A Trail of Ink Read online

  “You have friends in Oxford,” Lord Gilbert continued. “Surely some will know of a suitable lass.”

  “Perhaps more than one might suit,” Lady Petronilla smiled. “’Tis always good to have a choice in such matters.”

  Lord Gilbert frowned at this remark. “You would have preferred a choice?”

  “You think I did not have one?” she rejoined. “Our fathers placed us together, ’tis true, but my father would not match me with a man I rejected.”

  “So you…”

  “Aye,” Lady Petronilla smiled. “My father knew who I would have and who I would not.”

  “There were others you would have accepted? Who?”

  “I will say no more,” she laughed, “but that choice of a spouse is good. Neither you nor Master Hugh need know more.”

  “Master Wyclif is a friend, is he not?” Lord Gilbert returned to his subject. “You should seek him and learn if he knows of suitable maids about Oxford.”

  “But m’lord,” Lady Petronilla scoffed, “Master John is a bachelor scholar. What will he know of marriageable maids?”

  “He has lived in Oxford many years, and even scholars, with their noses pressed to their books, have two eyes and can appreciate a comely lass, and two ears and can hear of virtue.”

  Lady Petronilla had no reply to this logic, so returned to her needle. I decided to speak plainly to Lord Gilbert.

  “I visited Master John Monday eve. He is much distressed. Some thief has stolen his books.”

  Lord Gilbert raised both eyebrows. “Indeed? He has told the sheriff of the loss?”

  “Aye. Sir John Trillowe is newly appointed High Sheriff of Oxford. He seems little interested in seeking stolen books.”

  Lord Gilbert’s eyes narrowed and his lips compressed to a fine line. “He would not.”

  “You know Sir John?”

  “I do.”

  I awaited an explanation of Lord Gilbert’s expression when he heard the name. None was forthcoming, but I knew my employer well enough to know that he must think little of this new sheriff. In the past two years I had found Lord Gilbert’s estimation of other men to be fair, so was prepared to think little of a man I had never met. I had met his son. An acorn does not fall far from the oak. But I am prejudiced.

  “Master Wyclif has no clue as to who has taken his books?” Lord Gilbert continued.

  “None.”

  He raised an eyebrow and went to tugging at his chin, but it was Lady Petronilla who spoke: “Is not Master Wyclif a favorite of Duke John?”

  “Aye,” Lord Gilbert replied. “The Duke of Lancaster is Master Wyclif’s patron. The scholar comes from lands in Yorkshire which are in the Duke’s gift.”

  “I wonder,” Lady Petronilla laid her needlework in her lap and looked up, “that Master Wyclif does not seek help from Duke John. Surely the king’s son should have ways and means to find stolen books.”

  “The Duke will be in London, enjoying his palace, or at Pontefract. I think he cares little for books… although he might be pleased did another discover the thief and return the books to his favorite.” As he said this Lord Gilbert went to pulling at his chin again.

  “Master Hugh, you have few duties now ’til hallmote. And you are proven adept at solving mysteries. Perhaps you should return to Oxford and seek Master Wyclif’s books.”

  “And while he is there,” Lady Petronilla added, “he might also seek a wife. I cannot tell which may be easier to discover.”

  Before I could think of an objection Lord Gilbert spoke again, and my fate was sealed. “I think John of Gaunt would be much pleased to learn ’twas my bailiff who discovered the thief who stole his favorite’s books.”

  Lord Gilbert, Third Baron Talbot, is one of the most powerful nobles in the realm. But even he would like the good will of John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, son of the King Edward that now is, and brother of the King Edward to be, the fourth of that name, the Black Prince.

  In matter of fact, with the old king ill, and the Black Prince often waging war in France, it is Duke John who runs the kingdom. So some say. But not where others may hear.

  “John Holcutt is competent to deal with the manor. And I will remain until St Catherine’s Day. So that’s settled, then. Nothing to keep you. You may be off tomorrow. Take Arthur, if you wish. Might be well to have an assistant along. Arthur’s no fool, and worth three in a fray, should you find the felons and they not wish to surrender their loot.”

  I awoke next morning, cold, at the ringing of the Angelus Bell. The Church of St Beornwald is several hundred paces north of Bampton Castle, but the dawn was still and sound carried well. I thought how pleasant it would be to have a good wife to warm my bed on such mornings. This musing was not new to me, and brought no joy, for as I tossed in my cold bed I thought on Lady Joan Talbot, now the Lady de Burgh, and of Kate Caxton.

  The fire in my chamber was but black coals. A few embers glowed when I blew on the ashes; enough that I was able to resurrect the blaze with a few carefully placed splinters and then two logs. My feet were cold on the flags, so I climbed back into my bed until the fire might warm the chamber. Cold as the bed was, it was warmer than the floor.

  After a loaf of maslin and a wedge of cheese I mounted Bruce, the old gelding Lord Gilbert had assigned to my use, and Arthur climbed astride an ancient palfrey which had once borne Lady Petronilla. Riding the shaggy old beast did not seem to displease Arthur. Most grooms, when forced to travel, must do so afoot. I slung a leather-and-wood box containing my surgical instruments, and a pouch of herbs, across Bruce’s broad rump. What use these might be to me I did not know, but I dislike being without my implements.

  A slanting sun illuminated the tops of the oaks in Lord Gilbert’s forest to the west of Bampton as Arthur and I rode under the portcullis and set off toward Mill Street and the bridge over Shill Brook. It was a fine day for travel, did a man have a joyous reason and pleasant destination in mind. I had neither.

  Lord Gilbert had set me to a task for which I felt unequal. And the pursuit of Kate Caxton, which a week past brought cheer when I thought on it, now lay leaden on my heart.

  Villeins and tenants were busy in the fields we passed. Wheat and rye had been sown, and oxen and the occasional horse drew harrows across the fields to cover the seed with soil. Children shivered in the morning air, their fists filled with rocks to toss at birds which would steal the seed before the harrow could do its work.

  Acorns and beech nuts had fallen, so swineherds had driven their hogs into the forest for pannaging. The pigs might regret their appetite on Martinmas. Pigs are much like men. Or perhaps men are like pigs: we think little of what today’s pleasure may cost tomorrow.

  The sky was pale blue and the sun lacked warmth. It was not only swine which roamed the forest. Tenants and villeins also stalked the woodland, gathering fuel for the winter soon to be upon us.

  The tower of Oseney Abbey was a welcome sight when it appeared above the trees which lined the Thames. I appreciated the gift of Bruce, the old dexter which had borne Lord Gilbert at the Battle of Poitiers, but I have never become inured to the saddle. True, it is better to ride than walk sixteen miles. Better yet to stay home at Bampton Castle and have neither sore rump nor legs.

  But I had a duty to Lord Gilbert, and, indeed, to Master Wyclif as well. By the time Bruce clattered across the Castle Mill Stream Bridge I was resolved to exert myself in the matter of Master John’s books. And in the matter of Mistress Kate Caxton, also. But I admit I felt more confidence regarding the discovery of missing books than the winning of a fair maid. Thieves are more predictable than a lass.

  Canterbury Hall owns no stable, so Arthur and I left our beasts at the Stag and Hounds. Oxford’s streets were crowded as we walked south toward St John Street and Canterbury Hall. Perhaps among the throng was a thief, or more than one. How I was to find him I knew not.

  The porter at Canterbury Hall recognized me and sent me straightaway to Master Wyclif’s chamber. Arthur had walk
ed before me as we pressed through the crowd on the High Street, but trod respectfully behind after we approached the porter. Arthur is a good man to have about when it is necessary to make a path through the throng. He is not so tall as me, but weighs, I think, two stone more. His neck is as thick as my thigh.

  The scholar was absent. There was no response to my knock on his chamber door. The Michaelmas Term was begun, so I assumed Master John to be at his work, lecturing students. Perhaps he had been at the business long enough that he could carry on without his set books.

  While I stood, uncertain, before the door I heard a voice raised in argument. Cells for the students of Canterbury Hall lined the enclosure opposite the warden’s chamber, and a kitchen and hall closed the western side of the yard. Three glass windows gave light to the interior of this hall, and although they were closed to the autumn air, they permitted the sound of angry dispute to flood the enclosure.

  Arthur also heard the argument and peered at me under a furrowed brow. I left Master John’s door and walked to the nearest of the three windows. Arthur followed.

  From beside the window I could hear the dispute plainly. I had the gist of the quarrel in less time than it takes to pare a fingernail. The inhabitants of the Hall were divided into two opposing camps, each accusing the other of complicity in the matter of their warden’s stolen books. Occasionally I thought I heard Master John over the din, trying to calm the debate. A man might as well try to arrest the wind as silence an Oxford scholar who wishes to make known his opinion.

  In addition to the three windows, the east wall of the hall included a door. It was behind me as I stood at the window, so I heard, rather than saw, the door open abruptly and immediately slam shut. Arthur and I turned and watched Master John stalk across the yard toward his chamber. He had not seen us against the wall, for the open door blocked his view, although the afternoon sun bathed the enclosure in a golden glow.

  Wyclif did not hear us follow; he was muttering to himself as he strode. So he pushed through his chamber door and slammed it in our faces unknowingly. Arthur stared goggle-eyed, first at me, then at the door. I was accustomed to scholarly disputes. Indeed, I had shouted my way through several in my youth. But such discord was new to Arthur. He thought he was to spend some days in the peaceful company of scholars and masters. But there are few men so disputatious as scholars. Arthur was learning this and the knowledge startled him. I think had I released him at that moment he would have sought out the Stag and Hounds, mounted the old palfrey, and scurried off for Bampton.

  I rapped on Master John’s chamber door and a heartbeat later it was flung open.

  “What?!” Wyclif roared, then clamped his lips shut when he saw it was me. “I beg pardon, Master Hugh. I thought… never mind what I thought. Come in.”

  Master John held open the door and stood to one side as a welcome. Arthur, his cap in his hands, followed me into the gloomy chamber. The scholar had had no time, and perhaps no desire, to light a cresset to bolster the thin light of a late October afternoon which managed to penetrate the chamber through a single narrow window.

  There were but two benches in the room. Arthur noted this and stood aside, in a shadowy corner, as Wyclif motioned to a bench and sat silently upon the other. Neither of us spoke for a moment.

  “You forgot some business in Oxford?” Master John finally asked.

  “No. I am come to offer my service, as you desired, in the matter of your stolen books.”

  “Ah,” Wyclif smiled. “Some good tidings for a change.”

  “You have made no progress in discovering the books, or who it was who took them?”

  “None. And the issue divides the Hall… more so than it already was.”

  “I… we, uh, overheard some debate just now.”

  “Hah. Debate. Indeed, Master Hugh, you are a tactful man. The monks and seculars are at each other’s throats, each thinking the other’s responsible.”

  “And you,” I asked, “what think you?”

  Wyclif was silent, his lips pursed and brow furrowed. The only sound was Arthur shifting his weight from one foot to another.

  “Thinking on my loss leaves an ache, so I try not to think on it at all.”

  “You are successful?”

  “Nay,” Wyclif grimaced. “’Tis sure that the more a man tries not to consider a thing, the more he will so do.”

  “You think much on the loss, then?”

  “Aye, but to no purpose.”

  The ringing of a small bell interrupted our conversation. “Supper,” Master John muttered. “I care little for food this day, but you and your man are hungry, surely. Come.”

  Wyclif led the way from his chamber across the yard to the hall. The scholars who preceded us there were in muttered conversation but fell silent when they saw Master John’s scowl.

  Supper was a pottage of peas, leeks, and white beans, with a maslin loaf, wheat and rye. Saturday is a fast day. Nevertheless I detected a few bits of bacon flavoring the pottage. A man watching might have thought this a monastic house where the residents observed silence while in the refectory. There was no resumption of the afternoon argument. The scholars ate warily, one eye on their fellows, the other on Master John.

  Arthur and I ate heartily. We’d enjoyed no dinner. We might have dined at the Stag and Hounds when we left the horses, and, indeed, Arthur had peered beseechingly at me as we left the place. But I have dined many times at the Stag and Hounds. Too many times.

  It was dark when we left the hall. A sliver of moon gave enough light that I did not stumble on the cobbles of the yard. Arthur did. The ale served with supper was fresh. Arthur drank copiously.

  Master John led us to his chamber, and while he lighted a cresset I resumed my bench and Arthur took his place in the corner. But he did not remain standing. His back slid down the wall until he was seated in a crouch on the flags. He released a contented belch as the descent concluded.

  “Lord Gilbert has released you to do service for me?” Wyclif inquired.

  “Aye.”

  “I am in his debt.”

  “Not yet. I have found no books nor a malefactor.”

  “Ah, but you will. I have faith.”

  Arthur greeted Master John’s judgment with a snore. The scholar smiled and peered into the corner where Arthur sat, elbows on knees and head on arms.

  “You will be weary from your journey this day. I will have straw brought to the guest’s cell for your man and you may seek your rest. Time enough on the morrow to begin your search.”

  Scholars at Canterbury Hall take no morning meal. So when Arthur and I left our cell and made our way to Master John’s chamber, my stomach growled as loudly as Arthur’s snores. Arthur seemed not to notice.

  Master John was awaiting my arrival. His door squealed open on rusty hinges a heartbeat after I rapped my knuckles upon it. Why, I wondered, must those hinges protest so? Canterbury Hall and its buildings were but four years old. A scholar’s life is consumed with the ethereal, I think, while the realities are as lost to him as feathers upon the breeze. Greasing hinges is, to Master Wyclif, a gossamer reality.

  “Master Hugh, you slept well?”

  “Aye,” I lied.

  “I did also. For the first time in many days. You will soon find my books.”

  I was not so confident as Master John, but saw no purpose in disillusioning the hopeful scholar.

  “You did not rise for Matins,” Wyclif observed. “And I was loath to wake you. You must have rest, and your wits about you, if you are to find my books.”

  “If I am to do so I must first know all that happened the day they went missing. Especially I would know of any event out of the ordinary.”

  Master John scratched the back of his head, thought for a moment, then replied, “’Twas a normal day. A lecture in the morning. After dinner a disputation… which was a little less disputatious, perhaps, than ordinary.”

  “How so?”

  “Canterbury Hall is a new foundation, cr
eated by the Archbishop four years past. ’Twas begun with good intentions,” Wyclif sighed, “but as with many noble designs, things have gone much awry.

  “The Archbishop’s plan was to bridge the gap at Oxford between monks and secular fellows. So Canterbury Hall is to have four monks, from Canterbury, and eight secular scholars. There were four wardens before me, in but four years. The first was a monk of Canterbury. The secular scholars drove him out. The next were seculars, and the monks would not have them.”

  “There is much discord in the house?”

  “Ha,” Wyclif sniffed. “I have tried to calm my charges, but my soft answers have not turned away wrath. They argued before I came, and they will continue no matter what I do. The monks are particularly contentious. They wished for another of their house to be appointed warden. When this was not so they became angry. And as the secular fellows outnumber them two to one, they feel any criticism as a disparagement which must be promptly answered, else their antagonists will overwhelm them.”

  “And now each faction accuses the other of stealing your books?”

  “Aye. You overheard yesterday’s dispute?”

  “We did.”

  “As I am no monk, the secular fellows are convinced ’tis the monks who have done this… to force me out.”

  “And you, what do you think?”

  “Monks or seculars,” Wyclif mused, “it must be one or the other guilty.”

  “Not some thief from outside the Hall?”

  “The porter saw no stranger about the Hall.”

  “It was while you were at supper they were taken?”

  “Aye.”

  “So had some miscreant been about, it might have been too dark for the porter to see him?”

  “Aye,” Wyclif agreed.

  “Them scholars’ gowns is black,” Arthur commented from his corner. “Make ’em hard to see of a night… did a man not want to be seen.”

  “While you supped, did any leave the table, seculars or monks?”

  “Nay,” Wyclif spoke firmly. “’Tis a puzzle. No stranger sought entrance from the porter, nor was any such seen about. So the deed must have been done by one within the Hall. But we were all at supper.”