A Trail of Ink (17 page)

I prodded Bruce forward while attempting to recognize landmarks I had seen earlier going in the opposite direction on a galloping horse. This was not a successful endeavor until, some five hundred paces from the river, I saw an opening in the wood. A narrow path led to the north, which was the direction from which the three horsemen had appeared. This trail was near to overgrown with brambles, but it seemed possible that horses in single file might traverse it. I pulled Bruce to a halt and examined the forest through the aperture. Lord Gilbert reined his mount to a stop beside Bruce and studied the narrow opening.

“Was it here they lay in wait?” he asked.

“I am unsure. Does the path pierce the forest deeply enough that three horses may be hid from whoso may pass on the road? Fallen leaves obscure the ground. I see no hoofprints.”

“We shall soon know,” Lord Gilbert announced, and swung down from his saddle. I dismounted also, as did Arthur. Lord Gilbert instructed the others to wait with the horses, then plunged into the narrow, thorn-bordered path. Arthur and I followed.

Where this trail verged upon the road there was grass, but a few paces into the forest the track turned to mud. Too little sunlight penetrated the canopy for any but the hardiest brambles to prosper. The earth here was covered with a yellow overlay of fallen leaves, so that the bare ground was concealed until Lord Gilbert swept leaves from the track with the toe of a boot.

“Hah,” he shouted triumphantly. “See here, Hugh.”

He pointed to the damp earth at his feet. The prints of several horses were clearly impressed into the mud.

“Here is where the scoundrels lay in wait for you, Hugh.”

I agreed that this was likely, as there was no other reason for horses to be upon this hidden forest track. This was the wrong season to seek blackberries, and the path was too shaded, and no man would do so from horseback even was it midsummer.

The low afternoon sun penetrated to the path in mottled patches of golden light. In June this might be so only at mid-day, but now, in November, many leaves had fallen so that even a slanting sun could partially illuminate the thorns and nettles which lined the trail.

Lord Gilbert, Arthur, and I gazed about this dent in the forest, seeking nothing in particular and finding just that.

“There were horsemen here,” Lord Gilbert scoffed, “but the hoofprints of their beasts will not lead us to them.”

Several times as we entered the forest thorns had fixed themselves to my chauces and coat. Another did so when I turned to follow Arthur to the road. I bent to release my coat from the bramble and against the dark twigs a tendril of green, illuminated in a tiny pool of sunlight, caught my eye. Lord Gilbert, now behind me, saw me pluck the object from a thorn and hold it to my eye.

“What have you there?”

I turned and held a wisp of green wool out to his inspection.

“Ah,” he exclaimed. “The knaves did not leave this track whole after all.”

“No. It seems they have abandoned a clue.”

Some months earlier I had discovered a tuft of black wool in a bramble patch in a grove north of Bampton. The find led to a blackmailer and a murderer. I wondered if the green threads in my hand would lead to stolen books or a disappointed suitor.

Lord Gilbert and his six grooms halted at the Castle Mill Stream and bade Arthur and me farewell. The streets of Oxford were crowded with folk completing the day’s business. No man was likely to accost me in such a public place, and Lord Gilbert was eager to return to Eynsham.

Arthur and I again left our horses at the Stag and Hounds. Bruce seemed pleased to enter the yard behind the inn. Perhaps he considered the place a second home. We entered Canterbury Hall in time for supper, a pease pottage with maslin loaf and cheese. I was not much hungry.

Master John was surprised at my early return. After supper he called me to his chamber to learn of the journey and the treatment he supposed I had given to Lord Gilbert’s son. Master John seems always ready to hear of surgeries I have done.

I explained that Sir Walter Benyt, was that his true name, had misled me, and told of my brush with felons on the road. Master John was of the same opinion as Lord Gilbert.

“There is villainy in this,” he spluttered. “‘Twas not only your purse they sought!”

angered some who now wish to do me harm,” I agreed.

“On my account, perhaps. I will be a wretched man should evil befall you as you seek my books. See to your safety, Hugh.”

“Perhaps I was attacked by men in league with Sir Simon Trillowe?”

“Hmm. The sheriff’s son who would have pursued Kate Caxton.”

“Aye. We met a few days past outside the gate to Canterbury Hall. He is not content, I think, to let the matter rest.”

“Young knights are a vain and vexatious lot. Well, he must be content, like it or not, in a month, will he not?”

“Aye. Kate will be my wife, we will dwell in Bampton, and I need see the fellow no more. If I find your books.”

The Angelus Bell rang from the Priory Church of St Frideswide and I could not stifle a yawn. Master John grinned. “I thought ‘twas only we aged who must go to our beds with the Angelus Bell,” he jested.

“You? Aged?”

“A figure of speech. Older than you, Master Hugh. Although there be mornings my bones seem to creak more when I rise from my bed than they once did. In holy writ a man’s years are three score and ten… but few there be who see that many seasons. So wed your Kate and make the most of the years God will grant you.”

“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.”