A Trail of Ink hds-3 Read online

  "I will do so. I did not sleep well last night for weighing who might have misled me and sent me to Bampton, and why they did so."

  "Then be off to your bed, and leave the matter with God for the night. Thinking on it when you might be sleeping will bring no solution, and on the morrow, when you might be rested and have your wits about you, you will be doltish for loss of rest."

  I did as Master John advised. But it was not so easy to fall to sleep as he suggested. Arthur had gone to the guest chamber before me and was snoring contentedly upon his pallet when I opened the door. Worry did not keep me awake, but Arthur's spluttering did. I know not how long I lay wakeful in my bed, but must have fallen to sleep before midnight, for I do not remember hearing the sacrist ring the priory bell for vigils.

  I was awake, considering whether or not to rise from my bed, when a knock upon the guest chamber door announced the arrival of a kitchen servant with an ewer of warm water. Arthur peered up at me from his pallet as I poured the water into a basin and washed my hands and face. He considers such activity unnecessary. It is quite enough, in Arthur's view, to wash one's hands before eating.

  I had no plan for this new day to seek enlightenment about Master John's stolen books. I thought rather to seek Kate and walk with her again along the Cherwell, did the gray clouds which obscured the sun this morning not produce a cold rain.

  I told Arthur what I intended, set him free to his own devices for the day, and was about to walk through the gate to St John's Street when the porter stepped from the gatehouse. He made to set off toward the guest chamber, then saw me approach and halted.

  "Master Hugh," he greeted as I approached. "There is a fellow here who seeks you." The porter turned and nodded toward the gatehouse.

  The man who awaited me was no Oxford scholar. He wore no gown, but was dressed fashionably in particolored chauces and a deep-brown cotehardie of fine wool. Over this he wore a surcoat also of brown wool. He was of middle age, with a paunch the result of prosperous business. I had seen the fellow before, but could not remember where or when.

  "Master Hugh?" the man bowed slightly in greeting. "Good day to you, sir."

  "And good day to you. How may I serve you?"

  "Nay. 'Tis I who will serve you. I am John Colyn, stationer of Northgate Street. You visited my shop some days past with a list of stolen books."

  "I did. Have you news?"

  "I do. A ragged young scholar visited me late yesterday. He wished to sell a volume, one of those on your list: Sentences."

  Peter Lombard's work is well known and much used in the colleges. There are surely many copies of the book in Oxford. I was convinced that Master Wyclif's books had traveled by cart to Westminster, so was not prepared to think the stationer's announcement of any importance. A hungry student might well wish to sell a book if its price would keep him fed for another term.

  "Did you purchase the book?"

  "Nay. The lad was not pleased with my offer. Said he would seek another who might pay more."

  "What did you offer?"

  "Fourteen shillings. He had not the volume with him. I told the lad I would promise no more unless I saw the book and might judge its condition."

  "Think you another will offer more?"

  "May be. If the book has not been ill used it might fetch twenty shillings."

  Over the stationer's reply I heard excited voices from the gatehouse. The sound did not at first register with me. The porter was in feverish conversation with a female. Or rather, a lass was in feverish conversation with the porter, for it was a feminine voice which eventually seized my attention. Kate's voice.

  I turned from the well-fed stationer and hastened to the gatehouse as the porter left his post and came toward me.

  "Ah, Master Hugh, there is a maid here seeks you. I told her you were in discourse with another, but she will not be quieted 'til you see her. 'Twill be no hardship for you, sir. She be a pert lass."

  I hastened through the gate, John Colyn striding behind, and found Kate waiting impatiently on Schidyard Street.

  "Hugh… we must hurry," she exclaimed as she took my arm and drew me toward the High Street. "A young scholar wishes to sell a book from the list you gave to father. I am sent to fetch you. Father is bargaining with the lad to detain him 'til you arrive."

  I suspected Robert Caxton's customer must be the same youth who offered Sentences to John Colyn. I needed no further urging to haste, although I was yet convinced that Master Wyclif's books were in the abbey at Westminster and my task now was to see how they might be recovered from that place.

  John Colyn's description of the young scholar as "ragged" was accurate. The youth who stood before Robert Caxton was pale and haggard. He was too young to grow a proper beard, and evidently too poor to afford a visit to a barber. A few feathery whiskers curled unmolested from his chin. His gown was near to threadbare. Had he no sturdy cloak he would endure a cold winter in the months to come.

  The youth had brought the book with him on his visit to Caxton's shop, perhaps learning from John Colyn that its presence, was it not ill used, might generate a more liberal offer. Caxton was peering at the volume open upon his table as Kate and I breathlessly entered the shop.

  It is difficult to pretend indifference when one has so obviously arrived in haste. Surely the scholar had seen Kate hurry away. Now she abruptly reappeared with a companion.

  Caxton looked up briefly from the book as Kate and I tumbled through the door, but quickly resumed his examination of the volume. The youth snapped his head to follow Caxton's gaze when we darkened the open door, but when Caxton returned to the book, seemingly paying little notice to me or to Kate, the scholar also dismissed us and turned his attention back to the stationer. In a few steps I was close enough to overhear their conversation.

  "Sentences is a book much in demand," the youth claimed. "'Tis a set book all scholars must know, and most do own."

  "Aye. You speak true," Caxton replied. "Most, I think, do already own this work. So I am not persuaded I could readily sell it."

  "'Tis in fine condition," the lad rejoined. "You will find few like it."

  "It is, but for notes some scholar has penned in the margins. Are these your comments I see written here?" Caxton pointed to the page open before him.

  "Nay. The monk who owned it before me so wrote."

  "I wonder why he chose to sell it?" Caxton mused.

  "Said he was to enter a house which had already a copy in its library. An' monks may own nothing of their own, so he was minded to sell the work to provide a small dowry for his sister, who had little to offer a suitor since the great death took away their parents."

  This tale seemed plausible. But I knew also that Master John enjoyed writing remarks of approval or criticism in the margins of his books. The young scholar suddenly realized that my hurried entrance likely had to do with his book. I had moved behind Caxton to peer over his shoulder at the volume as it lay open upon the table. He assumed I was a possible buyer. His next words were addressed to me.

  "Worth twenty shillings, sir, would you not agree?"

  Perhaps the youth hoped I might bid against Caxton.

  "It is well bound," I replied. But before I could comment further a margin note caught my eye. I bent over Caxton's shoulder for a closer look, for the light on such a gloomy day was poor. A previous owner had written a phrase in Latin and below the comment signed with his initials, "JW". My theory that Master John's books were now lodged in the abbey at Westminster shattered and fell in pieces at my feet.

  I reached over the stationer's shoulder and with a finger silently touched the place on the parchment where Wyclif had marked the page.

  "The sheriff's man has visited the shop," Caxton said, "with a list of books recently stolen. I will make offer of eighteen shillings for the work, but first I must know of the monk who sold it to you, so I may be sure I do not purchase stolen property."

  I watched the young scholar as Caxton spoke, to see did he recoil at
the words. He did. His eyes grew wide and a corner of his mouth twitched.

  "The… the sheriff?" he stuttered.

  "Aye," Caxton replied calmly. "All who deal in books have received notice to be alert. This volume is on the list of missing books, so I must be sure you came by it lawfully before…"

  Caxton could not finish. The youth looked wildly from me to Kate to Caxton, then in a flash he swept up the book from the table and bolted for the door. I leaped to stop him, but caught my foot as I attempted to vault the table. I tumbled to the floor at Kate's feet while the ragged scholar disappeared through the door. By the time I untangled my limbs and followed, the youth had taken to his heels and was fast disappearing down the Holywell Street.

  Regardless of his gaunt appearance, short rations did not slow his feet. I pursued him, but to no avail. He ducked through the throng at the Northgate, but by the time I could manage to push through the crowd there he had disappeared among those who had business on Northgate Street. I gave up the chase and returned to Caxton's shop.

  Kate and her father pressed me with excited questions when I returned. For most of these I had no answers. I did not know where he had gone, I did not know how to find him, and I did not know what he would next do about Master John's book. But I had a fair idea. A penniless scholar who would sell a stolen book is not likely to abandon the attempt if to do so will leave his stomach empty. I told Kate and her father that I intended to visit Oxford's stationers again so soon as I finished my dinner, to see had any others been offered the book. If so, did they know where the seller might be found; if not, to be aware an offer was likely.

  I met Arthur on St John's Street as we both approached Canterbury Hall. I told him of the appearance of one of Master John's books. He was as surprised as I had been, assuming, like me, that the carters had hauled them off to Westminster.

  Once past the gatehouse I went straight to Master John's door. He was not within. We found him in the hall in conversation with two scholars, while others prepared the room for dinner.

  Master John is a good reader of men. One glance at my face told him I had news and was eager to share it. He dismissed his companions and turned expectantly to me. I told him of the book, the poor scholar, and the initialed note in the margin.

  "'Tis my book, Master Hugh. Well done, well done." He nearly danced with glee. "I congratulate you."

  "But I lost both thief and book."

  "You will find the fellow again. I am sure of it. So my books are yet in Oxford. This is good news indeed."

  It did seem so at the time.

  I was eager to visit Oxford's stationers, so bolted my meal. It was but another pottage, with maslin loaf. What more may a man wish than the companionship of a virtuous and comely wife and a belly well filled with a savory repast? I might have both of these so soon as I found the pillaged volumes. I told Arthur the reason for my haste and set off for the gatehouse and Schidyard Street. I left him chewing the last of his loaf, with instructions to catch up when he might.

  I included Oxford's bookbinders in the search this day, though it was unlikely the youth would seek to sell there. But one other stationer had been offered Sentences. He had offered twelve shillings and the youth did not accept. This was surely the same ragged scholar. The stationer described him, to the meager whiskers upon his chin.

  I thought the youth might now become cautious, and delay some days before again attempting to find a buyer. Nevertheless, I warned the stationers he had not yet visited to be wary, and promised to visit their shops each day to see did the scholar appear. I did, but he did not.

  On the third day — it was Martinmas — I sent Arthur to enquire of the stationers in my stead and went to Holywell Street to seek Kate. It was a bright day. The sun only occasionally was lost behind clouds which scudded in from the north, driven by a brisk breeze. A good morning to walk the Cherwell, I thought. Kate agreed.

  I spoke to her of my frustration. She did not immediately reply, but after we reached the stream and had walked silently for many paces she asked where it was I had last seen the youth when my pursuit failed.

  "Just inside the Northgate. I saw him disappear before St Michael's at the Northgate as I tried to push through the throng which gathers at that place."

  "If you were in danger of being apprehended for theft," she asked, "where would you go?"

  "Some streets I knew well," I replied, "where I might dodge into some alley or press myself into a hidden doorway."

  "Perhaps if we watched by the Church of St Michael the thief might travel past. Three days have passed. He may think he is safe, and so venture upon the streets. If that he lives near the church we might see and follow."

  "We?"

  "Four eyes are better than two," she laughed, "and twas me who found the broken thong in the grass."

  This I could not gainsay. We walked the river to Trill Mill Bow, then returned through the Southgate to Holywell Street. I promised to call for her after dinner, and returned to Canterbury Hall with more sense of purpose than in many days.

  None of the other stationers, Arthur reported, had been offered Sentences. I did not expect otherwise. I told Arthur of Kate's plan, and told him he would accompany us. Arthur had not seen the youth, but I had other work for him.

  We finished our pottage and set off for Holywell Street as the bells of St Frideswide Priory rang for sext. Kate awaited me with sparkling eye, a courser ready for the chase.

  A great, ancient tower stands before the Church of St Michael at the Northgate. Kate and I positioned ourselves against the north wall of this tower, just by the corner, where in conversation I might look past her toward the Northgate, and she might peer around my shoulder in the opposite direction down the Northgate Street. Arthur I sent to High Street, with instructions to watch for our approach. Did he see us appear from the north, he was to watch for the poor scholar we would follow and join the pursuit.

  The youth appeared shortly after the bells of the Carmelite Friars rang for nones. I watched the Northgate while in conversation with Kate, but the youth did not appear there. He came from a cordwainer's shop across the street from where we stood.

  Kate knew before she turned that I had seen our quarry, for I hesitated in the midst of conversation and she saw my eyes fix upon some distant prospect.

  Together we watched the youth stand before the shop and peer in both directions before he set off toward the High Street. I did not think at the time to wonder why an impoverished scholar would visit a shop which sought the custom of the wealthy.

  Kate and I walked behind the youth as he strode south on Northgate Street. We were able to lose ourselves among the passers-by, so the lad gave no sign he saw us.

  I saw Arthur ahead, leaning against the corner of a goldsmith's shop. His location reminded me that I need make a purchase at some such place. Shortly after I spied Arthur he stood erect from the wall and nodded. I pointed toward the scholar, now but a few paces before us. I was some concerned that he might turn, see us in the throng, and take flight. But he did not.

  Arthur fell into step behind Kate and I, and we followed as our prey passed Carfax and turned down Great Bailey Street toward the castle, then made his way down Little Bailey Street. There were fewer folk about on the street here. We dropped farther behind our quarry so as not to give notice of our presence.

  The ragged scholar took no notice of us, or of any other upon the street. A few paces past St Ebbe's Church, but a short way from the Littlegate, he turned and disappeared into a tavern.

  The Red Dragon is much like other taverns liberally sprinkled about Oxford. It is of timber, wattle and daub, two stories, with a thatched roof above. Did the youth enter the place for a cup of wine to quench his thirst, I wondered, or did he reside in the rooms under the roof? There was but one way to answer these questions.

  I bid Arthur return to St Ebbe's Churchyard and make his way to the alley which ran behind the Red Dragon and the structures on either side of the tavern. I assumed there
was a rear door from the Red Dragon opening to the alley, and assumed further that if the youth saw me enter the front door he might make for this alley and escape.

  I gave Arthur time to place himself in the lane behind the tavern, told Kate to wait across the street before a taylor's shop, and entered the dim tavern. Several patrons sat upon benches, elbows on table, evidently enjoying both the wine and conversation. Most of the customers were students, but the scholar I sought was not among them.

  The proprietor of the Red Dragon is a scrawny fellow. When he saw me enter he stood behind his table and reached for an ewer and cup, assuming I wished to quench a thirst. I had to disappoint him.

  "The youth who just now entered, has he gone up to his lodging?" I asked, nodding toward the stairs which occupied a rear corner of the tavern. Such an assertion was a risk, but I thought it slight, and believed I would have more success with the master of the place did he assume I owned some acquaintance with the scholar I sought.

  "Aye," he bowed, and placed the ewer back upon the table.

  The tavern's upper storey held a dark, narrow passageway which ran the length of the rear wall of the building. Six openings opposite the wall indicated chambers of lodgers at the tavern. These openings were draped with cheap hempen fabric to close each room from those who passed in the corridor.

  I moved silently from one curtained portal to the next, listening for sounds of occupation. At the third opening I heard footsteps, and a bench being drawn across the planks of the floor. I swept the hempen screen aside and found myself staring into the wide, frightened eyes of the lad I sought. I opened my mouth to challenge the youth about Master John's book, but he acted before I could speak.

  There was a window in the wall of this cell, opposite its entrance, which gave opening to the street. It was but a simple frame, hinged upon one side, and covered with an oiled skin. The scholar leaped from his bench, flung open the window, and before I could speak climbed through it and dropped to the street. I ran to the open window in time to see him dash toward the Littlegate. Kate watched him run, then looked up at me. I shrugged in answer to the question in her eyes. I had found and lost my quarry.