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

  ‘We saw the villagers out searching as we came through Wolvercote,’ Jordain said.

  ‘Aye, everyone is searching – the villeins from the home farm, the tenants, the villagers. We cannot know which way she will go. Perhaps to Oxford, for she knows her aunt is now there, but she might fear to be sought there and turn the other way, to Woodstock.’

  ‘If she has been gone more than a day,’ I said, ‘she’s likely well away by now. Villagers on foot will never find her.’

  ‘Aye,’ John said, ‘but they are helping of their own will. They do not like to think of a maid wandering alone. They may come across some trace of whichever way she headed. ’Tis likely, we think, that she left during the dark, betwixt Lauds and Prime, when all would have been asleep. Blundering about in the darkness, she may have broken bushes, left a trail. As well,’ he added, ‘the Reverend Mother sent the bailiff to tell Sister Benedicta’s stepfather what’s afoot. He left last evening. If he reached Master Malaliver before nightfall, they should be here shortly.’

  I looked at Philip and pulled a face. The presence of Falke Malaliver was something we would not welcome.

  ‘Best not to tell the gentleman why we are here,’ I said. ‘He will not be pleased, should he discover that we might overturn his intentions for his stepdaughter.’

  John nodded. ‘I’ll keep my tongue behind my teeth, Master Elyot, you may be sure of that. I only want to help the maid.’

  Over his shoulder, I saw one of the nuns hurrying toward the gatehouse. As she drew nearer, I realised that it was Sister Mildred, the precentrix and librarian. John ducked his head to her and slipped back within the gate.

  ‘Master Elyot,’ she said, ‘I thought it was you.’ She glanced at Jordain and Philip, but did not wait for me to present them. ‘You have been told our worrying news? Sister Benedicta gone, quite gone, it seems, from the enclave.’

  She dabbed her eyes with the edge of her sleeve and I realised her eyes were red with weeping. ‘Have you heard or seen anything of her?’

  ‘I? Nay.’ I shook my head. ‘Why should I have done so?’

  She straightened her shoulders and gave me a shrewd look. ‘She seemed very friendly with you. And moreover,’ she hesitated. ‘Moreover, the pages from the new book of hours Sister Benedicta was working on . . . they are also missing. I thought she might have brought them to you.’

  ‘Nay, that she has not,’ I said, astonished that she should even think it. ‘Are you quite sure they are missing?’

  ‘Quite. The last time I saw them, she had them in her hand as we looked at a book together in the library. I think she must have taken them away without thinking. But now I wonder whether her intention was to bring them to you.’

  ‘I think not,’ I said firmly. ‘There would be no reason to bring me an unfinished book. They will be somewhere hereabouts, I suspect. Is everyone looking for them as well as the girl?’

  She coloured slightly. ‘I have not mentioned it yet to anyone.’

  I considered. ‘Perhaps wait a while, then,’ I said. ‘I will let you know at once if she comes to my shop.’

  I did not say If she comes to me, although I felt a small spurt of hope.

  ‘You have the right of it.’ She nodded her head. ‘Some might say she had stolen the property of the abbey, although I am sure it would never seem so to her.’

  ‘A moot point,’ Philip said, speaking for the first time. ‘The parchment is certainly the property of the abbey, but the work of copying and illumination might be regarded in law as the property of the scribe. If the scribe were a full nun, the work of her hands properly belongs to the abbey. A novice whose presence here may be called in doubt, her work might be judged to belong to her.’

  ‘This is Master Philip Olney,’ I said to Sister Mildred. ‘Sister Benedicta’s man at law.’

  She gave me a startled look.

  Jordain was momentarily distracted from the matter in hand. ‘How could you separate the two, parchment and writing?’

  ‘A judgement of Solomon,’ Philip said, with a wry smile.

  ‘Let us not embark on theoretical scholastic arguments,’ I said sharply. ‘The girl is missing now for more than a day and a night. She must have gone during that severe thunderstorm. She is almost certainly wet, hungry, and lost. I believe she would make for Oxford, to her aunt, even though she has said she does not wish to be a burden to her. Yet we saw no sign of her as we rode here from the town. Therefore the search should be widened, to the country on either side of the road leading to Oxford.’

  I turned to Sister Mildred. ‘My friends and I will gladly join in the search, and I am sure we can find others in Oxford to help. It cannot all be left to the ladies of the abbey and your servants.’

  ‘I thank you, Master Elyot. And I am sure that Sister Benedicta’s stepfather will send men to help as well.’ She looked as Philip. ‘Master . . . I am sorry, I did not catch your name.’

  ‘Olney, my lady,’ he said, bowing.

  ‘Master Olney, what did you mean by saying Sister Benedicta’s presence here might be called into question?’

  Philip was spared the need to answer by the clatter of many horses crossing the bridge behind us. We all swung round to face them.

  They were led by a large, red faced man perhaps in his late fifties, who had driven his horse so hard that its coat was dark with sweat and foam dripped from its jaws, despite the fact that it was a tall destrier, as heavily built as its rider. Behind him followed a company of at least thirty men, most of them armed, though others wore the garb of huntsmen. The company was completed at a little distance by sumpter ponies, carrying large wicket baskets, from some of which came the whining of dogs.

  The leader leapt from his horse and threw the reins to Philip, although it was evident from his academic dress that he was no servant.

  ‘Well?’ The man said, striding over to Sister Mildred and thrusting his face too close to hers. ‘What have you done with my ward, you milk faced ninnies? I ordered you to keep her straitly here, and now I am told that she has escaped, gone who knows where. Well?’

  So furious was he that spittle flew from his mouth and Sister Mildred backed away in alarm. So this was Falke Malaliver. I stepped between them.

  ‘That is no way to speak to one of the holy sisters,’ I said, trying to keep my voice calm, though the man looked as though he might draw his sword in order to force his way past me.

  ‘What affair is it of yours?’ he said, barely glancing at me as he pushed past into the enclave. ‘Be quick and unload those dogs,’ he shouted over his shoulder, as he strode off in the direction of the abbess’s house.

  John came cautiously forward and took the horse’s reins from Philip. A whistle brought a groom running, who led it away, while other men dismounted. They shoved their way past Sister Mildred as roughly as their master, shouting for grooms to stable their horses and servants to bring them food and drink. It seemed that they were quite prepared to treat the nunnery as if it were a common roadside inn.

  The huntsmen remained outside the gate. Ignoring us, they began unloading the dogs, who were ill tempered with the narrow confines of the baskets and spilled out, some yelping, some silent, and began milling about, raising their legs and liberally watering the trees and the gateposts. Sister Mildred averted her eyes.

  There were three sorts of dogs, all of them trained hunting beasts. The large, silent hounds were lymers, the best animals for tracking, who would follow the scent of a quarry, so swift and noiseless that they gave no warning. There were also two kennets, also used for tracking, not as silent as the lymers but small, useful for penetrating narrow spaces.

  The noisy dogs were alaunts. I looked at Jordain in alarm, and saw my own fear reflected in his face. Alaunts were used against large game. Big, heavy animals, they would tackle a wild, tusked boar or a wolf without fear, and bring it down, as often as not. They were brave, but also unreliable, and had been known to turn on their handlers, occasionally killing them. The use of
lymers to follow Emma’s trail I could understand, but why had Malaliver brought alaunts? If he set them loose after the lymers had found her, they would kill her for sure.

  ‘I do not like the look of this,’ Jordain said.

  The words almost choked me, but I whispered, ‘The alaunts will kill her. Is that his purpose?’

  Sister Mildred overheard and raised a frightened face to me.

  ‘What do you mean, Master Elyot?’

  ‘Those big dogs,’ I said. ‘The ones that are making all the noise. They are called alaunts and they are trained to kill game.’

  ‘But surely not a person!’ she cried.

  I grimaced. ‘If the lymers track down their quarry and the alaunts are released, I do not think they would distinguish one type of quarry from another.’

  ‘My lady,’ Philip said, ‘I think you must speak at once to the Reverend Mother. Tell her to forbid the use of the dogs. Or at any rate, the use of the alaunts. If Master Malaliver objects, she should tell him that we have ridden to inform the sheriff. Hunting dogs may be used legitimately against a lord’s escaped villein, but not, certainly not, against a lady, even one who has left an abbey without leave.’

  She hurried away, heading for the abbess’s house. John, who must have heard all that passed, came out from the gate. He looked grim.

  ‘She may try,’ he said, ‘but Master Malaliver has been here before. I do not think he will take orders even from the Reverend Mother.’

  He walked over to the group of huntsmen, who were attempting to disentangle the leads of the group of overexcited dogs.

  ‘Come away within,’ he said, smiling at the man who seemed to be in charge. ‘I will take you to our kennels, where you can feed the dogs and shut them away to rest after their journey.’

  The man laughed. ‘Why do you think we carried them in baskets, fellow? They could have run with us, but our lord wanted them fresh for the hunt. And we do not feed then before a hunt. We want them keen and hungry.’

  ‘But this is a young girl you are hunting,’ John objected, ‘not some fierce boar or ravening wolf. She is to be found. Safe. Not harmed.’

  The man shrugged. ‘That’s for our lord to decide. The woman belongs to him. ’Tis for him to decide what’s to be done with her.’

  John came back to us, his face pale and worried, but I was already unhitching Rufus from the ring in the wall.

  ‘We will ride back to Oxford at once,’ I said. ‘The sheriff often has business elsewhere in the shire, but if he is not there, his deputy, Cedric Walden, is more than capable of putting a stop to this. Has the abbey’s bailiff not returned with Malaliver? He should be able to stand up to the man.’

  ‘There is no sign of him, as far as I can see,’ John said. ‘But these men have clearly ridden hard. Master Oakwood has already ridden the distance in one direction. I suppose he would go at an easier pace coming back, having fetched Sister Benedicta’s stepfather. I’ll keep a watch for him and warn him of what’s afoot as soon as he comes.’

  I nodded. ‘Good. We will fetch one of the sheriffs as soon as we can.’

  I swung myself up into the saddle. Jordain and Philip were already mounted. We turned as one and skirted round the huntsmen and their dogs before crossing the bridge and heading along the winding trackway leading to the Woodstock Road.

  ‘Shall we be in time, do you think?’ Jordain said. ‘That man is a vicious and dangerous brute.’

  ‘Would he really turn those killer dogs on the girl?’ Philip turned a look of appalled pity toward me.

  ‘Whether we shall be in time, I cannot tell.’ I could barely control the fury in my voice. ‘Let us hope Emma is well away by now. If she has followed this road to Oxford, they will soon be on our heels.’

  The track widened a little here and I gathered the reins to urge Rufus to a gallop.

  ‘Do you not see, Philip? If the dogs kill Emma – oh, quite by accident – then it clears the way for Falke Malaliver to claim her estate.’

  Philip opened his mouth to answer, but I was not prepared to listen to legal arguments. I lowered my head, kicked Rufus into a gallop, and rode away from them.

  * * *

  Emma woke, aware of pain and stiffness. She had slept deeply, exhausted from her long walk of the day before, and so had slept unmoving. Now, as she straightened, her back and legs were locked, aching from lying too long in one position. And her feet were afire. She sat up cautiously, waking Jocosa as she did so, and studied her feet. The burst blisters had bled, some oozing yellow pus between ugly clumps of scab. She wondered with a stab of fear how much longer she would be able to go on walking.

  Barely able to hobble, she staggered to the edge of the bank, where she sat down and prised off her sandals, breaking some of the scabs as she did so. Involuntarily, she gave a gasp of pain. Jocosa, beside her, anxiously licked her hand. Gingerly, she lowered her feet into the river, then with a gasp at the shock of the cold water, drew them out again. The second time, she was prepared. The pain of the cold overrode the pain of the burst blisters. After a while, it almost became pleasant. In the end, however, she had to draw her feet out of the river. As she rested her heels on the grass, she contemplated them. If only she had some of the salve Madlen had used on her back! And if only her wimple and veil had not been snatched away by the river, she could have used them to bind her feet, to protect them a little from the chafing of the hard leather straps of her sandals.

  Jocosa crawled nearer and laid her head on Emma’s lap.

  ‘It grows a little worrying,’ Emma said, running her fingers, like a comb, the wrong way through Jocosa’s coat. It was tangled with the sticky seeds of cleavers. She began to pick them out and toss them in the river. ‘We cannot stay here, without food or shelter, but I am not sure how much further I can walk.’

  Jocosa turned her head and whined. That was one of the little dog’s most appealing characteristics: she would join in a conversation.

  ‘Also,’ Emma added, ‘I am confused by this river. I thought it flowed south to Oxford, but by the angle of the rising sun, which is now behind my left shoulder, it almost seems to be flowing west, or at any rate, southwest.’

  The previous day had been heavily overcast, so that she had been unaware of the position of the sun, but now it was clear that the river – although not flowing in entirely the wrong direction – was certainly not flowing due south. How could that be?

  ‘I think I have heard,’ she said, ‘that the Thames has many branches and keeps changing its position, but surely it must eventually reach Oxford, even though I must be on the wrong side. What do you think, Jocosa?’

  The dog raised her head, ears alert, and thumped her tail, as though she agreed.

  There was nothing for it but to carry on, however the enigma might eventually be solved. Emma started to put on her right sandal, but the touch of the leather, hardened even more after its immersion in the river, made her flinch and take it off again. With nothing else to hand, Emma tore a strip off the bottom of her shift. Ripping it in half, she wound each foot in the cloth before easing her sandals carefully on to her feet again. It would still be painful to walk, but at least her skin would be protected from contact with the leather. It was a small improvement on the day before.

  She set off again, Jocosa trotting happily after her. She would make herself walk until mid day, and then they would eat the last of the food. Worryingly, the river began to veer even more to the west. The countryside which stretched away to her right still lay abandoned and uncultivated, though from the tumbled remains of houses and barns it had once been fertile farmland. Although Emma knew all too well how many had died in the Great Pestilence, she had never before seen so much of the land laid waste for want of men to farm it. It was frightening, as if she were walking through a dead land and would never again meet another living soul.

  Yet in spite of the human desolation, the country was full of birdsong. All the common birds flocked about her – blackbirds and thrushes, sparrows a
nd blue tits, squabbling starlings and softly cooing turtledoves. From the evidence of their busy activity, it seemed that many pairs were preparing to rear a second brood. The fine weather this summer, which had lasted until two days ago, must have encouraged them, and the passing storm, violent as it was, had not deterred them.

  Young rabbits were gambolling on the open patches of turf, though they scattered in haste to their burrows when a vixen on soft feet padded past, ignoring Emma as if she were invisible. When she stopped to share the last of the food with Jocosa, she saw a water vole sitting placidly on a tiny promontory beside its burrow, washing its whiskers with fastidious care. Jocosa peered over the edge of the river bank, keen to make friendly overtures, but the water vole whisked away into the safety of its home.

  Peaceful as the scene was, Emma knew that she would soon be in serious need. With the last of her food gone, her feet in danger of infection, and no sign of habitation, she realised that she might die here, in this lonely place. For the first time the abbey seemed a refuge and sanctuary, her escape the height of folly. She could have survived at Godstow. She could have learned to endure the sense of being imprisoned, could have learned to evade the innate cruelty of Sister Mercy. She had friends there – Sister Mildred, Sister Grace the infirmaress, the cook Edith, John Barnes, Madlen (until she left to be married).

  She had been given a home of sorts, clothing, food, shelter, and in return had merely been required to keep the Rule. Godstow, standing tranquil on its Thames island, was a beautiful place. Perhaps her unhappiness was nothing but her own fault, her arrogance and discontent. Would life at Godstow have been any worse, in the end, than being married off to some political ally of her stepfather? A man she might never have met?

  With a deep sigh at what she was beginning to recognise as her seriously mistaken actions, Emma got to her feet, whistled to Jocosa, who was investigating a rabbit hole, and set off again. It was soon after they had started again on their way alongside the increasingly baffling and winding river, that Emma detected the first hint of other human beings. Some distance ahead, and possibly also near the river, a thread of smoke rose, gauzy as a lady’s veil, and so quickly dispersed that she thought at first she had imagined it by some trick of a hopeful eye.