by Mel Starr
“They thought I was dead, see, or near so. The other said, ‘Don’t worry. Folk’ll not trouble themselves over some old woman found dead in her house.’ They left me where you found me.”
“Were these the same fellows who took Amice Thatcher away?”
“Dunno. Too dark, an’ they had but one cresset lit in Amice’s house.”
“Where did the fellow kick you?”
She drew a hand to her ribs. “Just here,” she said.
I touched the place through her threadbare cotehardie and the woman gasped under the light pressure of my fingertips. “Ow,” she rasped. “Hurts, that does.”
I touched another rib, above the tender place, and received no response. But when I moved my fingers lower, the crone caught her breath again. I found two cracked ribs where some villain had delivered a kick to the old woman’s side as she lay upon the street.
“You say he kicked you in the head, also?”
“Aye.”
“Let’s have your cap off and see what injury may be there.”
“Who are you, an’ why are you seekin’ out my wounds?”
“I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot on his manor at Bampton, and also a surgeon.”
“Master Hugh can fix you up proper, like,” Arthur said. “Ah, well, then, I thank you. Most folk don’t care much what befalls an old woman.”
Under the woman’s cap I found a small laceration in her scalp. The cap and her braided hair had cushioned the blow. The wound required no stitches, and although there was caked blood in her hair, a scab now stopped any further flow.
“Them rogues break her ribs?” Arthur asked.
“Aye. Two, I think.”
“What’ll be done with her? Can she care for herself with two broke ribs?”
“Nay. She must be bound tight, and have care for many weeks. Return to St. John’s Hospital. Seek the infirmarer and tell him of what has happened here. Ask for two lay brothers to come for… what is your name?”
“Amabel. Amabel Maunder.”
“Have them bring a pallet. Amabel is too abused to walk, even with aid.”
Arthur departed for the hospital while I remained with my patient. I considered leaving her for a short while and seeking the New Inn, where I had left my instruments, but thought better of it. Nothing I had brought from Bampton would help Amabel Maunder, and the infirmarer at St. John’s Hospital would have linen, which could be wound tight about the old woman’s ribs to ease her pain while the bones knit, and herbs to dull the ache.
’Tis but a few paces from St. John’s Hospital to the bury, so Arthur returned with the lay brothers and a pallet in a short time. I saw Amabel received at the hospital, and made provision with the infirmarer and a sister to have her ribs bound, and for ale laced with the ground seeds of hemp to be provided her twice each day. There was nothing else to be done for Amabel, but I did promise the woman that I would return to her house, tell her neighbors of her plight, and ask them to keep watch over her house and scant possessions.
So it was that Arthur and I returned to the bury and met John Mashon. As we approached Amabel’s hut I heard from the toft next door a rhythmic thumping. I rapped upon the door of this house, but there was no response. The pounding in the toft covered the sound of my fist against the planks.
Arthur followed as I walked around the house to the toft. There I found a man flailing away upon a length of wet flax. He was preparing to make thread. The fellow was absorbed in his work, so did not notice our approach until we were nearly upon him. He stepped back in alarm when he did see us, and raised his flail before him as if to defend himself. Perhaps in the bury such readiness is needful.
“Amabel Maunder, your neighbor, was attacked last night,” I said quickly, and stopped in my place so to cause the man no further worry. “Did you see or hear anything?”
“Amabel? She’s got naught worth stealin’, and does no man harm.”
“She was not assailed for either of those reasons. She saw men lurking about Amice Thatcher’s house, and when they knew she saw, they knocked her down and kicked her. She has two broken ribs and a lump upon her head. I have taken her to St. John’s Hospital.”
“You have? Who are you?”
“A friend to Amice and Amabel. What do you know of last night and Amabel’s attackers?”
The man shook his head. “Heard somethin’ in the street, but it’s not healthful to meddle in other folk’s business.”
“Especially in the dark of night,” I agreed. “Did you hear any words which might tell who did this thing?”
The thread-maker hesitated. Perhaps he feared retribution. I assured him that I would hold his information secret. His furrowed brow did not relax. I think he set little store by my pledge, but after warring with himself, and considering what had befallen his inoffensive neighbor, he finally spoke.
“All was silent, see, else I wouldn’t ’ave heard.”
“Silent?”
“After the ruckus. ’Eard a screech, and voices, then all went still.”
“Amabel yelped when kicked,” I offered.
“Aye. They kicked ’er head, too?”
“They did. Then put her in her house, thinking she was dead, or near so.”
“Wasn’t right away after, but before I could fall to sleep I ’eard men speak, quiet like. Me wife slept through all, and the children, too. ‘We best be off,’ one said, ‘else we’ll not get back to East Hanney before day.’”
“Men love darkness rather than light,” holy writ says, “because their deeds are evil.”
Whoso had ransacked Amice Thatcher’s house, and dealt so perfidiously with Amabel Maunder, did not want anyone to know they had been upon Abingdon’s streets, so chose the night to work their malice. But where, I wondered, was East Hanney?
I had heard of the place before. The abbot was Peter of Hanney. The village must be near, for men to come from there to Abingdon and return in one night.
Arthur and I returned to the New Inn for our dinner, and while I consumed a meal of stewed capon I considered what I must do next. John Thrale’s find of coins and jewelry seemed to me likely to be hid in the forest where was found his cart and horse. Would his assailants come to the same conclusion?
Perhaps not, for they did not know of the coin Thrale had kept hidden in his cheek while they beat him. Without knowledge of the coin the men who sought his cache might look elsewhere for it, and the coins and jewels might remain where they had been hidden and safe for a thousand years.
But Amice Thatcher was not safe. I could not be sure where she was taken, but if the men who overturned her house and abused Amabel Maunder were of East Hanney, it seemed likely they had taken her and her children there. I must find the place and free the woman before some harm might come to her. If harm had not already come.
I am from Lancashire, having come to Oxford as a student at Balliol College. I know little of Oxfordshire, but I thought Arthur might know of East Hanney. He did not.
The abbey hosteler would know of the place. His abbot came from there, and, if asked, might keep my inquiry to himself. If foul deeds occurred at East Hanney, it would be well that those who did such wickedness did not know of my interest in the place.
Arthur and I hastened to the abbey after our dinner, and the porter’s assistant, when asked, went in search of Brother Theodore. The monk soon appeared with his linen bandage pressed close to his cheek, a questioning look to his features. I would not yet be permitted to deal with his fistula. He, no doubt, wondered what other business I wished with him.
“Good day, brother,” I greeted him. “Your abbot is called Peter of Hanney, is this not so?”
“Aye.”
“Where is Hanney? Is it near?”
“Aye, not far. Four miles… perhaps five.”
“Can you direct me to the place?”
“Aye. Go west on Ock Street, pass through Marcham, then take a road to the left. But if you seek the abbot, he will be here. He seldom
returns to Hanney.”
“’Tis not him I seek, but two others.”
Brother Theodore’s brow furrowed. He did not ask, but I guessed his thoughts.
“I do not seek them as surgeon, but as bailiff. The woman I brought here three days past… she is missing. Two men of East Hanney, so I believe, have carried her and her children off.”
“Are these the thieves you spoke of, who did murder and were a threat to the woman?”
“Aye, the same.”
“There are two Hanneys, East and West.”
“From which does your abbot come?”
“West.”
“No matter. An abbot is not likely to have dealings with such men as took Amice Thatcher.”
At the New Inn Arthur and I made ready Bruce and the old palfrey, and shortly after the sixth hour we set off down Ock Street toward Marcham. The misty morning had become a cloudy afternoon, but dry. Wet or not, men were busy in the fields and forest as we passed by. Beechnuts and acorns littered the forest floor, and swineherds watched as their pigs sought the nuts. Final plowing of fallow fields was completed, and these fields were now being planted to wheat and rye. Small boys ranged through these newly sown fields, heaving clods at birds who would have the seed before it could be covered.
Past Marcham we found the road leading south to Hanney, and a short while later a squat church tower appeared, barely lifting above the trees. Less than a mile from the village the road entered a wood. I had considered how best to investigate the village, and the forest provided an answer.
At a place where the forest undergrowth was not so dense I signaled Arthur to stop, dismounted, and led Bruce from the road into the forest. Arthur followed. A hundred paces into the wood I stopped, tied Bruce to a small oak, and motioned to Arthur to do the same with his palfrey. All this time neither of us spoke, as if we thought we might be overheard, distant yet as the village was.
We pushed through the wet forest, becoming thoroughly damp, until we reached its southern limit. A field lay before us, encircled by a low stone wall, where grain had been cut some months before. Now sheep wandered across it, munching upon the stubble and manuring the ground for next year’s crop of peas or beans. A hundred paces across this field was a manor: a large house, several barns, and some smaller outbuildings. Many of these needed repair, as did the manor house. The thatching was old and decayed, and I could see a place where a chunk of daub had peeled away from the wattles. The lord of this manor was either uncaring or too poor to keep up his property. I wondered if he was too impoverished to see to his horse’s broken shoe.
Arthur stood beside me, gazing at the distant manor. Beyond it was the village, and in the distance, above the rooftops of the houses, I saw the low tower of the village church and another, larger house, of two stories. This village had two manors; was the second as poor as the first? This seemed unlikely, for the larger house had a slate roof.
I returned my gaze to the closer manor, and saw a man appear from behind a ramshackled outbuilding. This structure appeared at a distance to be much like a hencoop, but if it was, Reynard would not be long in devising some means of entry. The man was unkempt, shaggy and meanly clothed.
I pointed silently to the fellow, and Arthur whispered, “I see ’im.” There was no need to speak softly. At that distance even a normal conversation would go undetected. But at the verge of the wood, where we stood, we might be seen. I took Arthur’s arm and drew him a few steps deeper into the forest.
“What’s ’e doin’?” Arthur asked.
“Nothing. Look there… he turned and walked behind that shed.”
Indeed, the man had disappeared, resuming the place he had occupied when we first saw the manor.
“Let’s watch and see if the fellow reappears.”
He did. A few minutes later he again sauntered into view, then seemed to bend toward the shed and peer in. Perhaps there was a door there, or a chink in the wattles.
“’E’s sayin’ somethin’,” said Arthur.
We could not hear his words, but even from one hundred paces it was possible to see that the fellow spoke. Folk do not speak to decrepit hencoops unless they are addled. Someone was inside the shed.
“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” Arthur asked.
“Aye. Look there, he’s moved from the shed, but does not walk far away.”
“Somebody’s in there… unless ’e talks to chickens.”
“And he’s laughing, I think.”
“Did someone inside that shed make a jest?”
“I doubt so,” I replied. “I think the man laughs because of the state someone is in… which he finds amusing.”
“I’d like to know who, or what, is in there.”
“You shall. We will wait here behind this wall till dark, then approach from behind that barn you see to the right of the coop. If the fellow is yet guarding the place, and it’s my opinion that’s what he’s doing, we can be upon him in a few steps when he turns in his pacing.”
“What if there’s no one in that shed?”
“The fellow is behaving strangely if that is so. And we’ll deal carefully with him. Find a fallen limb here in the wood which will put him to sleep when laid across his skull, but not so large as to give him more than a headache tomorrow.”
“Aye,” Arthur smiled. “I’d best be about it while there’s light an’ enough to see.”
The day had been cloudy and drear since dawn, and so now, at the tenth hour, it was already growing dark. I heard Arthur searching the forest while I kept watch on the guard and the shed. I was convinced that Amice Thatcher and her children were held there, and if I acted wisely and boldly I could free them. But sometimes wise acts are not bold, and bold acts are unwise.
Arthur soon returned carrying a downed oak limb nearly the size of his arm.
“Don’t swing that too hard, or the fellow will not awaken till next week.”
“Was all I could find,” Arthur said, glancing down at his cudgel. “I’ll be kind. The fellow’ll not feel nothin’.”
“Till he awakes,” I laughed.
“Aye. By then we’ll have done what’s needed an’ be gone.”
Just before the twelfth hour, when the forest was dark and the field between us and the manor near so, a second figure approached the shed. The two faced each other for a moment, and perhaps spoke, but ’twas too dark to see. Then the first man departed and the newcomer took his place. I dimly saw the fellow bend toward the shed, but if he spoke or not I could not tell.
“Changed the guard over who’s in the hencoop,” Arthur said. “Must be someone important. Whoso put ’em in there don’t want ’em to get away.”
“Amice Thatcher is in the shed, I think.”
“My guess, too,” Arthur agreed. “Think it’s dark enough?”
“Not yet. We’ve waited three hours. Another half-hour will not do us harm.”
When it was so dark that I could no longer see the shed or the man who stood beside it, I whispered to Arthur, “Let’s be off,” and together we climbed the stone wall and crossed the field. Nettles grew in the stones of the wall, and when I pulled myself over the top my hands found them. This was not an auspicious beginning to the business. Arthur must have found the nettles also. I heard him mutter a curse as we dropped to the other side of the wall.
The wheat stubble was wet and pliant under our feet. We made no sound crossing the field, and even the sheep, huddled together for the night near the center of the enclosure, paid us no attention.
When we first came upon the field I had seen that near the shed was a gate. I had decided to avoid it and its squealing hinges, and vault the wall, as we had done leaving the forest. But the thought of another encounter with nettles persuaded me to try the gate.
It was a crude affair, made of coppiced poles and fastened together with lengths of hempen cord. Such cords also formed rough hinges and, unlike iron, offered no protest when used to swing the gate open. I pushed against the gate, and Arthur fol
lowed through the opening and across an open space until a barn hid us from the shed and the manor house.
The house was perhaps twenty paces from where we stood. I could hear voices from within, and candlelight flickered from two of the windows, which were of glass. If the man standing beside the shed was allowed to raise an alarm, those in the house would surely hear. Whatever we did must be silent.
Perhaps a change of plans was in order. If I circled behind the second barn I could approach the shed and its guard from the direction of the house. If I made no effort to be silent or conceal my appearance the guard would turn his attention to me. Perhaps he would think his lord was making a last inspection of the prisoner in the hencoop before taking to his bed. While I approached Arthur might sneak up behind the guard, and seize him with a hand across his mouth. Then, with Arthur’s dagger at his throat, he might be persuaded to keep silence while I opened the shed to free Amice Thatcher and her children. If the fellow seemed unwilling to cooperate there would always be Arthur’s club to fall back on. If we could keep the fellow conscious he might be persuaded to answer some questions after I released Amice and the children.
I whispered the scheme to Arthur and he nodded agreement. The clouds had begun to clear, although there was no moon, and so by starlight I could faintly see Arthur glance regretfully at his cudgel. It might yet be put to use.
The toft was muddy from the day’s drizzle and I feared the guard might hear the ooze sucking at my feet while I crept around the second barn so as to approach him from the house.
I reached the house unnoticed and was halfway from the manor house to the shed when I saw the guard stand erect from where he had been leaning against the hencoop.
“That you, m’lord?” he said.
“Aye,” I lied. May the Lord Christ forgive me.
“Come to see all’s well with the maid?” the guard asked.
“The maid”? His words startled me. Amice Thatcher, attractive as the widow was, was no maiden, and was furnished with two children to prove it so.
