by Mel Starr
“She said she’s lost three good men,” he said.
“Three?”
“Aye. Her husband, the thatcher, what died two years past, then the chapman she was to wed. Now me.”
“You and Amice have found pleasure in each other’s company?”
“Aye. Never thought to find such a woman, an’ now I have, ’tis too late.”
“Does Amice feel the same? Would she wed you if you were not to be sent back to Sir Philip?”
“Aye, believe so. I’ve not asked. No reason to do so. I’ve few tomorrows left me.”
“So you wish me to see you back to Sir Philip now?”
“May as well. What’s a few more days to a dyin’ man?”
“‘To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven’ – so said Solomon.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Perhaps the time for your death is not yet. God may have another purpose for you.”
“I wish it might be so.”
“Go to your bed. The fire is near out. Tomorrow we will speak more of this.”
Next day, at the third hour, after terce, I sought Father Thomas de Bowlegh, one of the three vicars who serve the Church of St. Beornwald. Father Simon and Father Ralph are fixed in their practices, but I thought Father Thomas might, if he knew the circumstances, be more adaptable.
No one may wed until a priest of his parish has read the banns for three consecutive Sundays – this so that if anyone knows why a man and woman should not marry, he will have opportunity to tell the priest of it.
If banns for Osbert and Amice were read out at the Church of St. Beornwald, Lord Gilbert would soon hear of it, and wonder that a man soon to be sent back to his lord, perhaps to his death, should plan to wed without his lord’s sufferance. And Osbert’s healing went well. I could not keep his recovery from Lord Gilbert much longer.
So when Father Thomas’s clerk answered my knock upon the vicarage door I had in mind a desperate scheme to save Osbert, and perhaps Amice as well. If the priest agreed, Osbert would soon be far from Sir Philip’s reach, and Amice would disappear from the shire, where Giles and Henry, back from London or wherever they had gone, would never find her to threaten evil did she not tell them of John Thrale’s treasure.
Father Thomas has the disease of the ears, so I knew his clerk would overhear our conversation. I was required to trust his discretion, for the matter I wished to raise with the priest must not go beyond the vicarage.
The priest invited me to sit with him on a bench, before the fire, and inclined an ear to me, the better to hear. He knew nothing of the dead chapman, or my pursuit of murderers, and as I wished much from him I thought it proper that he know all of the events which brought Osbert and Amice under the roof of Galen House.
I was sure that the clerk lingered somewhere near the door to hear my tale. This was confirmed when I concluded, for Father Thomas called out for the fellow, and he was in our presence instantly.
“Wine for Master Hugh,” Father Thomas said, then turned to me. “Why do you tell me of this? Is there some matter of the soul which requires my care?”
“Aye, there is. Two people, a man and a woman, are about to flee injustice, and should be wed before they set off upon the roads together.”
“This Osbert you told me of, and Amice?”
“Aye.”
“But the fellow fled his lord.”
“He did. I told you of the evil his lord did, seizing a lass, and how Arthur and I found him, lashed near to death, with a gibbet raised before his eyes.”
“And you believe this knight, Sir…”
“Philip.”
“Aye, Sir Philip, will slay him for fleeing the manor.”
“I’ve no doubt, nor does Osbert.”
“But the law…”
“The law would make murderers of us all, for if we connive in sending Osbert to his lord we will all have his blood upon our hands… and his death upon our consciences.”
“I wish you had not told me of this.”
“But I did.”
“Aye,” the priest sighed. “Now what is it you wish of me?”
“Tonight, after the evening Angelus, meet us at the church porch and marry Osbert and Amice.”
“But the banns…”
“If they are read Lord Gilbert will learn of it and decide that any man well enough to take a wife is well enough to return to his vengeful lord.”
“But ’tis church law.”
“Where in Holy Scripture is it written that no man, nor woman, may wed till the banns have been thrice read? Did St. Paul write of it?”
“Nay.”
“Men too often reject the requirements God places upon them, and rather place burdens upon other men which God does not.”
“But we have always done so.”
“Always? I think not. The earliest Christians had no church where they might read the banns, yet they married. Holy Church requires all marriages be public. Kate and I will be present.”
“I cannot do this.”
“They could set off unwed. Who would know? Making them husband and wife will keep them from sin.”
Father Thomas was silent for some time, struggling within himself. I saw his consternation and kept silent. “’Tis most irregular,” he finally said. “Father Simon and Father Ralph would never approve.”
“I know that. This is why I have come to you.”
“You think me more pliant?”
“I think you more just.”
“Oh. Well, I must think and pray about this. If you demand an answer now, it must be ‘no’.”
“Very well, but there is little time to contemplate the matter. Lord Gilbert, if Osbert crosses his mind, may summon me to the castle at any moment and charge me to return him to East Hanney.”
“And you will refuse, and resign your post?”
“Aye. Lord Gilbert will find some other to do the work. I will not. Osbert Hanney will die.”
“Return at midday. I will give you my answer then.”
I was optimistic that Father Thomas would agree to my scheme, so walked to Galen House with lighter heart than when I left it. Although, when he discovered that Osbert was away, Lord Gilbert might dismiss me from my post before I could resign. That troubled me, but I could live with reduced income more readily than with Osbert’s mangled corpse upon my conscience.
I gathered Amice and Osbert to the fire, and told them of my scheme. Behind Galen House was a cart, nearly new, and a young cart-horse, the property of John Thrale, which would have come to Amice had he lived a few weeks longer. I could see no reason it should not do so now. I had searched, but found no heirs of the chapman to whom the cart and horse should go. Lord Gilbert needed neither, and would not know they were missing.
“I have this morn spoken to a priest. Do you wish to wed?”
“Aye,” Amice answered. Osbert was silent. I waited, and Amice looked to him. Osbert looked down to his hands, which he was twisting in his lap.
“I’ll not make of Amice a widow twice,” he finally said. “You need not. I have asked Father Thomas if he will make you husband and wife this night at the church porch. He has promised an answer in a few hours. If he agrees, you must then be ready to flee the town and even the shire.
“The chapman’s horse and cart can take you far. If Father Thomas agrees, we will make ready this afternoon, and you may flee in the night.”
“But where can we go?” Osbert asked. “Sir Philip will not rest till he finds me.”
“Will he go so far as Lancashire to seek you out?”
“Dunno. ’Ow far is that?”
“Many miles.”
“But where in that shire could we find safety?”
“My older brother was lord of the manor of Little Singleton, after my father. He died and left a wife and sons when the plague first came, nineteen years past. The oldest lad will by now be lord of the manor, and if he is like other knights he will possess fallow land for which he
has no tenants, plague having taken off so many.”
“But I have no money for gersom,” Osbert said, “nor to buy food for such a journey.”
“Kate will send you off with eggs from her hens,” I said, and glanced to my wife, who nodded agreement. “Perhaps Father Thomas can be persuaded to offer alms from the poor fund, and provisions from his new tithe barn. And in the castle are stored the goods John Thrale had yet in his cart when men set upon him. If you sell them while on your way north to Lancashire, you will have enough for the journey. There is woolen fabric, buttons and combs. The stuff is stored with Lord Gilbert’s Chamberlain.”
I saw Osbert brighten before my eyes, his face like the sun appearing after many clouded days.
“You think the priest will marry us?”
“If he can without the other vicars learning of it, yes, I believe he will.”
“What will Lord Gilbert say of this?”
“He will know nothing of the matter. If Father Thomas agrees to meet us at the church porch this night, you must afterward go to your beds, but arise in the night and be gone. If Lord Gilbert asks of you I will then be able to tell him that you fled in the night. This will be no lie.”
Kate had listened to this conversation intently, and offered a suggestion. “You must pen a letter to your nephew and sister-in-law,” she advised. “Else when two strangers arrive asking to take up a yardland and claiming you sent them, they may not be believed.”
“Can you read?” I asked Osbert.
“Nay,” he replied. I looked to Amice and she shook her head.
“No matter. Kate’s counsel is wise, and I will do so.”
Kate had prepared Leach Lombard for our dinner this day. I enjoy the dish, but grew tense as the hour approached when I must seek Father Thomas and learn if he would consent to join Amice and Osbert in matrimony. They might flee even if he would not, but it would be seemly to be wed in such circumstance. In Lancashire no man would know if they were wed or not, but they would. When I left my house after the meal I took with me one of the sacks I use to transport herbs and my instruments when I travel.
Chapter 17
“No man must ever learn of this,” Father Thomas said when I sought him after dinner.
“Neither I nor Kate will ever speak of it,” I said. (I did not promise not to write of the matter.) “If your clerk holds his tongue, no man need ever know.
“The couple is in great want. Osbert was a villein, owned nothing but his stomach. Amice is a widowed ale wife, and what little she possessed is in her house in Abingdon. She dare not return there. The men who captured her once, and tried to do so a second time, are yet at large, and believe, wrongly, that she knows where treasure may be found.”
“What is it you ask?”
“Six pence in alms, and grain from the tithe barn.”
The priest left his seat and walked to a table upon which a small, iron-bound chest rested. He produced a key from a lanyard attached to his belt, unlocked the box, and drew six silver pennies from it.
“What more will you ask of me?”
“Tell your clerk to go to the tithe barn after the Angelus Bell tonight and set before the door some sacks of grain, held back for the poor, oats and barley, so they may eat and feed their horse until they reach their destination.”
“What is their destination?”
“If you do not know, you cannot tell. But the sacks should be large, for the distance is great.”
So Father Thomas reluctantly agreed to meet us at the church door an hour after the evening Angelus. From his vicarage I walked to Catte Street and the home of John Prudhomme, Bampton’s beadle. I told him that he might see some folk near the church that night, violating curfew. If so, he need take no notice. Later he might see a horse and cart quietly leaving the town. This also he should ignore.
From Catte Street I set off for the castle, praying that I could enter the place without Lord Gilbert knowing I was there. He would be sure to ask inconvenient questions did he learn of my presence at the castle.
John Chamberlain was not in his chamber. I knocked upon the door to no response. As his presence was not required for what I intended to do, I pushed the door open and entered.
John Thrale’s goods were stacked neatly upon the floor, beside a table. I did not take all of the items. The sack was not large enough, and if all the goods were missing John would surely notice and wonder at the loss. But if only a part of the stuff was gone he might never notice.
John Chamberlain and Lord Gilbert might never know that some of the chapman’s goods had been appropriated, but I would. These things, as well as the horse and cart, might have been Amice’s had the chapman lived a few weeks longer. But he had not, so I must pray that the Lord Christ forgive me the theft. My conscience was some troubled later, when I thought upon the pilferage, but not so much as it would have been if I had consented to Osbert’s death at the hands of an evil lord.
With the sack slung over my shoulder I returned to Galen House and found three anxious people, convinced that Father Thomas had refused and that I lingered at the vicarage, attempting to persuade him otherwise. They were much relieved that their fears were not realized.
I took pen, ink, and parchment and wrote to my nephew, explaining only so much as he needed to know and requesting that he provide land to Osbert, waiting to collect gersom and rents until the fellow was able to harvest a crop. I do not know my nephew, as he was but a lad when I left Little Singleton for Oxford and Balliol College, but most manors are in need of labor and good tenants, so I thought he would prove amenable to allowing Osbert and Amice to settle upon his estate. Perhaps there might be a house, empty due to plague, which could be made suitable for a tenant.
We supped on maslin loaves and cheese, and when we had eaten our fill Kate filled a sack with the leavings. As she did, the evening Angelus Bell rang from the tower of St. Beornwald’s Church.
Osbert and I went to the toft behind Galen House and readied the horse and cart for the journey to come.
The hour passed slowly. Amice and Osbert alternated in pacing about the room and sitting upon a bench. Occasionally, when they thought neither Kate nor I saw, they exchanged timid smiles.
“It’s time,” I said finally. And we donned surcoats – Osbert wearing an old one of mine, for he had none – and set out for the church. I carried Bessie upon my shoulder and Amice’s lads followed sleepily behind. They had been put to their bed after supper, and were unwilling to be drawn from the warmth of their pallet into a cold night.
Father Thomas awaited us at the porch, and set immediately to his work. There would be no formality this night; no ring to give, nor coins to distribute to the poor, no dower or dowry announced.
When Father Thomas had asked Osbert and Amice if they wed freely, and of no compulsion, and received their reply, he pronounced them man and wife and led the way into the church. A row of candles flickering to denote souls in purgatory gave some light to the nave. Standing before the altar, Father Thomas spoke a brief mass, presented the eucharist to Amice and Osbert, and announced that the sacrament was done.
Bessie slept through the business, Amice’s children yawned, and I thought I saw the mark of a tear glistening upon Kate’s cheek as we passed the row of candles while leaving the church.
At Galen House I placed a pallet in the cart upon which the children might sleep. The sack of John Thrale’s goods lay in the cart already.
“At the north edge of the town, on the right side of the road,” I said to Osbert, “you will see the bishop’s new tithe barn. Before the door there will be two sacks for you, one of oats and one of barley. To find the manor of Little Singleton you must travel north and ask for roads to Preston. At Preston travel west to Kirkham, and when you reach that place Little Singleton will be but a few miles to the north. Folk thereabout will know the way. You have the letter?”
“Aye. How many days travel, you think?”
“’Tis a far journey. A fortnight, perhaps longe
r if the roads be mud.”
Osbert looked to his feet, silent in the dark behind Galen House.
“Don’t know what to say,” he finally said. “You might ’ave sent me to die… be less trouble for you.”
“More trouble for my conscience.”
“I’ve no way to repay.”
“Tell my nephew, Roger, and his mother, Maud, that I am well. I have taken a wife, and our Bessie is healthy and growing. Deliver that message and I will consider myself paid well.”
“’Twill be done.”
“Take no heed of the beadle, if you see him. He has been told you may be on the streets after curfew. Now we must all go to our beds. When you are sure Kate and I sleep, rise and be off.”
Osbert and Amice were eager to be away. I was not yet asleep when I heard the door to the toft open. What time of the night this was I could not tell, so if Lord Gilbert asked I might yet honestly say that I did not know.
Kate also lay awake. “They are off,” she whispered.
“Aye… and God speed,” I replied.
Soon after I fell to sleep, worries behind me for a few hours, and did not awaken until Kate’s cock announced the dawn. I was of two minds how I should tell my employer that Osbert was away. I might wait until he remembered that the man was convalescent under my roof, and demanded again to know when he could be sent to Sir Philip. Or I could this day seek Lord Gilbert and inform him that Osbert was gone.
To give this news today might mean that Lord Gilbert would demand that I organize a body of grooms and pages and set out after Osbert. This I would not do, although ’twould be simple enough to search the roads to the south, toward London, where we would be sure not to find our quarry.
If I waited until Lord Gilbert called me to him he would ask why he had not been told sooner that Osbert was away. I would have no ready answer.
So after a portion of maslin loaf, which seemed tasteless in my mouth, I walked to the castle, found John Chamberlain, and told him I wished to speak to Lord Gilbert.
Lord Gilbert was in the solar, with Lady Petronilla, when John ushered me into his presence. I bowed, and before I could speak Lord Gilbert said, “Ah, Master Hugh. We are well met. I was about to ask for you.”
