by Mel Starr
There was little time, however, to consider the man’s words. I saw Arthur’s dark shadow creep from behind the barn as I approached the guard. I worried that there might be enough light that the guard would see that I was not the man he expected, so slowed my pace to be sure that Arthur would clap hands about the fellow’s throat and mouth before he might take alarm.
The guard was a small man, short and slight of form, and Arthur well suited for the task given him. He seized the fellow with one arm about his neck, a hand over his mouth, and lifted him, kicking wildly, into the air. I leaped forward, and together we flung the fellow face-first into the mud. I heard his muffled splutter through the muck and Arthur’s thick hand.
Chapter 9
“Silence!” I hissed. “Be silent and no harm will come to you.” Well, no harm but for a faceful of mud.
The guard did not immediately cease his struggle, but neither did he cry out, which, even with Arthur’s hand over his mouth, he might have done. When he lay still, or nearly so, I motioned to Arthur to turn his face from the mud, drew my dagger, and held it before his eyes.
“Remain silent and I will not use this against you,” I said.
The starlight was dim, there in the mud between the shed and barn, but what light there was gleamed from my blade. I knew the fellow could see it.
“You understand? Blink your eyes twice if you agree.”
The man blinked twice, and I told Arthur to free the guard’s mouth, yet otherwise keep him tightly restrained.
“You thought I was your lord,” I said. “Who is that?”
The guard made no reply, so I thrust my dagger before his eyes again and repeated the question.
“I’m not to say. Not where the lass can ’ear. She’s not to know who has her, nor where she is.”
I raised my dagger to his eyes again and tried to appear resolute.
“Rede,” he finally said. “Sir Philip Rede.”
“Who is in the hencoop? Who do you guard?”
“Dunno.”
I frowned and held forth my blade again. The fellow may not have seen my scowl, but he saw the dagger.
“Some maid is there,” he mumbled. “Dunno her name.”
“And you are to be sure she does not escape in the night?”
“Aye.”
“Hold your dagger to this knave’s throat while I see who is imprisoned here,” I directed Arthur. He drew his dagger from his belt and laid it across the guard’s neck. I saw the man wince, and his eyes widened as he felt the touch of the blade.
The shed door was fixed shut with a wooden plank dropped into slots on either side. It was a simple matter to lift the bar, set it aside, and swing the door open. The interior was as black as Sir Simon Trillowe’s heart. If a woman was there I could not see her.
“Come out,” I whispered. Had I known who was to emerge, I might have dropped the plank across the door and fled.
“Who is there?” a feminine voice whispered.
“’Tis Master Hugh.”
Silence followed, but after a few heartbeats the voice said, “Who?”
Amice Thatcher was not in this shed. Some other woman was imprisoned here. “I am Hugh de Singleton… come to release you. Make haste. We may soon be discovered.”
Who it was who was held in the shed I did not know, but no lass should be used so. I felt, rather than saw, the approach of the hencoop’s inhabitant. The door was low, and I backed away from it as a slender form bent to pass through the opening.
“Has my father sent you?” the lass asked.
“Nay. Who are you? Who is your father?”
“I am Sybil. Sybil Montagu. My father is Sir Henry. If my father has not sent you to free me, who did so?”
“Here is no place for conversation. We must be away before we are discovered. This fellow,” I pointed to the guard who yet lay in the mud, Arthur close upon him, “may soon be relieved by some other.”
“What’ll we do with ’im?” Arthur whispered.
“You may as well slay me,” the man whispered. “If you do not, Sir Philip will when he finds the maid gone.”
“What? For your incompetence you will die?”
“Aye. Just slit me throat with that dagger. I’ll not cry out.”
Arthur, his muscular forearm yet about the man’s neck, gazed at me with open mouth, to hear a man plead for death.
“Sir Philip’ll hang me, or have ’is lads beat me till I’d be better off dead.”
I thought on his words. I had no wish to cause a man’s death at the hands of a cruel lord.
“He’ll come with us, for now,” I said.
I had come to this manor seeking Amice Thatcher and found Sybil Montagu. I had not before heard of her or her father, and was loath to interrupt searching for Amice while I dealt with this new entanglement.
Sybil followed me to the gate, Arthur and the guard behind. We had no cord to bind him, so Arthur kept his left arm about the man’s neck, and with his right hand held his dagger against the fellow’s throat. He offered no resistance as we crossed the field of wet stubble, but not so the maid.
“Ow. Where do you lead?” she protested. “This field is wet. My feet are cold.”
“You would prefer to be dry in yon hencoop?”
When we reached the wall opposite the manor I considered the nettles, and felt tenderly along the stones until I found a place which seemed free of the stinging foliage.
It was not. I lifted Sybil to the top of the wall. She reached a hand to steady herself and found nettles I had missed. She yelped, cursed me for a dolt, and fell in a heap over the wall. I heard the guard chuckle.
“What yer laughin’ about?” Arthur demanded.
“Sir Philip got more than ’e wished for when ’e seized that one.”
“Help me up,” the lass commanded from over the wall. I clambered over, finding the nettle patch again, and assisted the maid to her feet.
The forest was dark and wet, and I wished to be gone from the place, but I also wished to know who Sybil Montagu was, and why Sir Philip Rede had seized her and confined her in a dilapidated hencoop.
“What means this,” she fumed, “tossing me over the wall?”
“I ask your pardon. ’Twas not my intent.”
“Now I am wet and cold,” she complained.
“As we all are,” Arthur said. “An’ muddy, also.” He had pushed the guard over the wall behind me, then scrambled over himself. I heard no curses from either man. They must have escaped the nettles.
“Why did Sir Philip Rede shut you in that hencoop?” I asked.
Sybil did not immediately reply, but the guard did. “’Cause ’e couldn’t stomach ’er in the house no longer.”
“You were a guest of Sir Philip’s?”
“Nay,” Sybil said. “Didn’t know his name till now, nor where I was. The scoundrel took me from my father’s manor and demands a ransom.”
“Ah… how much does he demand?”
“Fifty pounds.”
“Wouldn’t pay,” the guard said. “Sir Philip sent armed messengers to demand the ransom. Sir Henry told ’em he had two sons left, an’ the hammer an’ anvil to make more daughters.”
“They threatened to slay me if my father would not pay,” Sybil sniffed.
“Her tongue be so sharp, Sir Philip couldn’t abide ’er in the house no longer. Put ’er in the hencoop till ’e could decide what to do with ’er.”
“How long,” I asked, “have you been in the hencoop?”
“Three days. Now you must take me to my father.”
“Reckon ’e don’t want ’er either.” The guard was a voluble fellow when he thought himself free of his lord’s wrath, even so he yet had a dagger at his throat.
“You mind your tongue, knave!” Sybil snapped.
“Where is your father’s manor?”
“South Marston.”
When I did not respond Arthur said, “I know the place. ’Tis but a few miles from Swindon. Went there with Lord Gilb
ert once.”
“We’ll not travel that way this night. And ’tis no time for a maid to be upon the roads if it can be avoided. You’ll come with us to Abingdon and we’ll see tomorrow about returning you to your father.”
“I wish to go home now!” Sybil stamped her foot, but the effect was lost on the damp, leafy mold of the forest floor.
I was becoming vexed with this petulant damsel, and began to feel some sympathy for Sir Philip. She was a nuisance to him, and now to me.
“You will go where I tell you. I did not come to this place to free you from your captor. I had other business, which is now put out of joint because I must deal with you.”
“What’ll we do with this fellow?” Arthur asked. Arthur yet held his dagger close to the guard’s neck, and clasped the man’s right shoulder with his other hand. “If we release ’im he’ll likely raise the alarm to save himself from ’is lord’s wrath, an’ them as are in the manor house’ll be upon us before we’re halfway back to Abingdon.”
Similar thoughts had troubled me. “Sir Philip will be furious with you for allowing us to overcome you and make off with the lass?” I asked the guard.
“Aye, he will that,” he replied, and unconsciously rubbed his neck near where Arthur pressed the flat of his dagger.
“So if we release you, you will hasten to tell him what has happened so to deflect his rage, will you not?”
“Sir Philip’s ire don’t pass so easy as all that. Likely he’ll hang me.”
“So what is to be done with you?”
“I left the club back at the shed,” Arthur said. “I could find another, an’ swat ’im ’cross the head, gentle-like, just so’s to raise a welt. Then ’e could go back when ’e woke up an’ tell ’is lord ’twas the club next the shed what felled ’im. By the time ’e awoke an’ returned to the house we could be on the horses an’ near Abingdon.”
Arthur is ever willing to be helpful, but I did not think our captive would approve the plan.
“You are a tenant of the manor?” I asked the fellow.
“Nay… villein.”
“Is Sir Philip in other ways a good lord?”
“Nay. A hard man, is Sir Philip, an’ that’s when ’e’s sober. When ’e’s in ’is cups a man had best stay clear.”
“Was he drinking this night?”
“Aye, as every night.”
“So his rage will be great?”
“Aye. He’ll have me whipped first, then ’e’ll hang me, twice, most likely.”
“Twice?”
“Aye. Cut me down when I’m near gone, toss a bucket of water on me, an’ when I’ve come to me senses, hang me again.”
“He has done such a thing?”
“Aye, him an’ Sir Simon.”
“Sir Simon Trillowe?”
“The very man. Sir Philip caught a villein stealin’ eggs from ’is hencoop two years past.”
“And Sir Simon helped him hang the thief?”
“Aye, hanged ’im twice, so I heard. Didn’t see for meself. A villein stealin’ from ’is lord is treason, so Sir Philip said.”
“Is that how he regularly deals with villeins who displease him?”
“Aye. Had a few strokes when I was a lad.”
“Have you never thought of leaving? Have you a wife and children?”
“Think on it near every day. Got no family to suffer for me runnin’ off, but where would I go? A lad fled the manor last year. Sir Philip an’ his men found ’im in Banbury. Didn’t hang ’im ’cause ’e was little more than a child, but beat ’im so ’e can’t stand straight now.”
I had taken an unaccountable liking to this guard, who seemed an honest fellow caught up in an impossible situation. I decided to try him with another question.
“Has Sir Philip any other captive who might bring him gain?”
The guard scratched the back of his head before he replied.
“Sir Philip don’t say much with the commons about to hear ’im. All I know is what ’is valet overhears an’ gossips about. He’s needy, is all I know.”
“But you know of no other he’s taken because they might enrich him?”
“Nay.”
“If I return you to Sir Philip, he will slay you – so you believe. So then, do you wish to accompany us and be away from this place?”
“Aye. I’ve nowhere to go, but when I get to somewhere new I’ll not be whipped and sent to a gibbet… ’less Sir Philip finds me.”
“If I am to help you escape your manor, I should know your name.”
“I am Osbert – Osbert Hanney.”
We stumbled through the forest, becoming thoroughly wet, until by the light of stars through bare branches we found the horses. Sybil complained the entire time: her feet were cold; her cotehardie had become snagged on a twig and ripped; she stubbed a toe against a root; I should take her to South Marston this very night, and if I did not her father would hear of my neglect of her. I was nearly ready to do her will so I would no longer hear her grievances.
Sybil rode the palfrey, I was upon Bruce, and Arthur and Osbert walked before. Stars gave enough light that the road lay faintly visible before us, and no brigands accosted us. We reached Abingdon well before dawn, and I was required to pound upon the abbey gate for some time before the porter’s assistant heard me and opened to us. I told the fellow I had with me a high-born maid for whom I sought provision for the remainder of the night, and when Sybil was safe in the abbey guest house I led Arthur and Osbert to the New Inn. It was nearly time for the Angelus Bell before my head rested upon a pillow. I had accomplished nothing toward finding Amice Thatcher, or the murderers, or the location of the lost treasure, and had succeeded only in enlarging my own responsibilities.
No matter how choleric Sybil Montagu was, it was my obligation to see she was reunited with her father. And I, a bailiff, was now assisting a villein to flee from his manor and lord. These thoughts troubled my slumber so that when dawn roused the other sleepers in the New Inn’s upper room, I was awake before them.
What to do with Sybil Montagu? After several days the hosteler would surely wish to be rid of the maid. He would turn her over to the abbot. I could imagine Sybil complaining loudly to Peter of Hanney, and his response. The vision brought a smile to my lips. The abbot would find some quick way to return the lass to South Marston.
And there was Osbert to consider. He and Sybil were by now discovered missing, for he had told me he was to be relieved at dawn. Sir Philip or his minions would prowl the streets of nearby towns seeking the man. It would be best if he was away from Abingdon. But where? Perhaps South Marston.
I could send Osbert to tell Sir Henry that his daughter was safe in the abbey, and to come and retrieve her. This would remove Osbert from the easy reach of Sir Philip Rede, and solve the problem of what was to be done with Sybil, assuming her father would come to reclaim her, or send servants to do so.
I told Arthur and Osbert of my plan while we broke our fast with loaves from the baker. But before I sent Osbert on his way I had a question. I thought I knew already the answer.
“Beyond Sir Philip’s manor at East Hanney I saw another great house, just beyond the church. Who’s manor is there?”
“Sir John Trillowe,” he replied.
“Does his son, Sir Simon, reside there?”
“Aye. Him an’ Sir Philip is cronies. Was lads together.”
“Has Sir Philip other close friends?”
“Nay, not many.”
“I have reason to believe him and some other guilty of a felony.”
“You mean takin’ the lass?”
“Nay. Murder.”
Osbert was silent for a moment. “Sir Philip’s a bad-tempered sort, him an’ his brother.”
“Sir Philip has a brother? Does he reside on the manor?”
“Aye.”
“Describe these brothers.”
Osbert did so, and I was convinced that these were the men who had slain John Thrale, threatened my Bessie, and seiz
ed Amice Thatcher.
Arthur knew of South Marston, and told Osbert how best to travel there, avoiding East Hanney. He was to take the road to Faringdon, and thence to Swindon. He would come to South Marston a few miles short of Swindon. I gave the fellow two pence to see him on his way; enough to feed himself at some inn in Faringdon going and coming, but not so much as to give him thoughts of absconding with my coin without performing his duty.
“When you return,” I said, “we will find some place for you where you will not be ill used. If you do not find us here, ask the way to Standlake and Bampton. You will find me in Bampton.”
I hoped this was so, for if I had returned to my home it would mean that I had found two murderers and Amice Thatcher. I could not leave Abingdon with these obligations unfulfilled.
I was eager to return to East Hanney, convinced that Amice Thatcher lay somewhere in the village, but this desire was tempered now with the knowledge that Sir Simon Trillowe, a man who harbored much ill will against me, might be encountered there. Rather than Amice Thatcher, I might find much trouble in the village.
Never again will I set out upon some venture which might prove hazardous with but an hour of sleep in the previous night. And Bruce seemed resentful of being pulled from the mews and saddled. Perhaps he had more wit than I.
By the third hour Arthur and I, Bruce and the palfrey, were again upon the road to East Hanney. For the first two miles, till Marcham, we followed the way Osbert would have taken, and I thought we might catch him. But not so; the man was a fast walker.
After Marcham we turned our beasts south, to East Hanney, and again dismounted before we reached the village and led the horses into the same forest they had visited a day before.
From the same nettle-covered wall we peered out at Sir Philip Rede’s manor. All was quiet. Perhaps too quiet. None of the normal autumn labor was in view. No men were planting wheat and rye in new-ploughed fields. I had been worried that swineherds might drive their hogs into the wood, pannaging for beechnuts and acorns, and discover us there, but none were about. Tenants and villeins should also be gathering downed wood for winter fires at this season, and, indeed, I saw suitable fallen boughs in the forest behind me, but no man was collecting them.
