The Tainted Coin

by Mel Starr

  Just for a moment the squire’s dagger was away from Amice’s neck. “At them!” I yelled, and with my own dagger drawn I plunged toward the tall squire so to prevent his seizing Amice again. A dagger used against me could not be laid aside Amice’s neck.

  What followed was a maelstrom of shouting, cursing men, stamping horses, and one shrieking woman. The squire heard my cry, glanced from Amice, at his feet, to me, leaping for him, saw my dagger glinting in the moonlight, and vaulted to his saddle. The other squire had been mounting his beast when Amice fell, so was in his saddle when Uctred and a sergeant charged after him. From the corner of my eye I saw his dagger sweep before Uctred’s approach, and Uctred fell back. Whether or not he had been slashed I could not tell.

  Amice hindered my rush to seize the squire who had restrained her. She rose to her knees as I was about to leap over her. I stumbled and nearly fell, which gave the squire time to gain his seat and steady himself. I made for his leg, intending to pull him from the saddle, but his dagger flashed out and forced me back.

  From his opposite side I heard a roar, and saw the squire turn. ’Twas one of the sergeants who had run ahead through the alley who was now attacking. I had no time to consider this, however, for at that moment a horse whirled before me and drove me back toward Amice. Sir Simon was the rider, and when he saw me step away from his rush he bellowed to the squires that they must be away, then spurred his horse off down the street.

  The squires heard and followed. Arthur had the corpulent squire by a leg, ducking to dodge the wild swings of the fellow’s dagger. But when the horse gathered himself and sprang away Arthur was forced to release his hold, else he would have been dragged to some place where he would face three furious men alone, away from others of his force.

  Arthur drew himself from the mud of the street, then knelt again to study the road at his feet.

  “What have you found?” I asked.

  “’Tis the short, fat fellow who rides the horse with the broken shoe. See here.”

  I squatted beside him and saw in the moonlight the shape of the broken horseshoe which had so vexed us.

  The ambush had been a failure. Amice Thatcher had nearly been seized from under my nose, the squires had got away, and Uctred was holding his right arm with his left and I thought it likely I would need to stitch up a wound.

  My explanation for this debacle is that I spent a year in Paris studying surgery, not the capture of felons. All men seek to excuse their failures; why must I be different?

  Our horses were stabled at the New Inn. By the time we retrieved them and set off in pursuit our quarry would be halfway to East Hanney and Sir John Trillowe’s protection. The only man who could pry the felons from his custody slept in Oxford Castle. I resolved to travel there at first light and seek Sir Roger’s aid. He would not be much pleased to be required to journey to East Hanney, but he has no love for either Sir Simon or Sir John.

  I gathered the sergeants, some of whom had set off afoot following the squires, as if they would chase mounted men, and found Arthur inspecting Uctred’s arm. ’Twas too dark, with only the waning moon for light, to see how badly the groom was slashed. The sleeve of his cotehardie was neatly sliced, and I felt the damp of blood there and saw a dark stain upon the fabric. It seemed more than a scratch, but not so deep a gash as to warrant concern. At Amice Thatcher’s house there would be a cresset to give light enough to see and deal with the wound. I told the others that was where we would go first, and set off into the bury.

  The ten of us crowded into Amice’s small house, and she lit two cressets from coals yet glowing upon her hearthstone. In their light I saw that Uctred’s laceration was not deep, yet required stitching if it was to heal properly.

  The threadmaker would not appreciate being awakened at midnight, but I thought a length of his finest linen thread would serve for Uctred’s cut, and a threadmaker is likely to have a needle or two about his house. I was correct on all counts. The threadmaker was not pleased when he opened to my insistent pounding upon his door, his thread was of excellent quality, though not so fine or strong as silk, and he did possess several needles.

  I had no herbs to dull Uctred’s pain, and Amice’s barley was not yet malted and was many days from becoming ale. Uctred seemed not to mind. He took off cotehardie and kirtle and waited stoically in the cold while I drew the edges of the wound together with six sutures.

  While I worked, with Arthur and the sergeants looking on, I planned what must next be done. I was little confident that any plan to apprehend the malevolent squires would conclude as I wished, the unsuccessful plot to seize the felons here, at Amice’s door, being fresh in my mind. But a man may learn much from his failures, if he is willing.

  We must sleep, for the next day would be long and wearisome for all. Although it was unseemly, I told Arthur and Uctred that they and I would remain with Amice for the remainder of the night. The squires were unlikely to return, but I had been wrong before. Arthur nodded and began piling rushes against a wall opposite to Amice’s bed.

  The sergeants I sent to Amabel Maunder’s house, where I was sure they would soon be snoring. I spent much of the next hour upon Arthur’s pile of rushes, reliving the events of the past hours, devising useless schemes which might have succeeded. Some time before the morning Angelus Bell I finally fell to sleep.

  The threadmaker’s wife had loaves and ale enough to break our fast, and when we were fed we set off for the New Inn. Arthur and Uctred I sent to Bampton, with Amice in their care. But before they set out I asked her how the squires had gained admittance to her house.

  “They was at the back, in the toft. One of ’em whispered ’e was you. Said as there was a need to speak to me. Thought ’twas you. One man’s whisper sounds much like another’s.”

  The squires knew who was seeking them, and how to avoid me. Some man had told them this, but there was no benefit to fretting now about who might have done so.

  Arthur, Uctred, and Amice set off toward Bampton, Amice again riding in the chapman’s cart. Before they departed the New Inn I told Arthur to go directly to Galen House and leave the cart in the toft. Behind my house I had built a shed, with thatched roof, to keep firewood dry. It was large enough to shelter a small cart horse. I instructed Arthur to tie the chapman’s horse there, then take Amice to the castle where she might find safety with Kate.

  Chapter 16

  The sergeants and I went north, to Oxford. Most folk upon the roads do not like to see seven mounted men approaching, and so make it their business to clear the way for such a company. One man, when we drew near, vaulted a wall and trotted across a harvested oat field as if he had some pressing errand amongst the stubble. King Edward has done much to keep the roads safe, and we in England are not troubled as are the French with marauding bands of unemployed knights and men-at-arms, yet few men ever regret an excess of caution.

  Our horses were rested and we traveled fast – as fast as Bruce could manage, he being an ancient beast. We arrived at Oxford Castle before the fourth hour, and I admit that images of the castle hall set for the Sheriff’s dinner came to mind.

  There was, alas, to be no dinner. When I told Sir Roger of Sir Simon’s part in the near recapture of Amice Thatcher, he sent his clerk to have his horse made ready, and to tell the six sergeants to prepare to return to Abingdon and East Hanney. Wheaten loaves and cheese would make our simple dinner.

  “Sir John will not risk himself to protect those villains,” Sir Roger said between bites of his loaf. “Not when Lord Gilbert Talbot’s bailiff saw them attempt to seize a woman.”

  “And Sir Simon?” I asked, being willing to see my handiwork upon his ear undone on a scaffold.

  “He was with the horses? Sir John has enough influence that, even was he with the squires when they laid hands on the woman, a King’s Eyre would likely set him free. We may, however, give him a fright.” He grinned as he spoke.

  Sir Roger was in a hurry, so our dinner was hastily swallowed. The Sheriff,
upon his younger, fresher horse, would have set a faster pace, but when he saw that Bruce could not keep up, he slowed. So it was that when we reached East Hanney none of those we sought was to be found.

  Sir John Trillowe’s manor is more prosperous than that of Sir Philip Rede. Sir John’s house is larger, its wall freshly whitewashed, with leaded glass in every window. The roof is of slate, not thatch. Perhaps the fines he levied while Sheriff of Oxford, and which so angered the burghers of the town that they begged King Edward to dismiss him, paid for such a roof.

  Sir Roger, with me and six sergeants – who now wore his livery – arrayed behind, pounded upon Sir John’s door. A valet opened so soon that I suspect our arrival was not a surprise. The Sheriff pushed past the valet and commanded in a loud voice to be taken to Sir John forthwith. It is likely Sir John heard without the servant informing him.

  The valet showed us into a small hall, then trotted off to seek his lord. Neither he nor Sir John appeared soon. ’Tis my belief that Sir John expected the Sheriff’s arrival, and was determined to demonstrate that he was yet a man of authority, even though King Edward had set Sir Roger in his place as Sheriff of Oxford.

  “Sir Roger,” Sir John said warmly when he finally appeared. “How may I serve you? Come from Oxford this day? A long ride.” Then, to the valet, who stood behind, “Wine for Sir Roger, and ale, the best, mind you, for his men.”

  Sir John swept a hand toward me and the sergeants as he spoke of ale, so although I wore no livery it would be ale for me. But the best, mind you.

  After voicing these commands Sir John looked to Sir Roger, and with a bland smile awaited the Sheriff’s reply.

  “You have two squires who serve you. I wish to speak with them.”

  Sir John shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and said, “I have four squires. Which two do you seek?”

  Sir Roger turned to me. “One is tall and slender, and when he does not wear your livery is commonly seen wearing a red cap. The other is short and stout, and wears a blue cap.”

  “Ah, you seek Giles and Henry. They are not here.”

  “Where are they?” Sir Roger asked.

  “London. Why do you seek them?”

  “They have done murder,” I said, “and theft, and seized a woman and her children so to demand of her where a treasure might be found.”

  “Giles? And Henry? Surely not. You are mistaken.”

  “Last night, near midnight, they tried again to take the woman. Sir Simon aided them.”

  “Sir Simon? Nonsense. Sir Simon was nowhere near Abingdon last night,” Sir John scoffed. “He is in London. Has been for three days now. Giles and Henry accompanied him.”

  “Abingdon,” Sir Roger said. “What has Abingdon to do with Sir Simon?” Sir John had misspoke himself and was caught out.

  While we talked I noticed occasional shadows passing before a window. Curious about what this might be, I sidled toward the window until I was near enough to glance through it to the front of the manor house. Between the house and our horses was a group of grooms and valets and tenants, perhaps a dozen or more. Two others arrived as I watched. I saw no weapons, but did not doubt each man possessed a blade concealed upon his person. Sir Roger, his sergeants, and I were badly outnumbered.

  Sir John chose the moment to change the subject. “This fellow,” he said, pointing to me, “has stolen a man from Sir Philip Rede. He should be arrested for seizing Sir Philip’s villein.”

  Sir Roger looked at me, raising his shaggy eyebrows in expectation of some explanation.

  “Sir Philip intended to murder the man.”

  “Murder? Nay. The man ran off with you. Sir Philip was but disciplining a wicked servant.”

  “The villein was beaten near to death,” I replied, “and the gallows he was to hang upon was standing before his eyes, here, in this village.”

  “Sir Philip has the right of infangenthef. The man stole property from Sir Philip. A thief may be hanged for his crime.”

  “He stole himself from a wicked lord,” I said.

  “Wicked? Because he would not countenance theft of his chattels?”

  “Nay. Wicked because he held another knight’s daughter for ransom, and the villein he would have slain allowed her to escape.”

  “So you say. A knight is lord of his manor. You have abetted a theft, and Sir Roger must arrest you for it.”

  “I may do so,” the Sheriff interrupted, “when I have spoken to Sir Simon.”

  “The lad is not here. I have told you. He was off to London three days past.”

  “A poor season to travel so far.”

  “Aye,” Sir John shrugged. “But when a fair maid is at the end of the road few journeys are too far.”

  We were thwarted. Our travel to East Hanney was for naught. I had no doubt but that Giles and Henry were away from East Hanney, and likely accompanied Sir Simon on the road to London, or some other far place. But I doubted that their absence was permanent. And if Sir Simon did travel to London, he had departed East Hanney with the dawn this day.

  Sir Roger looked at me, rolled his eyes, then turned to Sir John. “When Giles and Henry return, send word to me immediately. Sir Simon, also.”

  “Indeed, Sir Roger. I will do so.”

  A valet arrived with wine and ale, and we slaked our thirst while standing, for Sir John had offered no chair, and our business was frustrated and over. The Sheriff thanked Sir John for his time and turned to the door, which an alert valet jumped to open. I and the sergeants filed out into the cobbled forecourt, passed between the silent men assembled there, mounted our horses, and set our faces for Oxford.

  “Tell me more of this villein who fled his place,” Sir Roger said when we had left East Hanney behind.

  I did so, and when I had done Sir Roger said, “And Lord Gilbert commands that you return him?”

  “He does.”

  “And you have told Lord Gilbert that, if the man is sent back, you will no longer serve him?”

  “I have.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I will remain in Bampton and seek my bread as a surgeon.”

  “In such a small town?”

  “Or remove to Oxford.”

  “This matter is no business of mine, although I could make it so. If you return to Oxford I will see that custom is sent to you.”

  “My thanks. I would not lack for patients when your sergeants are required to break up some brawl at an ale house of a Saturday eve.”

  “Nay,” he chuckled. “My lads might send much business your way.”

  Where two roads met to the west of Marcham I left Sir Roger and his sergeants. They took the road through Marcham to Abingdon and Oxford, and I turned Bruce to the left, for Standlake and Bampton. Bruce was weary and I did not hurry him, so that there was barely enough light to see the spire of the Church of St. Beornwald, dark against the sunset, when I arrived.

  I left Bruce at the marshalsea and sought my bachelor chamber off the castle hall. Kate was pleased to see me, but with Amice and her children looking on, my welcome home was more subdued than I might have wished.

  My quarters at the castle were too small for two women and three children, and as I was bound for Galen House, Kate would not willingly remain longer at the castle. I carried Bessie, nodding sleepily upon my shoulder, to Galen House, with Kate, Amice, and her children trailing behind.

  I was pleased to be home, especially with winter near, but gloom soon overtook me. Galen House was warm, for Osbert had kept a blaze upon the hearth, as I had told him to do, but I could not escape thoughts of my failure to apprehend murderers, nor could I tear my mind from considering what might lie ahead for Osbert.

  I had laid a scheme to capture felons, and had failed. I had also a plan to save Osbert from the penalty Sir Philip had awaiting him. Would this design be as flawed as the attempt to catch Giles and Henry? I mistrusted my competence.

  Amice and her children were put to their rest upon pallets in the vacant ground-floor room, and
Kate took Bessie up to our bedchamber soon after. The house and the town were quiet as Osbert sat with me, contemplating the embers of the fire.

  “You’ve got to send me back to Sir Philip soon, I know,” Osbert finally said. “When you goin’ to do it?”

  “Lord Gilbert told me you must be returned when your back is healed. I will postpone that day as long as possible.”

  “To what purpose? A few days more of life? I am a dead man. Sir Philip intends to make a lesson of me.”

  “To keep other villeins from bolting the manor?”

  “Aye. Since plague come he an’ his father before him has lost half the villeins who worked ’is demesne. What didn’t die of plague ran off, now that workers is scarce an’ a man can hire out in a town, or mayhap set up as a tenant upon lands of some other gentleman.”

  “Did you ever think to do so?”

  “Often… but I knew what Sir Philip would do did he take me. I only come with you because I knew what would happen to me for allowin’ Sybil Montagu to escape. Wouldn’t ’ave done so, otherwise.”

  “Does your back cause much pain?”

  “Nay. The salve you made… I can’t reach to all places on me back to daub it on, as Amice could do. Can’t bend to touch me toes yet, neither.”

  “You may never be able to do so.”

  “Aye. A man in ’is grave don’t touch nothing but the dirt in ’is face.”

  “Perhaps there is a way for you to avoid Sir Philip’s wrath.”

  “Not likely,” Osbert sighed. “You ’ave yer lord, an’ I ’ave mine, an’ they agree what’s to be done. There’s an end to it… and an end to me. I’ve set my mind to face what’s to come, an’ when I’m properly shriven I’ll go to meet the Lord Christ as a man.”

  “Amice will be much grieved.”

  Osbert was silent for some minutes, staring at the dying coals.