The Abbot's Agreement: 7 (The Chronicles of Hugh De Singleton, Surgeon)

by Mel Starr

  We passed the manor house as Arthur concluded this thought. At that moment Sir Thomas appeared between the house and stables, saw us, and stared open-mouthed. We had gone ahead of the knight after leaving the ford, but now were behind him in entering the village. He would surely wonder why, and might guess that we had seen or heard his dispute with Simon atte Pond.

  We gave the palfreys to a lay brother and sought the guest house as the day faded from grey to black. I assumed that our supper would be another bowl of pease pottage, so was not much disappointed when the meal appeared. The loaves which accompanied the pottage, though, were wheaten, and of best quality. And the ale seemed some better than the abbey’s usual fare. Perhaps the arrival of an archdeacon had influence.

  Next morning Arthur and I joined Eynsham villagers in the church nave for prime and the mass. Abbot Thurstan, of course, took no part in this, being unable to rise from his bed. Prior Philip and the archdeacon led the service.

  Sir Thomas, his lip swollen and an eye turning purple, entered the church as the archdeacon’s clerk rang the bell. Sir Thomas was in company with three others: an older man, fat and bald, whom I took to be his father, Sir Richard, and a man and woman of near his own age, whom I assumed were his older brother, Sir Geoffrey, and wife.

  There was little remarkable about the mass. I had endured many like it. The archdeacon’s sermon was forgettable. I don’t remember what it was about. Indeed, several women of the village found it so wearying that they gossiped among themselves while the archdeacon droned on. These women stood immediately behind Arthur and me, and at first I found their prattle annoying, but soon gave my attention to them rather than the archdeacon.

  “Come back intendin’ to wed an’ take ’er off,” one woman whispered. “But Sir Richard don’t approve.”

  “Her bein’ a reeve’s daughter, ’tis no wonder,” another said.

  “Got no prospects in Essex, I’d guess, else he’d not return for but a reeve’s daughter.”

  “You see ’is eye? All black it is.”

  “Aye. Wonder who done that?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me none if ’twas ’is brother.”

  “Ha. More likely Sir Geoffrey’ll have ’is own blackened eye after Hawisa deals with ’im does ’e not keep from Maude.”

  “Wouldn’t be a bad thing was Sir Thomas to wed the lass an’ take her from Eynsham. A maid that pert causes too much trouble.”

  “Not ’er fault.”

  “Nay… s’pose not. She don’t behave unseemly. Alyce sees to that.”

  The women chuckled at that remark, then one said in a voice so low I could barely make out the words, “Maude told my Agnes that she’d soon be off to Wantage.”

  “Wantage? Sir Thomas returned from Chelmsford. What suitor’s from Wantage? Ralph?”

  “Nay. Ralph’s of Banbury.”

  “Would Simon put her out to service in Wantage?”

  “Don’t think so. Alyce wouldn’t hear of it. Works the lass from dawn to dusk, does Alyce. An’ Simon puts ’er and Juliana to work at the monks’ laundry.”

  “The prior’s of Wantage… so I heard.”

  My thoughts had begun to wander from the gossip behind me, but this remark caught my attention. John Whytyng came from Wantage. Would the prior have known the novice or his family before the lad came to the abbey? And if so, what might that have to do with Whytyng’s murder? Probably nothing. But I had few other notions that morning about paths I might follow in seeking a killer. Perhaps a brief journey to Wantage was in order.

  Dinner this day was splendid. The abbot’s kitchen had roasted a boar in honor of the archdeacon’s visit, and there was plenty of pork to share with humble residents of the guest house.

  When our meal was done I told Arthur to see the palfreys readied at the stables, then crossed the kitchen garden, passed through the refectory to the west range, and rapped upon the closed door of the abbot’s chamber. Brother Guibert opened the heavy door, frowning at whoso intruded upon the abbot’s rest, but when he saw ’twas me his visage softened and he bid me enter.

  Abbot Thurstan lay as I had seen him last, his face pale, wispy white hairs scattered upon the pillow. He coughed, then turned his head to see who had entered his chamber, and would have lifted it from the pillow but had not the strength.

  “His breathing is weak and shallow,” the infirmarer said.

  I bent close to the abbot to listen as his chest rose and fell beneath the blanket, and discovered the truth of Brother Guibert’s words. Abbot Thurstan knew this also.

  “Not much longer now, I think,” the abbot said in a whisper, which was all the volume he seemed able to manage. “Your words yesterday have given me much to consider. I thank you. I am content, as I was not before, to pass to the next world. The Lord Christ will not turn away anyone who is so minded as I am to go to Him.”

  “He will take no more of the pounded hemp seeds,” the infirmarer said.

  “Does your hip not pain you?” I asked.

  “Aye,” he murmured. “But it dulls my wits. I wish to go to the Lord Christ with a prayer upon my lips, not asleep, as the unwise virgins.”

  “I must leave the abbey for a few days,” I said.

  Abbot Thurstan’s eyebrows raised, and I explained. “John Whytyng was of Wantage. I have just today learned that Prior Philip is also of that place. I intend to visit the town and learn if there be any connection between the two, or their families.”

  “Surely you cannot think that Prior Philip had any part in the novice’s death,” the abbot said.

  “I confess that I do not know what to think of this death. So I must seek what knowledge I may, even if it seems a foolish waste to do so. What family is Prior Philip’s?”

  “Thorpe. His father was Sir John, brother to Sir William, once Chief Justice of the King’s Bench.”

  “A man of influence,” I replied. “Does Prior Philip’s uncle yet live?”

  “Nay. And not so much influence if he did. Sir William was imprisoned many years past for accepting bribes.”

  The abbot’s words seemed to tire him. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, ’till I saw his chest rise slightly, I thought he might have died before me from the exertion of his speech.

  The wind increased while I stood before the abbot, and rain began to rattle the chamber windows. The sound nearly obscured the abbot’s next words.

  I saw his eyes blink open, and heard him say, “Prior Philip’s brother is Sir John Thorpe. He inherited the manor, so Philip came to us. Doesn’t speak of his brother… don’t believe they got along well. Philip is an able man, but can be peevish.”

  And impatient, I reflected, as I considered that it was likely the prior’s desire to succeed Abbot Thurstan which led to the old monk’s injury.

  I had no desire to travel to Wantage in a cold November downpour, so found Arthur and told him to return to the stables and inform the lay brother in charge that our plans were changed. We would travel on the morrow. Arthur seemed glad of the alteration.

  I awoke in the night and was pleased to no longer hear pelting rain upon the guest house window. The sky had cleared in the night. The dawn was bright but cold. We would not be wet traveling this day, but neither would we be warm.

  A lay brother appeared with a maslin loaf and ale with which we broke our fast. The abbey stable had our palfreys ready, as Arthur had requested, and we were away to Cumnor and beyond, to Wantage, before the day was an hour old.

  A skim of ice crusted puddles in the road and ditches, and I wished again for my fur coat. The sun soon rose above the trees and warmed us some while we traveled. At Cumnor I called upon Osbern Mallory to inspect his wound. There was some redness about the cut, but it oozed no pus. Some believe this an ill sign; that a thick pus issuing from a wound is best, and a thin, watery pus, or none at all, is a dangerous sign. But I hold with de Mondeville, whose book, Surgery, I own, that no pus at all from a cut is best.

  The road to Wantage passes through East Hann
ey, where a year past Arthur and I had discovered a stolen maiden and a plot to seize a cache of ancient silver coins. Sir Simon Trillowe, who was involved in the plot, and whose designs for Kate Caxton I had thwarted, lived in the village upon his father’s manor. I preferred to avoid the fellow, so as we drew near the place I wrapped my liripipe about my neck and face as if to ward off the chill. No one paid us any attention as we passed through the village.

  Wantage is but two miles beyond East Hanney. We entered the town before noon, found an inn, left the palfreys at the stable, and sought a meal.

  Arthur and I shared a roasted capon and maslin loaf, spoke little, and listened to the local gossip. We learned a great deal, but nothing of either John Whytyng or Prior Philip. I decided to seek the novice’s father first, and asked the innkeeper where I might find him.

  The fellow gazed suspiciously at me. Strangers are generally mistrusted, and especially so when they ask of a local villager. Folk wonder why a stranger should be curious about their doings.

  Arthur remained at our table, licking grease from his fingers and downing the last of an ewer of ale. The innkeeper glanced over my shoulder at Arthur, then back to me, before he spoke. He apparently saw no threat in one slender, bearded man and another who was intent upon licking the last of a capon from his fingers. He told me where I could find Sir Henry, for so John Whytyng’s father was named.

  Sir Henry Whytyng’s lands lay to the west of Wantage, half a mile, no more, from the inn. The innkeeper described the place well: a village of six houses, a church in Sir Henry’s gift, and a two-story manor house, whitewashed and well thatched.

  There was no need to knock upon the manor house door, for it opened as I approached, no more than three or four paces from it. A tall blond-haired man stepped across the threshold, saw me and Arthur, and seemed to stop in mid-stride. The man was too old to be John Whytyng’s brother. Here, I thought, was the dead novice’s father.

  John Whytyng was a tall lad, as was the man who stood before me, and fair-haired. Whether or not his features resembled his father I could not know. The birds had seen to that.

  “Good day,” the startled fellow said. “How may I serve you?”

  “I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his manor of Bampton, and here is Arthur, groom to Lord Gilbert.”

  This introduction produced only a blank expression upon the fellow’s face. I continued. “I seek Sir Henry Whytyng.”

  “I am he. What does Lord Gilbert’s bailiff want of me?”

  “I come from Abbot Thurstan, of Eynsham Abbey, on abbey business.”

  “Ah, your visit must have to do with John. Well, then, come in… come in.”

  We followed the knight into a chamber warmed by a fire, and as we did so Sir Henry called out, “Bring wine… and three cups,” to an invisible servant.

  “What news have you? And how does the abbot?” Sir Henry asked as he swept his hand toward several chairs in an invitation to be seated.

  “He is unwell. Abed with a broken hip. He fell upon a stairway some days past.”

  “Ah, this is indeed ill news. Will he live?”

  “’Tis not likely.”

  “And he sent you to tell me of this? I am much obliged that you have done so.”

  “Nay. Another matter brings us to Wantage.”

  Sir Henry’s eyebrows rose, but before I could explain, a servant appeared with an ewer and three cups. We drank in silence for a few minutes, then Sir Henry spoke.

  “What other matter, then? Something about John?”

  “Abbot Thurstan sent a lay brother to tell you of the death of your son,” I replied.

  “Aye.” I saw the knight’s shoulders slump and it seemed he shrank in size before me.

  “The pestilence has returned to Wantage as well,” he said. “Five have died since Michaelmas.”

  Pestilence? Is that what the messenger had told the man? Did Abbot Thurstan so instruct him? I must tread carefully here, but I was not of a mind to allow such mendacity to continue unchallenged. There were things I needed to learn in Wantage, but could not do so if this falsehood was not overturned.

  “John did not die of the pestilence,” I said.

  Sir Henry frowned, set his cup upon a table, and spoke. “But the lay brother said the plague had returned to Eynsham.”

  “Aye, so it has, and other places also. Did he say that the sickness had taken John’s life?”

  Sir Henry was silent for a moment, casting his mind back to a conversation which was surely burned into his memory.

  “In this very room he told me that my son was dead. I asked him the cause, and he replied that the pestilence had returned to the abbey.”

  “Did he say nothing else?”

  “Of John’s death? Nay.”

  “The man did not lie, but he intended you to believe an untrue thing, which is that John died of the plague.”

  “He did not? What, then?”

  “He was murdered… stabbed three times.”

  Sir Henry’s eyebrows furrowed into a scowl and his lips became thin. “Who did this? Is the felon known?”

  “Nay. Abbot Thurstan has asked me to discover the murderer.”

  I wondered if the abbot was the source of Sir Henry’s misinformation, or if the lay brother had himself invented the deception. I resolved to ask the abbot when I returned to Eynsham, if he yet lived.

  “I am told that Prior Philip is also of Wantage,” I said.

  I saw the frown on Sir Henry’s face become a sneer as his upper lip curled slightly. “Aye,” he said. “His brother lives here yet. But what of my son? Have you any in mind who may have slain John?”

  “Several,” I replied.

  “Several? That means you do not know. Had he made enemies in Eynsham?”

  “A few. Did you know he intended to leave the abbey?”

  “Nay. Did he say so?”

  “He did. He had in mind to study law at Oxford, so he told another.”

  “Then he thought to leave the abbey because he had made enemies there, you think?”

  “Mayhap. And there was at least one other reason. I will tell you at some later time, when this puzzle is solved.”

  The knight was not pleased with this reply. He took his cup from the table and drained the last of his wine. Before he could demand more of me I asked again of Prior Philip.

  “Do you know Prior Philip well?”

  “Hah, you might say so.”

  “I have heard that his older brother possesses the family manor.”

  “Aye. Near to Grove. You’d pass the place comin’ from Eynsham. ’Tis north of Wantage a short way.”

  “I have heard also that the prior and his brother are not on amicable terms.”

  “What has this to do with my son’s murder? You said that Abbot Thurstan had retained you to find the felon.”

  “Perhaps nothing. Probably nothing. But I will not know until I know. I trust I make myself obscure.”

  “Perfectly.”

  “About the prior,” I continued.

  “’Tis true enough, Sir John and Prior Philip don’t get on… never have done, even when lads. Of course, there’s nothing much odd about that. Philip Thorpe never got along with anyone, as I can remember.”

  “Why so?”

  “Was his looks, I always thought.”

  “He is not a handsome man,” I agreed.

  “Aye. Never was, lad an’ man. Knew it, an’ so thought folks demeaned him because of it. Made him sour. Got worse when the warts began to speckle his face. Always seemed to be alone, but none could abide his presence… an’ not because of his looks.”

  I began to feel sorry for the prior, but then remembered the stairs and Abbot Thurstan’s accusation against him, and the sentiment passed.

  “Always disliked me,” Whytyng continued. “Shouldn’t have taken the matter so personally. She wouldn’t have had him even was I not a suitor. She’d have chosen some other, not Philip.”

  I was uncer
tain of whom the knight spoke, but thought that if I held my tongue he would explain the matter.

  “Margaret scorned his suit an’ took up with me. Next I heard Philip was off to Eynsham as a novice. Wasn’t long ’till we heard he was made sub-prior, and a few years later, prior.”

  “How long was Philip at Eynsham before he became prior?”

  The knight scratched his chin. “Six years… maybe seven. No more.”

  Philip could have been no more than twenty-six years old when he assumed the office of prior. Such positions have often been filled by younger men since the pestilence struck England, but even so, to be chosen prior and be not yet thirty years old was a considerable achievement, likely made possible by the transfer of a substantial purse to the abbey treasury while his father was yet alive.

  There was silence while I considered these things, then Sir Henry spoke again. “My Margaret’s been gone seven years now. Died when the pestilence first returned. Mostly children died hereabouts then, but Margaret died an’ John lived. He was but eleven years old. Cried himself to sleep many nights… so did I.”

  “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Many suffered the same, or worse.”

  The knight glanced out of his window at the darkening sky. “Where do you lodge?” he asked.

  “At the inn.”

  “Bah… vermin-infested place. You have not brought welcome news, but truth should be rewarded. You shall lodge with me this night. Do you return to Eynsham on the morrow?”

  “Aye. But first I’d like to speak to Prior Philip’s brother. I’ve no thought as to what I might learn, but ’twould be a pity to ride all this way and not do so. And for your invitation I give you much thanks.”

  I was indeed grateful for Sir Henry’s offer. There may be in England an inn not infested with fleas and lice, but I have never spent a night in such a place. And the Boar’s Head, for such was the inn’s name, did not seem upon entering the inn to be unlike other such establishments scattered about the realm.

  “Your beasts are at the inn stable? Send your man for them.”