by Mel Starr
I looked to Arthur, who had remained silent during this conversation. He stood from his bench, tugged a forelock in Sir Henry’s direction, and turned for the door.
“Best be off, then, to return before dark,” he said.
“Your words have been a second bolt to me,” Sir Henry said when Arthur was away. “First to learn that John was dead, and now to discover that he was slain… and wished to leave the abbey, also.”
As he completed the statement I heard a door open and close and then heavy footsteps upon the flags of an adjacent chamber. Sir Henry looked to the door and called out, “Will, come here.”
A tall, blond, handsome young man answered the summons. The fellow was in appearance a more youthful image of Sir Henry. Here, I thought, was John Whytyng’s older brother, and if John resembled Will, ’twas no wonder he attracted maids. The image of the novice’s bird-ravaged face came to mind, but I cast the thought aside and stood to greet the newcomer.
Sir Henry introduced us and told his son what news I had brought. I explained again that Abbot Thurstan had commissioned me to discover John’s killer, and promised that I would be diligent in the effort.
By the time I had made this pledge we heard Arthur return from the inn, riding upon his palfrey and leading mine. “That’ll be your man,” Sir Henry said. Then, to Will, “See to their beasts.”
Sir Henry’s cook had prepared a supper of muntelate for his master. I, the knight, his son and daughter-in-law, Arthur, and two of Sir Henry’s grooms cleaned the pot.
One of the grooms then showed us, with the feeble light of a cresset, to an upper chamber where a straw-filled pallet had been laid upon the floor beside a bed. “’Twas John’s chamber,” the man said. Arthur, knowing his place, went to the pallet while the groom set his cresset upon a stand. This room had no fireplace, so Arthur and I were eager to crawl under blankets.
I lay awake, certain that Arthur would soon fall to sleep and shake the rafters with his snoring. He did not, but after a time of silence he spoke.
“Wonder how much Prior Philip dislikes Sir Henry?” he said. “Enough to slay ’is son as revenge for losin’ the maid… what was ’er name?”
“Margaret.”
“Aye, Margaret.”
“Men have done murder for less,” I said. “And I’ve had similar thoughts these past hours.”
“Would a prior own a fur coat?” Arthur asked.
“The Rule forbids such, I think, but Benedictines, especially those of authority, pay little attention to that,” I replied.
“Sir Henry said Prior Philip an’ ’is brother don’t get along. Think you’ll learn much from the fellow?”
“Probably not, but what I do not learn may tell me something.”
“How so? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” I said. “Let us await tomorrow and see if any of this muddle becomes more clear.”
I fell to sleep considering why Prior Philip would slay John Whytyng and how he might have arranged to do so. These thoughts came to me because of my dislike for the fellow. I had no sympathy for a man who would pitch his aged superior down a flight of stairs so to advance his own station. From that moment I was satisfied that the prior must be the felon who had slain John Whytyng. As prior he had opportunity, for he could go where he wished in the abbey or its grounds, whenever he wished. And now I had discovered a reason for his doing murder: to avenge himself upon Sir Henry by slaying his son. It only remained for me to prove this presumption. So I thought.
A single small window of oiled skin under the thatched eave faintly illuminated the chamber as dawn drove away the dark. The cresset had been extinguished in the night, its oil likely consumed, so even that small flame gave no aid to the half-light of early morn.
Sir Henry provided wheaten loaves, cheese, and ale with which we broke our fast. A groom made ready our palfreys, and before the second hour we bid Sir Henry “Good day,” and set off for Sir John Thorpe and the manor to the north of Wantage upon which Prior Philip was reared.
Sir John’s tenants were about the work of November. Some, men and women both, could be seen prowling a wood a hundred paces from the road, gathering fallen branches for winter fuel. Their collections were small. ’Twas likely the wood had been gleaned already, perhaps several times since Michaelmas.
We passed a marsh, where the road lay low and muddy, and saw folk cutting reeds to dry for thatching. A few glanced from their work to watch us pass, but most were more intent upon providing for a dry home than observing two strangers.
The tiny village surrounding Sir John Thorpe’s manor house surely had a name, but I did not ask it, and to this day do not know what place it is called. Sir John’s house was much like Sir Henry Whytyng’s: two stories, whitewashed recently, and new-thatched against the coming winter.
A small commons of a hundred or so paces in length by thirty wide separated the manor house from a small stone church. A dozen houses surrounded the commons, three derelict for want of inhabitants – due, no doubt, to the great pestilence. A lass drew a bucket of water from the village well at the edge of the commons, peered at us mistrustfully, and scurried off toward her home.
Sir John Thorpe had conveniently provided a hitching rail before his house. We left the palfreys there and Arthur followed as I approached the door. At this house there was no prompt answer to my knock, and I was required to belabor the door several times before a scowling servant finally pulled it open. I greeted the fellow pleasantly, which did nothing to alter his visage, and asked of Sir John.
“Who wants ’im?” the servant asked in a most unfriendly tone. I wondered what pleasant occupation I had interrupted.
“I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at Bampton.” From the tone of the groom’s voice I thought ’twould be no bad thing to introduce myself and my employer as well. The effect was salutary.
“’E’s at stable. Got a mare what’s ailin’. Come inside. I’ll fetch ’im.”
The groom disappeared into a rear chamber and a moment later I heard a door latch thrown and the squeal of hinges. A heartbeat later I heard another squeal, followed by a string of curses indicating a vocabulary such as I had not heard since a student at Baliol College when I sometimes frequented inns upon Fish Street.
I looked to Arthur and he replied with pursed lips and raised eyebrows. The tirade gradually subsided. From the few words I could hear plainly I concluded that a beast had kicked a man, and the bellowed oaths were the fellow’s response.
The yelping subsided, but also seemed to draw near. The squeaking door was shoved farther open, and I heard a man sit heavily upon a bench in the adjacent chamber. Curiosity propelled me to the door, and I peered around the jamb.
A man sat upon a bench clutching his arm while a woman and the groom who had greeted us at the door hovered solicitously about. Another groom stood in a doorway leading to a rear toft and stables beyond.
“Miserable beast,” the injured man exclaimed. “Broke my arm, sure enough. Ought to slit her throat and make food for the hounds of her.”
“But she was your favorite,” the woman said. “She’d not have kicked out but for the pain.”
At that moment the injured man raised his face to the door and saw me. I knew this must be Prior Philip’s brother, for his countenance was a duplicate of the prior’s, but for the warts, for which the fellow should give thanks each day.
The woman attending him I took to be his wife. She was of pleasing features; more evidence, if any is needed, of the improvement which land and wealth can impart to an ill-formed face.
“Who are you?” the man growled through clenched teeth, and clutched his arm tighter. This caused him to grimace anew.
The groom spoke before I could. “Asked to see you. Comes from Lord Gilbert Talbot.”
This was not precisely true, but I saw no need in the circumstances to correct the fellow.
“What does Lord Gilbert want of me? I owe service to Sir Richard Fayling, not Lo
rd Gilbert.”
I left the door, walked to Sir John, and said, “I am Lord Gilbert’s bailiff at Bampton, but I do not come on his business. I am also a surgeon, trained in Paris. Will you have me examine your arm?”
“A surgeon, you say? You are well-met. Aye… ’tis surely broken. The beast lashed out at me when I walked behind her. Caught me square and sent me into next stall. Constriction of the bowels. She’ll have to be put away.”
The man spoke more sensibly than when under the first influence of shock and pain.
“You are Sir John Thorpe?” I asked as I began to prod his injured limb.
“Aye,” he said, and winced as my fingers found the break. Flesh about the injury was already purple and swollen.
Arthur had followed me into this second chamber. I turned and told him to seek the men cutting rushes at the verge of the marsh, and bring a bundle of sturdy reeds to me.
“I will need some linen. An old kirtle ripped to strips will do.”
Sir John looked to his wife, for so the woman was, and she bustled off to the stairs. A moment later I heard her in the chamber above us, and soon after I heard the lid of a chest slam shut.
The break was just above Sir John’s right elbow. I would be required to immobilize his arm from wrist to shoulder. His wife returned with two kirtles and I showed her how to tear them into usable strips. She had no sooner begun the work than Arthur plunged through the chamber door with an armful of reeds – enough that I could have set the broken arms of half of Oxford. Arthur is not a man to do things by halves.
With my dagger I cut a dozen reeds to proper length, then used the linen strips to bind these about Sir John’s arm. I had no herbs to give the knight to reduce his pain, so each time I tied another linen strip about the man’s arm he gasped. I was careful, before I began the business, to be sure that the broken bones met properly. This work also caused Sir John much pain, but the prodding and poking was necessary to ensure that the break knitted properly.
When the reeds were bound securely about the break I wrapped the remaining linen strips about Sir John’s arm, from wrist to shoulder, in such a fashion that his elbow was bent across his belly. Finally I took a section of untorn kirtle, drew it under the knight’s forearm, and tied it behind his neck. This caused the injured limb to rest across his sizeable paunch, immobile.
“I thank you,” Sir John said when I had finished. “But you did not come here to mend my broken arm. If you are not about Lord Gilbert’s business, what has brought you here?”
“You are the brother to Philip, prior of Eynsham Abbey?” I asked.
“Aye.”
“I am told that before he took a vocation, he had an interest in a maid named Margaret.”
Sir John shrugged, winced from the effect of the gesture upon his injured arm, then replied.
“He did. So did most lads hereabout. Why does Lord Gilbert’s bailiff concern himself with such a matter? You do not come on Lord Gilbert’s business, you said.”
“Aye. Murder has been done at Eynsham Abbey, and Abbot Thurstan has charged me with discovering the felon.”
“What has that to do with Philip? Was he the one slain? I’ve heard nothing of this.”
“Nay. Your brother is well.”
“More’s the pity,” Sir John’s wife said under her breath. The knight heard, and glanced toward her, but did not display anger or even disagree with the comment.
“Then why have you come? If Philip is not killed, then he must be suspect. Why else would you be here?”
“Your brother is no more suspect than any man of Eynsham,” I said. “I traveled here to speak to Sir Henry Whytyng. ’Tis his son, John, who was slain.”
“The novice?”
“Aye. You knew him?”
“Not well. His mother was Margaret, of whom you spoke.”
“When the lass rejected Philip’s suit, did he then choose the monastery, or had he considered a vocation before?”
“Never heard him speak of it ’till after Margaret wed Sir Henry. Margaret wasn’t the only maid to turn from his suit.”
“There was Emmaline Maunder,” the woman said. “She’d have had him.”
“A butcher’s daughter?” Sir John said.
“He’s a butcher’s looks,” she said sharply.
“Aye, I grant you his looks.”
“He chose life as a monk, then, because no lass would have him?” I said.
“No lass with prospects. He’d no land, so wanted to find a maid with no brother, or a widow.”
“But none would have him?”
“None were so desperate as to consider him,” the woman said. “There are worse things than being a spinster. Being wed to Philip would be one of them.”
Again I saw no objection in Sir John’s face.
“Wasn’t only his looks,” the woman continued. “Folks as knew Philip couldn’t abide his notions.”
“Sir Henry said that Philip could be irascible,” I said.
“Hah. Wasn’t just that. He would tell folk that…”
“Enough!” Sir John said sharply. His abrupt interjection caused his wife to immediately fall silent. He had seemingly agreed with her earlier comments critical of his brother, but now a scowl furrowed his brow. What more than churlishness and an uncomely face had made Philip repugnant? Were those two not enough? What was it he would tell folk which Sir John did not want me to know? Whatever this matter was, I was not likely to discover it from Sir John. His face was hard, his lips thin, and his wife silent, staring now at the floor in reaction to his command.
“For all his faults, Philip is my brother,” the knight said. “I’ll hear no more of this.”
These words were directed to his wife, but the knight then turned to me. “You’ll have learned from Sir Henry that Philip and I have a troubled past. That’s well known. ’Tis more of his doing than my own. Philip has a troubled past with most who’ve known him long. But if you believe he’d do murder of John Whytyng to avenge himself of Sir Henry, you are much mistaken. That is what you think, is it not? Why else come here to learn of him?”
I made no reply. None was required.
“I thank you for dealing with this,” Sir John said, looking to his injured arm. “How much is owed?”
“Four pence,” I replied. “The reeds must remain until Candlemas. You must resist the urge to remove them sooner, else the break may not knit properly.”
Sir John nodded to his wife, and she left the chamber. I heard her open and close a chest in the next room, and a moment later she reappeared with four silver pennies which she dropped into my palm. The journey to Wantage had not been a complete waste, although I had learned little enough about the murder of a novice.
Arthur had stood silently against a wall while Sir John, his wife, and I had made conversation. He had watched and listened, and I knew that when on the road to Eynsham he would deliver his opinion of the matter.
We bid Sir John “Good day”, mounted the palfreys, and set out for Eynsham. The day was yet young, and I had hope that we might arrive at the abbey before dark if we kept our beasts to a good pace.
I was sure that Arthur was full to bursting with opinions, so held my tongue and awaited his views. We were but a few paces past the village church when he began to unburden himself.
“Odd how we come to Cumnor just in time for you to patch up that Mallory fella after he got himself carved up, an’ now we call on Sir John just when his horse kicks ’im. A coincidence, that is.”
“Bailiffs,” I replied, and not for the first time, “do not believe in coincidence. There is a pattern here. Who has made it I cannot tell. Perhaps the Lord Christ.”
“Givin’ you hints, like, an’ waitin’ for you to puzzle ’em out?”
“Aye, perhaps, have I the wit, and if you provide me with good counsel.”
“Me?”
“Aye. What do you think of our visit to Sir John Thorpe?”
“Shut ’is wife up sudden enough, didn’t ’e?”
“He did.”
“Wonder what else she was about to say? What was it Prior Philip told folks that Sir John didn’t want you to hear?”
“Whatever it was,” I replied, “it surely reflected poorly upon the prior, else Sir John would not have silenced her so.”
“Couldn’t ’ave had to do with the novice’s murder,” Arthur said thoughtfully. “They didn’t know of it ’till you told ’em.”
“So therefore what the woman was about to say was of no value to me in finding a murderer?”
“Aye,” Arthur agreed. “Likely.”
Once again I wrapped my liripipe about my neck and up to my nose as we passed through East Hanney. In the distance I saw Sir John Trillowe’s manor, but no man was visible about the place and we passed without incident.
We entered the abbey precincts before dark, hungry and saddle sore, and led our beasts to the abbey stables. Two lay brothers greeted us there. One saw to our palfreys but the other hastened away as if upon some pressing duty.
Arthur and I set out for the guest house, hoping for a substantial supper to quiet our growling stomachs. There are no inns on the way between Wantage and Eynsham. We were between stables and kitchen when four men appeared from beyond the abbot’s lodging. They were not monks nor lay brothers, and I had not before seen them about the abbey or village. I paid them no heed. Not until they broke into a run and did not slow until they had placed themselves across our path. One of these stepped toward me, a hand upon the hilt of his dagger. He was not smiling. Neither was I. This seemed a most unwelcome reception for weary travelers.
“You are Hugh de Singleton?” their leader asked.
“I am. Who are you?”
“Fulk Wilcoxon. You are to come with me.”
“Can it not wait ’till I’ve had my supper? Where am I to go?”
“M’lord Archdeacon demands your presence. Now.”
To be called before an archdeacon could mean no good thing. Rather like a tenant being called before a bailiff.
“The archdeacon awaits you in the abbot’s chamber. Come.”
The archdeacon’s servant turned toward the abbot’s chamber and I followed. Arthur did also, but another of the archdeacon’s men said, “Not you,” and blocked the way.
