The Novice's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 2) Read online

  The

  Novice’s

  Tale

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  The

  Novice’s

  Tale

  Ann Swinfen

  Shakenoak Press

  Copyright © Ann Swinfen 2016

  Shakenoak Press

  Ann Swinfen has asserted her moral right under the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified

  as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than

  that in which it is published and without a similar condition

  being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover design by JD Smith www.jdsmith-design.co.uk

  For

  Two dear Oxford friends

  Frances & John Walsh

  Chapter One

  Oxford, Summer 1353

  The sun had broken through at last, dispersing the veils of river mist which so often hang over Oxford in hot weather. As the last wisps drifted away, Jordain Brinkylsworth and I carried our tankards of ale out into the small orchard behind my bookshop and settled ourselves on the bench under the pear tree. A dappled shade was cast by the branches, now beginning to put forth fruits no larger than a thumbnail, where only a few weeks before they had been starred with blossom. The orchard trees mitigated the heat somewhat, for when Oxford makes up its mind to summer, cupped as it is deep in the valleys of two rivers, it can become too hot for comfort, just as in winter it may turn itself into a pocket of ice.

  Our hens had retreated into the shade of the bushy fig tree I grew against one of my boundary walls. The children were playing with Jonathan Baker, who lived on the other side of the High Street, and my sister Margaret had gone to visit her friend Mary Coomber, who kept the dairy. House and garden slumbered in unaccustomed quiet. Even the bees were somnolent, only a few valiant souls venturing forth from the skep to visit the bean flowers.

  Jordain drank deeply of his ale, then, with a sigh of contentment, set down his tankard beside him on the bench and stretched out his legs.

  ‘Have you given your men a holiday, Nicholas?’ he said. ‘I saw no one in the shop.’

  ‘Roger asked leave to visit his mother, who lives over toward Otmoor. She has been ailing of late. And since there was so little business doing, I told Walter he could take the rest of the day off. We have enough peciae in hand, and most of our orders are complete. This is poor weather for scribing, as you must know yourself. Your sweaty hand sticks to the parchment. It’s all too easy to smear the ink, and the ink itself can run too fast from the quill. Better to give them time away from work than have them spoiling good parchment. Besides, there’s little doing, with term over and most of the students away home.’

  The heat was making me sleepy, and I yawned till my jaw cracked. ‘How did your students perform in their end of year disputations? I know you were doubtful about some of them.’

  ‘Well enough. I have two still staying on in Hart Hall for the summer. Having failed their disputations they have had a proper fright – and high time, too! They are hard at their studies at last, hoping to pass in the autumn. I had warned them both that they risked failing, but did they listen? Too much misplaced confidence cometh before a fall.’

  I smiled. ‘I wonder, are they the same two who acted as my bodyguards? Handy with a sword, but ill-suited to the scholar’s life.’

  ‘Aye, one of them is. ’Tother scraped through his disputation. He’s said farewell to Oxford and is off back to his father’s manor. That’s the life he is truly fit for. He will soon forget most of his studies, the philosophy and the ancient authors, but he will be better able to oversee the manor’s accounts than his father has been. And if he never reads another word of Tully, at least he will be able to make some sense of any Latin deeds and charters that come his way.’

  ‘Surely most manors keep a lettered steward, do they not?’ I pointed out. ‘To deal with such matters?’

  My own family’s farm had never required the services of such a steward, and besides, it was in my cousin Edmund’s keeping now, and of no concern to me.

  ‘There can be no harm in the manor’s lord possessing enough learning to keep a weather eye on the estate books,’ Jordain said earnestly.

  ‘I suppose not,’ I agreed.

  I smiled to myself. He had the right of it, certainly, though he himself came from a family of poor tenant farmers who had never had to worry about managing an estate. Enough for them to grow and harvest and store sufficient food to survive the next twelvemonth. It was Jordain’s own exceptional abilities which had brought him first as a young student to Oxford and then raised him to the position of Regent Master and Warden of Hart Hall.

  ‘So, you are a free man this summer,’ I said idly, sipping at my ale.

  The puppy Rowan, who had declined to go with the children to the Bakers’ house, preferring to keep out of the heat, came wandering into the garden from the open kitchen door and sought refuge in the shade under our bench.

  ‘Aye, except for keeping those two lads to their books,’ Jordain said, ‘and pursuing my own studies. At least, when it is not so hot.’

  Indeed, he was looking the worse for the heat, and wiped his face on the trailing sleeve of his academic gown. I was grateful I was no longer obliged to wear one as I went about the town. I had even thrown aside my cotte and sat in nothing but shirt and hose.

  ‘However, it is not all idleness,’ he said, ‘and that is why I have come round to see you.’

  ‘Indeed? I thought it was for the pleasure of my company and my learned discourse.’

  ‘That too, of course, although I am glad of a respite from learned discourse. Nay, it is the matter of William’s mother and sister.’

  ‘Mistress Farringdon? But has she not returned home to Berkshire?’

  ‘Aye, she has. But you will remember that with her husband’s death and the loss of the pension granted to him by the king, she has been forced to give up the tenancy of their farm. Their lord has turned them out. Had William not been killed by that devil Allard Basset of Merton, their lord might have allowed them to stay until William took up his junior Fellowship and could support them. However, as he now sees no prospect of the rent being paid even in the future, he has proved quite ruthless. They are without a home.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, not from Mistress Farringdon herself. She has too much pride to beg for help. It was the girl, Juliana.’

  ‘That young girl? She has written to you for help?’

  He grinned. ‘Aye, she has. You will remember that she was not afraid to speak her mind. It was she told us of her cousin Emma Thorgold, Sister Benedicta
at Godstow Abbey.’

  ‘I remember,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps you also remember that there is another child, a little girl – she must be of an age with your Rafe, four or five. Mistress Farringdon’s granddaughter, child of her son and his wife who died in the Great Pestilence. They left the child behind with a neighbour when they came to Oxford after William was killed.’

  ‘I had forgotten there was another child,’ I admitted. ‘A woman and two young girls, and no menfolk to support them.’

  ‘The nearest man is the second husband of Mistress Farringdon’s dead sister, but there is little love there, I understand. He has means enough to support them, I gather, but there has been no offer forthcoming from him, and, I fancy, little willingness on her part to accept his charity.’

  ‘She may be forced to plead for his help, if they have no roof over their heads.’

  ‘For the moment they are living with the neighbours who cared for the child, but from what Juliana has written to me it cannot be for long. These good people have little enough means of their own, and the house is very small. Mistress Farringdon and the two girls must find somewhere else to live.’

  ‘Is this why Juliana has written to you?’ I looked at him in concern. I knew that Jordain would give away every penny, but he did not have the means to support this family.

  ‘She has not asked me for financial help,’ he said hastily. ‘Nay, quite the opposite. Where they live is but a small village, half the population dead in the Pestilence. Juliana thought there might be more chance of their earning a living for themselves here in Oxford. She was somewhat hazy as to how they might do so, but she wanted to know whether it would be possible to find lodgings here.’

  I looked at him dubiously. ‘I suppose some of the townsfolk who let rooms to students might take them for the summer, but they will want the lodgings free when term begins again. Besides, have they the money for rent?’

  ‘Again, she was not very clear, but they have a little, it seems. How much, and whether it would suffice for lodgings, I cannot say.’

  ‘There was that woman from Banbury who sold me her husband’s books,’ I said. ‘She and her daughter are keeping themselves by making lace and braid. I suppose there is work unprotected women can do, who are gently bred. The Farringdons could not work in an alehouse, or a laundry.’

  ‘Certainly not!’ He looked horrified. ‘At the moment, I am not concerned about how they would earn their bread. My only interest is in finding them somewhere to live. This is where you come in.’

  ‘Me? I would like to help, Jordain, but we have no room here.’

  ‘Nay, nay. That is not what I have in mind. William was to have taken up his Fellowship at Merton. And he was killed by a Fellow of Merton, or at any rate on Allard Basset’s orders. Do you not think that Merton has a debt to William’s family?’

  ‘In justice and mercy, aye, you have a point. Whether they will see it that way themselves . . . they are more than a little tight fisted, I fear.’

  ‘So this is where you come in.’

  ‘I do not follow you,’ I said.

  ‘Who exposed the thief and murderer in their midst? Who recovered their most valued treasure for them? Who kept the scandal quiet, so that the college’s name was not befouled? You did.’

  ‘But–’ I said.

  ‘Merton is a rich college. They could compensate William’s family in coin. They have also bought up a great deal of property in Oxford since so much was left abandoned after the deaths from the plague. Might they not have a small house somewhere in town? One that Mistress Farringdon and the two girls could occupy?’

  I was beginning to see where this was heading. ‘They might,’ I said cautiously, ‘but Merton’s bursar is a man who holds the purse strings in a tight grip. I’d not expect any kindness from him.’

  ‘Did I mention the bursar? You should go to the Warden himself, William Durant. I have no claims there. I can do nothing. But it was you who laid the Irish Psalter safe back in his hands. You are asking nothing for yourself, nor would you ever do so, but I think he would be shamed if he refused any help to William Farringdon’s family. They thought highly of the lad at Merton, he had great promise. It is the least they could do.’

  Presented thus, it was very persuasive.

  ‘It might be worth the try,’ I said, still cautious. ‘But you forget, I also have an unfortunate history with Merton. Just before I was to take up my own Fellowship there, I abandoned my academic career to marry Elizabeth. I think it is still held against me in the college.’

  Jordain waved my words aside. ‘That was seven years ago. There was a different Warden heading the college then, Robert Trenge. The present Warden may not even know of it. And the man who held it most against you was Master Allard Basset himself, that same thief and murderer. I am sure that recent events have much greater value than all that ancient history. Will you at least make trial of it?’

  What could I say? Mistress Farringdon and the two girls were in desperate need. It was their poverty which had driven William to accept the work of scribing a copy of the ancient Irish Psalter. And because he was an honest, decent young man, when he discovered the criminal nature of the scheme, he refused to continue. It had cost him his life. Surely I was not such a coward that I could not do this for his mother?

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I do not relish such an interview with Warden Durant, but I will do my best.’

  ‘Excellent!’ He thumped me on the shoulder, nearly spilling my ale. ‘None of us can do more than our best.’

  We sat for a while in the drowsy afternoon silence, broken only by the occasional murmur from the hens, and those few determined bees flying between their skep and my rows of beans. These had nearly finished flowering, but their sweet fragrance still hung in the air, a scent to surpass any apothecary’s perfume compounded for some great lady. Once, Rowan woke, gave an explosive sneeze, then slept again.

  ‘Did you not say that you had a book to show me?’ Jordain asked.

  ‘I have. And I will bring us more ale. This weather makes for a great thirst.’

  I got up and went back into the kitchen. Margaret kept the barrel of ale in the coolest corner of her stillroom. When I had filled a flagon, I went through to the shop, where the closed shutters made it clear that I was not open for business. Although it was dim in here, I could put my hand on the book at once, where I kept it safely hidden away on the highest shelf. My scriveners, Walter and Roger, knew that it was not for sale, but I wanted to be sure that no customer, idly examining my books, would pick it up and handle it. I carried book and flagon out to the garden, but set the flagon down at a slight distance in a shady clump of long grass.

  ‘You shall have more to drink,’ I said, ‘but best to keep it well away from this.’

  I laid the book in his hands. It was small, barely four inches wide by six inches tall, bound in pale blue calfskin. The cover was tooled and ornamented with gold leaf, but it was not studded with gems, as some more ostentatious books are. I preferred it so. It fitted neatly into the hand, smooth and silky to the touch. Bookbinder Henry Stalbroke had chosen exactly the right binding to suit the contents. The edges of the pages were gilded. It looked rich, but restrained. Elegant.

  Jordain opened it. ‘A book of hours?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But not the one you starved yourself to buy when you were a boy?’

  ‘This is new made.’ I still loved my first book of hours, bought from Humphrey Hadley – who later became my father-in-law – partly because it reminded me of his daughter Elizabeth. But this book was of a different order.

  He began to turn the pages.

  ‘This is very fine.’

  ‘It is.’

  He chuckled. ‘And an artist with a clever, subtle, sense of humour.’ He looked up at me and smiled. ‘There is no harm in a little leavening amongst the solemnity of prayer. I think anyone who used this for daily devotions would perform them all the more warmly, for the kin
dliness of the illustrator.’

  He said no more until he had turned over every page. Then he handed the book back to me.

  ‘And where did you come by such a treasure? That is not Roger Pigot’s work, nor yet Walter’s.’

  ‘It is not.’ I ran my thumb gently along the spine of the book. ‘I saw it first in Henry Stalbroke’s workshop, where he had it in for binding.’

  ‘It was locally made?’ he said in surprise. ‘I thought perhaps it had come from France.’

  ‘Locally made indeed.’

  ‘Not in your bookshop, and no other bookshop in Oxford has men who could produce that quality. Nor, I think, any of the colleges. And anyway, these days they mostly work at copying the major academic texts. That is their greatest need.’ He eyed the book, loosely clasped between my hands. ‘It must come from one of the monastic houses.’

  I nodded.

  ‘But which? I have not seen work of that quality from any of them. Such fine detail. And the colours are used with an expert eye for beauty. Nay, it is too much for me!’

  ‘It was made at Godstow Abbey.’ I was unable to keep a certain triumphant note from my voice. ‘At first they were reluctant to sell, but Henry Stalbroke persuaded them that such works of devotion would be as worthwhile a source of income for them as the fine embroideries they deal in more commonly. I had told him I would buy it if they would sell.’

  ‘It was made by a woman!’ He made no attempt to conceal his incredulity. ‘I would never have believed it! Well, you will be able to sell that for a fine price to some nobleman.’

  ‘I shall not sell it.’

  He looked at me speculatively. ‘Do you know who made it?’

  ‘Indeed I do. It was Emma Thorgold, William Farringdon’s cousin.’