, and reappeared with a small casket. Mallory took the box from her and produced my fee. I explained to the man that he should leave his wound uncovered, and that I would apply no salve. I follow the practice of Henri de Mondeville, who in dealing with battle wounds discovered that cuts left dry and unbandaged healed most readily.
We bid
Osbern Mallory “Good day,” retrieved the horses from the shrub, and set off for Swinford. I thought it likely we would come upon Sir Thomas, unless he had found his horse and ridden ahead of us back to Eynsham. I said so to Arthur.
“He was near to Swinford when I come back from Eynsham with your instruments,” Arthur replied. “Still afoot. Saw nothing of his beast along the road.”
We came upon the knight at the ford. He stood contemplating the cold current, evidently trying to decide whether or not a quick return to Eynsham was worth wading through frigid water which would reach above his waist. He heard our approach, turned, and scowled.
The fellow was no doubt of two minds regarding our arrival. On the one hand Arthur and I had interfered with his attack on Osbern Mallory. On the other, our arrival meant that, were we amenable, he might climb behind one of us and cross the icy stream dry-shod.
I was not amenable. Not until I asked some questions of the knight and received acceptable answers. If he chose not to reply, he could continue to seek his beast, or soak in the Thames.
Sir Thomas’s martial ardor had cooled. Perhaps he had put a toe into the river. He frowned as I dismounted, but made no move to carry out his earlier threat that mischance might follow if I did not mind my own business. Perhaps he had reconsidered, and now thought that my business should include his transfer from one side of the Thames to the other.
I had two questions for Sir Thomas, and depending upon his answer to the first, the second might be irrelevant.
“Your beast has left you on the wrong side of the river,” I said with a smile. My expression was not due to a felicitous meeting, but rather I smiled at Sir Thomas because I knew the effect a grin on my face would have on the thwarted knight. This may have been a sin. May the Lord Christ forgive me.
Sir Thomas desired our aid in crossing the river, but it pained him to ask. His conceit caused him to bite his lip and remain silent. I placed a foot in a stirrup and readied myself to remount the palfrey. Sir Thomas saw his chance for gaining the opposite bank dry-shod about to vanish and swallowed his pride.
“My horse has disappeared,” he said. “I’d be in your debt if you’d carry me across the water. I’ll not trouble you further… ’tis but a short walk on to Eynsham.”
“Are you left-handed?” I asked.
“Aye.”
Sir Thomas scowled again. This was an expression he performed well – due, I suspect, to much practice. But he is to be forgiven. My question had nothing to do with his need.
“Just curious. One other matter, then we will cross the river and you may be on your way. Do you own a fur coat?”
“A fur coat? Do you jest at my misfortune? Aye,” he snapped, “I have a coat lined in fur. Glad I am I did not wear it today, to have it spoilt in the mud and in the water.”
“It will soon be cold enough you will find it needful,” I said.
“Aye,” he muttered. “I will have it from my chest anon. What has that to do with crossing this stream?”
“Nothing. Here, take my hand and climb up behind me.”
Sir Thomas placed a foot in the stirrup after I had withdrawn my own, and ignoring my offer of a hand in assistance grasped the saddle and swung himself upon the palfrey’s haunches with a grace that belied his bulk. A few moments later we were across the Thames and again upon solid ground.
Sir Thomas muttered, “Much thanks for this aid,” dropped to the road, and set off for Eynsham. Arthur and I followed and soon passed him. When we were well beyond the knight Arthur spoke. “Owns a fur-lined coat, does Sir Thomas.”
“Aye,” I said. “But he’s left-handed. I suspected so when I watched him battle with Osbern Mallory. The blows he aimed at Mallory came mostly from his left fist, and he held his dagger in that hand as well.”
“Is that important?”
“Cast your mind back to the wounds which took John Whytyng’s life.”
“Stabbed in the back. What’s that to do with Sir Thomas bein’ left-handed?”
“The novice was pierced three times. Two of the wounds were upon the right side of his back, below his right shoulder-blade. Only one stroke caught him to the left of his spine, likely because he turned to face his assailant before he fled in the only direction he could go.”
“Into the fishpond.”
“Aye.”
“So if his murderer was left-handed the wounds would have been on t’other side,” Arthur said.
“Aye,” I agreed. “And most knights own a fur coat, or at least a cloak with a fur lining, so that Sir Thomas possesses one, which is yet in his chest, tells us little.”
“If it is in his chest,” Arthur said.
A few moments later we traveled around a bend in the road but a half-mile from Eynsham, and came upon Sir Thomas’s horse. The beast had evidently decided that danger had passed, and was contentedly cropping what remained of the grass at the verge of the road. The animal lifted his head to watch us approach, determined that we presented no threat, and returned to his occupation.
“Should we return ’im to Sir Thomas?” Arthur asked.
“He’s not far behind,” I said, “and the walk will do him good… provide him time to consider his sins.”
Simon atte Pond and his lads were again at ditching. This task seemed nearly concluded, which was good, as the November day was nearly done. Only a dozen or so paces remained before the low place would be drained. The reeve looked up from his work, nodded, and his three laborers tugged forelocks as we passed. I wondered how the reeve would greet Sir Thomas when he approached. The knight would have found and mounted his horse before he reached the place.
A hundred paces beyond the ditchers an arm of woodland extended to the north edge of the road. I drew my palfrey to a halt and told Arthur to do likewise. We led our beasts into the darkness of the trees, tied them, and I explained the reason while we returned to the road.
We hid ourselves behind the largest oak, which was barely large enough to conceal Arthur alone, and watched for Sir Thomas to appear around the bend of the road. We did not wait long.
I was too far from the reeve to hear any greeting or conversation, but men may speak with body and face as well as words. Sir Thomas halted before the reeve and the men exchanged a few words. The knight then dismounted and led his horse toward our place of concealment. Atte Pond followed.
They had walked perhaps thirty paces from the ditchers when Sir Thomas halted and the two resumed their conversation out of the hearing of the others.
This discourse was at first unaccompanied by any gestures and seemed right amicable. But after a few minutes I saw Sir Thomas respond to the reeve with a shake of his head. Then he spoke a few words, and the reeve replied with a long speech which he punctuated with several waves of his arms.
To this display Sir Thomas again responded with a shake of his head, then replied with an oration as long as the reeve’s. Atte Pond looked away several times as Sir Thomas spoke, as if other matters interested him more than the knight’s words, and once he looked to the road at his feet and idly toed a pebble he found there.
When Sir Thomas ended his remarks it was the reeve’s turn to shake his head. He then turned abruptly to return to his laborers, but Sir Thomas reached for his arm to detain him.
Atte Pond took this gesture badly. He yanked his arm free and slapped at Sir Thomas’s offending fingers with his free hand. But if the knight had intended the restraint to halt the reeve’s return to join his workers, he succeeded. Atte Pond stepped back to Sir Thomas and I could see the men face each other, their complexions grown livid, from little more than a hand’s breadth apart. I expected next to see blows exchanged.
This did not happen. No reeve wishes to be charged with assaulting a knight, especially, I suppose, if the lad may become his son-in-law. And Sir Thomas had but to peer over atte Pond’s shoulder to see the ditchers, picks and spades in hand, to understand that if he unsheathed his dagger he would soon be overwhelmed. Prudence overcame rashness.
I wondered the same, and did not reply, as I had no answer. Was Sir Thomas unhappy with the reeve’s ditching? That seemed unlikely, for neither man had looked to the work, either where it was currently being done, or where it was complete. And the work was upon abbey land, not that of Sir Thomas’s father.
The only other reason the two might have conversation, it seemed to me, was concerning Maude’s future. Why would that cause such a heated disagreement? Did the men disagree upon dowry and dower?
A moment later Sir Thomas turned from his antagonist, climbed to his saddle, and without looking back at the reeve spurred the beast cruelly. I took Arthur’s arm and drew him deeper into the darkening wood. Sir Thomas’s wrath might blind him to men partly hidden among the trees, but I desired to be more sure of our concealment.
We waited until I was sure that Sir Thomas was well away, then led the palfreys to the road and mounted. ’Twas but a short way to Eynsham and the abbey.
“Must be true what folk do say,” Arthur said, “that money don’t buy happiness. Them chaps is rich, but they sure ain’t happy.”
“Rich? A reeve and the younger son of a minor knight?”
“Any man what’s got more coin in ’is purse than me is rich,” Arthur said.
“Are you happy?” I asked.
The groom was silent for a few moments. “Content,” he replied. “Was happy, ’till plague took my Cicily. Don’t worry, as some cotters do, about what I’ll eat come the morrow.”
“Do you suppose,” I asked, “that there are some poor cotters who are happy?”
“Mayhap, but I doubt so. Pennies in a man’s pouch don’t promise happiness, but an empty purse won’t buy anythin’… includin’ happiness. Havin’ a few coins to spare may not make a man joyful,” Arthur said thoughtfully, “but they might make sorrow easier to bear.”
