The Abbot's Agreement (11 page)

“Stabbed in the back. What’s that to do with Sir Thomas bein’ left-handed?”

“The novice was pierced three times. Two of the wounds were upon the right side of his back, below his right shoulder-blade. Only one stroke caught him to the left of his spine, likely because he turned to face his assailant before he fled in the only direction he could go.”

“Into the fishpond.”

“Aye.”

“So if his murderer was left-handed the wounds would have been on t’other side,” Arthur said.

“Aye,” I agreed. “And most knights own a fur coat, or at least a cloak with a fur lining, so that Sir Thomas possesses one, which is yet in his chest, tells us little.”

“If it is in his chest,” Arthur said.

A few moments later we traveled around a bend in the road but a half-mile from Eynsham, and came upon Sir Thomas’s horse. The beast had evidently decided that danger had passed, and was contentedly cropping what remained of the grass at the verge of the road. The animal lifted his head to watch us approach, determined that we presented no threat, and returned to his occupation.

“Should we return ’im to Sir Thomas?” Arthur asked.

“He’s not far behind,” I said, “and the walk will do him good… provide him time to consider his sins.”

S
imon atte Pond and his lads were again at ditching. This task seemed nearly concluded, which was good, as the November day was nearly done. Only a dozen or so paces remained before the low place would be drained. The reeve looked up from his work, nodded, and his three laborers tugged forelocks as we passed. I wondered how the reeve would greet Sir Thomas when he approached. The knight would have found and mounted his horse before he reached the place.

A hundred paces beyond the ditchers an arm of woodland extended to the north edge of the road. I drew my palfrey to a halt and told Arthur to do likewise. We led our beasts into the darkness of the trees, tied them, and I explained the reason while we returned to the road.

We hid ourselves behind the largest oak, which was barely large enough to conceal Arthur alone, and watched for Sir Thomas to appear around the bend of the road. We did not wait long.

I was too far from the reeve to hear any greeting or conversation, but men may speak with body and face as well as words. Sir Thomas halted before the reeve and the men exchanged a few words. The knight then dismounted and led his horse toward our place of concealment. Atte Pond followed.

They had walked perhaps thirty paces from the ditchers when Sir Thomas halted and the two resumed their conversation out of the hearing of the others.

This discourse was at first unaccompanied by any gestures and seemed right amicable. But after a few minutes I saw Sir Thomas respond to the reeve with a shake of his head. Then he spoke a few words, and the reeve replied with a long speech which he punctuated with several waves of his arms.

To this display Sir Thomas again responded with a shake of his head, then replied with an oration as long as the reeve’s. Atte Pond looked away several times as Sir Thomas spoke, as if
other matters interested him more than the knight’s words, and once he looked to the road at his feet and idly toed a pebble he found there.

When Sir Thomas ended his remarks it was the reeve’s turn to shake his head. He then turned abruptly to return to his laborers, but Sir Thomas reached for his arm to detain him.

Atte Pond took this gesture badly. He yanked his arm free and slapped at Sir Thomas’s offending fingers with his free hand. But if the knight had intended the restraint to halt the reeve’s return to join his workers, he succeeded. Atte Pond stepped back to Sir Thomas and I could see the men face each other, their complexions grown livid, from little more than a hand’s breadth apart. I expected next to see blows exchanged.

This did not happen. No reeve wishes to be charged with assaulting a knight, especially, I suppose, if the lad may become his son-in-law. And Sir Thomas had but to peer over atte Pond’s shoulder to see the ditchers, picks and spades in hand, to understand that if he unsheathed his dagger he would soon be overwhelmed. Prudence overcame rashness.

“Them fellas ain’t pleased with each other,” Arthur whispered. “Wonder what’s got ’em so upset?”

I wondered the same, and did not reply, as I had no answer. Was Sir Thomas unhappy with the reeve’s ditching? That seemed unlikely, for neither man had looked to the work, either where it was currently being done, or where it was complete. And the work was upon abbey land, not that of Sir Thomas’s father.

The only other reason the two might have conversation, it seemed to me, was concerning Maude’s future. Why would that cause such a heated disagreement? Did the men disagree upon dowry and dower?

A moment later Sir Thomas turned from his antagonist, climbed to his saddle, and without looking back at the reeve spurred the beast cruelly. I took Arthur’s arm and drew him deeper into the darkening wood. Sir Thomas’s wrath might blind him to men partly hidden among the trees, but I desired to be more sure of our concealment.

We waited until I was sure that Sir Thomas was well away, then led the palfreys to the road and mounted. ’Twas but a short way to Eynsham and the abbey.

“Must be true what folk do say,” Arthur said, “that money don’t buy happiness. Them chaps is rich, but they sure ain’t happy.”

“Rich? A reeve and the younger son of a minor knight?”

“Any man what’s got more coin in ’is purse than me is rich,” Arthur said.

“Are you happy?” I asked.

The groom was silent for a few moments. “Content,” he replied. “Was happy, ’till plague took my Cicily. Don’t worry, as some cotters do, about what I’ll eat come the morrow.”

“Do you suppose,” I asked, “that there are some poor cotters who are happy?”

“Mayhap, but I doubt so. Pennies in a man’s pouch don’t promise happiness, but an empty purse won’t buy anythin’… includin’ happiness. Havin’ a few coins to spare may not make a man joyful,” Arthur said thoughtfully, “but they might make sorrow easier to bear.”

We passed the manor house as Arthur concluded this thought. At that moment Sir Thomas appeared between the house and stables, saw us, and stared open-mouthed. We had gone ahead of the knight after leaving the ford, but now were behind him in entering the village. He would surely wonder why, and might guess that we had seen or heard his dispute with Simon atte Pond.

We gave the palfreys to a lay brother and sought the guest house as the day faded from grey to black. I assumed that our supper would be another bowl of pease pottage, so was not much disappointed when the meal appeared. The loaves which accompanied the pottage, though, were wheaten, and of best quality. And the ale seemed some better than the abbey’s usual fare. Perhaps the arrival of an archdeacon had influence.

Next morning Arthur and I joined Eynsham villagers in the church nave for prime and the mass. Abbot Thurstan, of course,
took no part in this, being unable to rise from his bed. Prior Philip and the archdeacon led the service.

Sir Thomas, his lip swollen and an eye turning purple, entered the church as the archdeacon’s clerk rang the bell. Sir Thomas was in company with three others: an older man, fat and bald, whom I took to be his father, Sir Richard, and a man and woman of near his own age, whom I assumed were his older brother, Sir Geoffrey, and wife.

There was little remarkable about the mass. I had endured many like it. The archdeacon’s sermon was forgettable. I don’t remember what it was about. Indeed, several women of the village found it so wearying that they gossiped among themselves while the archdeacon droned on. These women stood immediately behind Arthur and me, and at first I found their prattle annoying, but soon gave my attention to them rather than the archdeacon.

“Come back intendin’ to wed an’ take ’er off,” one woman whispered. “But Sir Richard don’t approve.”

“Her bein’ a reeve’s daughter, ’tis no wonder,” another said.

“Got no prospects in Essex, I’d guess, else he’d not return for but a reeve’s daughter.”

“You see ’is eye? All black it is.”

“Aye. Wonder who done that?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me none if ’twas ’is brother.”

“Ha. More likely Sir Geoffrey’ll have ’is own blackened eye after Hawisa deals with ’im does ’e not keep from Maude.”

“Wouldn’t be a bad thing was Sir Thomas to wed the lass an’ take her from Eynsham. A maid that pert causes too much trouble.”

“Not ’er fault.”

“Nay… s’pose not. She don’t behave unseemly. Alyce sees to that.”

The women chuckled at that remark, then one said in a voice so low I could barely make out the words, “Maude told my Agnes that she’d soon be off to Wantage.”

“Wantage? Sir Thomas returned from Chelmsford. What suitor’s from Wantage? Ralph?”

“Nay. Ralph’s of Banbury.”

“Would Simon put her out to service in Wantage?”

“Don’t think so. Alyce wouldn’t hear of it. Works the lass from dawn to dusk, does Alyce. An’ Simon puts ’er and Juliana to work at the monks’ laundry.”

“The prior’s of Wantage… so I heard.”

My thoughts had begun to wander from the gossip behind me, but this remark caught my attention. John Whytyng came from Wantage. Would the prior have known the novice or his family before the lad came to the abbey? And if so, what might that have to do with Whytyng’s murder? Probably nothing. But I had few other notions that morning about paths I might follow in seeking a killer. Perhaps a brief journey to Wantage was in order.

Dinner this day was splendid. The abbot’s kitchen had roasted a boar in honor of the archdeacon’s visit, and there was plenty of pork to share with humble residents of the guest house.

When our meal was done I told Arthur to see the palfreys readied at the stables, then crossed the kitchen garden, passed through the refectory to the west range, and rapped upon the closed door of the abbot’s chamber. Brother Guibert opened the heavy door, frowning at whoso intruded upon the abbot’s rest, but when he saw ’twas me his visage softened and he bid me enter.

Abbot Thurstan lay as I had seen him last, his face pale, wispy white hairs scattered upon the pillow. He coughed, then turned his head to see who had entered his chamber, and would have lifted it from the pillow but had not the strength.

“His breathing is weak and shallow,” the infirmarer said.

I bent close to the abbot to listen as his chest rose and fell beneath the blanket, and discovered the truth of Brother Guibert’s words. Abbot Thurstan knew this also.

“Not much longer now, I think,” the abbot said in a whisper, which was all the volume he seemed able to manage. “Your words yesterday have given me much to consider. I thank you. I am content, as I was not before, to pass to the next world. The Lord Christ will not turn away anyone who is so minded as I am to go to Him.”

“He will take no more of the pounded hemp seeds,” the infirmarer said.

“Does your hip not pain you?” I asked.

“Aye,” he murmured. “But it dulls my wits. I wish to go to the Lord Christ with a prayer upon my lips, not asleep, as the unwise virgins.”

“I must leave the abbey for a few days,” I said.

Abbot Thurstan’s eyebrows raised, and I explained. “John Whytyng was of Wantage. I have just today learned that Prior Philip is also of that place. I intend to visit the town and learn if there be any connection between the two, or their families.”

“Surely you cannot think that Prior Philip had any part in the novice’s death,” the abbot said.

“I confess that I do not know what to think of this death. So I must seek what knowledge I may, even if it seems a foolish waste to do so. What family is Prior Philip’s?”

“Thorpe. His father was Sir John, brother to Sir William, once Chief Justice of the King’s Bench.”

“A man of influence,” I replied. “Does Prior Philip’s uncle yet live?”

“Nay. And not so much influence if he did. Sir William was imprisoned many years past for accepting bribes.”

The abbot’s words seemed to tire him. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, ’till I saw his chest rise slightly, I thought he might have died before me from the exertion of his speech.

The wind increased while I stood before the abbot, and rain began to rattle the chamber windows. The sound nearly obscured the abbot’s next words.

I saw his eyes blink open, and heard him say, “Prior Philip’s brother is Sir John Thorpe. He inherited the manor, so Philip came to us. Doesn’t speak of his brother… don’t believe they got along well. Philip is an able man, but can be peevish.”

And impatient, I reflected, as I considered that it was likely the prior’s desire to succeed Abbot Thurstan which led to the old monk’s injury.

I had no desire to travel to Wantage in a cold November downpour, so found Arthur and told him to return to the stables and inform the lay brother in charge that our plans were changed. We would travel on the morrow. Arthur seemed glad of the alteration.

I awoke in the night and was pleased to no longer hear pelting rain upon the guest house window. The sky had cleared in the night. The dawn was bright but cold. We would not be wet traveling this day, but neither would we be warm.

A lay brother appeared with a maslin loaf and ale with which we broke our fast. The abbey stable had our palfreys ready, as Arthur had requested, and we were away to Cumnor and beyond, to Wantage, before the day was an hour old.

A skim of ice crusted puddles in the road and ditches, and I wished again for my fur coat. The sun soon rose above the trees and warmed us some while we traveled. At Cumnor I called upon Osbern Mallory to inspect his wound. There was some redness about the cut, but it oozed no pus. Some believe this an ill sign; that a thick pus issuing from a wound is best, and a thin, watery pus, or none at all, is a dangerous sign. But I hold with de Mondeville, whose book,
Surgery
, I own, that no pus at all from a cut is best.

The road to Wantage passes through East Hanney, where a year past Arthur and I had discovered a stolen maiden and a plot to seize a cache of ancient silver coins. Sir Simon Trillowe, who was involved in the plot, and whose designs for Kate Caxton I had thwarted, lived in the village upon his father’s manor. I preferred to avoid the fellow, so as we drew near the place I wrapped my liripipe about my neck and face as if to ward off the chill. No one paid us any attention as we passed through the village.

Wantage is but two miles beyond East Hanney. We entered the town before noon, found an inn, left the palfreys at the stable, and sought a meal.

Arthur and I shared a roasted capon and maslin loaf, spoke little, and listened to the local gossip. We learned a great deal, but nothing of either John Whytyng or Prior Philip. I decided to
seek the novice’s father first, and asked the innkeeper where I might find him.

The fellow gazed suspiciously at me. Strangers are generally mistrusted, and especially so when they ask of a local villager. Folk wonder why a stranger should be curious about their doings.

Arthur remained at our table, licking grease from his fingers and downing the last of an ewer of ale. The innkeeper glanced over my shoulder at Arthur, then back to me, before he spoke. He apparently saw no threat in one slender, bearded man and another who was intent upon licking the last of a capon from his fingers. He told me where I could find Sir Henry, for so John Whytyng’s father was named.

Sir Henry Whytyng’s lands lay to the west of Wantage, half a mile, no more, from the inn. The innkeeper described the place well: a village of six houses, a church in Sir Henry’s gift, and a two-story manor house, whitewashed and well thatched.