The Bookseller's Tale (Oxford Medieval Mysteries Book 1) Read online

‘Have you no dog nowadays, Thomas?’ I said, as I counted out the agreed money.

  ‘Nay.’ He spat on to the straw-strewn floor. ‘Killed him, didn’t they? Those constables from Oxford. They’d no right, out here. I’m no part of the town of Oxford.’

  ‘Aye, it was bad. Should you not get another, now the plague is gone?’

  ‘If it has gone.’

  ‘It’s to be hoped so.’

  He shrugged. ‘I could do with a good ratter. Them vermin get in the corn store, even in the house. One great brute tried to make off with a block of cheese, till I took a spade to ’un.’

  ‘I know of some pups looking for homes. The dam is a prize ratter. Just what you need.’

  Before I left the farm I had a promise to take back to John Baker, that Thomas would have one of the puppies, though as I closed the gate thankfully on the malevolent stare from goose eyes, I felt a twinge of sympathy for any dog who must learn to live with them. I set off briskly back to Oxford, coming out from under the blossoming hedgerow trees to be momentarily blinded by the brightness of the setting sun full in my face.

  By the time I reached the East Bridge, I was seeing dancing black spots before my eyes from the glare of the sunlight, so I paused on the bridge and turned to look down at the cool waters sliding smooth and inviting beneath. I was hot from my walk and remembered the silky pleasure of jumping naked into the river here, off the bank stretching down from the hospital wall to the river. We were strictly forbidden to swim, of course, as students under the jurisdiction of the university, but have such rules ever stopped young lads from swimming on a hot day, when they are released from their lessons?

  Was that someone in the river now? My eyes were still dazzled from the low-lying sun, and I shaded them to try to see better. Whoever he was, he was not so much swimming as floating. I felt a sudden chill. The youth was not swimming, for he was fully clad. And he was not swimming, for he was dead. And I knew him. It was the student from Hart Hall. William Farringdon.

  Chapter Two

  The boy’s body stirred in the river current, a grotesque suggestion of living movement. It had caught for a moment amongst the reeds along the bank nearest St John’s Hospital, but even as I watched, it began to free itself, turning slowly in the stream. I must act quickly, or it would be swept away, down to where the Cherwell joined the Thames, and then there would be nothing to stop it before it was borne away to London.

  I ran to the town side of the bridge, threw down the sack of feathers, and pulled off my shoes. I looked around for something – a branch, anything – that I might use to catch hold of the body as it floated under the bridge, but there was no debris on the bank. There was nothing for it – I would have to wade out deep into the river fully dressed. The cold made me gasp as I slithered down the muddy bank and into the river. It had been a mild spring day, but it was evening now and the sun had not been strong enough to warm the water. I had hardly gone more than a few steps before my legs began to grow numb.

  Perversely, the body swung out toward the deeper water in the centre of the river as it drifted under the bridge, so that I was forced to wade until the water was up to my waist. I made a lunge forward. If I missed, it would be gone before I could make a second grab. My hand met sodden cloth and I tightened my grip, though the body tugged, almost pulling me over. The current was stronger than I had suspected. When my foot slipped on mud, I nearly lost my hold and went under, but I managed to stagger back a few paces. My fingers were tangled in the cloth of William’s hood, which had slipped off his head.

  The hood was separate, not part of his cotte, and I was afraid it would come away in my hands. I heaved the body nearer, got my hands under the boy’s armpits, and began to drag him toward the bank. I am reasonably strong, but he was a tall, well-built lad, and the sodden clothing added to the weight. Where was everyone? This was usually a busy road, but this evening it was deserted. I kept backing toward the bank, but I was losing my grip, when at last two of the lay brothers from the hospital appeared above me on the bridge, staring down in astonishment.

  ‘Give me a hand here!’ I gasped, for I was nearly out of breath.

  At first they hardly seemed to understand, then they came reluctantly down from the bridge and round to the part of the bank I was trying to reach.

  ‘Can you not help me?’ I called angrily. ‘I’m afraid of losing him.’

  They looked at one another, then slowly began to kilt up the skirts of their habits, revealing two pairs of hairy legs. I was nearly at the bank now. One of the men took a few hesitant steps into the shallows, still wearing his sandals. The other seemed unwilling to venture even that far. Finally the first man took a cautious hold of William’s left arm and shoulder, while I shifted my grip to the right. With inept assistance from the second man, we managed to drag the body up on to the grass, where it lay in a pool of water and slime.

  ‘Who is it?’ the more helpful of the lay brothers asked.

  ‘He is a student, William Farringdon,’ I said. ‘A student at Hart Hall.’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He was in my shop just a few hours ago.’

  ‘I know who you are,’ the other man said. ‘You have Humphrey Hadley’s bookshop in the High.’ He squinted at me suspiciously. ‘What have you done to him?’ He pointed with the toe of his sandal at the recumbent body.

  ‘Done to him? I’ve done nothing,’ I said, caught between annoyance and alarm. ‘I was coming back from Yardley’s farm when I saw him from the bridge.’

  ‘But you know him.’

  ‘I know most of the students, they are in and out of my shop all the time.’

  I shivered. I was soaking wet almost to my chest, and it was nearly sunset. The small warmth of the day was seeping away. All I wanted to do was to go home and don dry clothes, but there were matters which must be seen to first.

  ‘Poor lad,’ the first man said. He was large and comfortable looking, and he turned a sad eye on the body lying in the grass. ‘Suicide is a grievous sin. Why would he do such a thing?’

  ‘We do not know that it was suicide,’ I said firmly. Best to scotch such an assumption at once, or they would have the poor lad shovelled away in unhallowed earth without a qualm. ‘He may have fallen in, and perhaps he could not swim. And who knows where he went in the river? Perhaps the bank was high and slippery, and he could not scramble out.’

  ‘It must have been this side of Holywell Mill,’ the other man said, still giving me that suspicious look.

  ‘Aye, you are probably right,’ I agreed.

  Had William Farringdon killed himself? I remembered how worried and anxious he had appeared when I had seen him earlier. These boys, away from their families for the first time in their lives, sometimes were lost and frightened. I had had some bad moments myself. But William was not one of the very young students. He must have been eighteen, already four years or thereabouts into his university studies.

  It was time to stop speculating and act.

  ‘This must be reported to the parish constables,’ I said. ‘Will one of you go at once? He belongs to the parish of St-Peter-in-the-East.’

  I directed my gaze firmly at the man who had helped me. I was not sure I quite trusted the other, who seemed to think that I had something to do with William’s death.

  ‘And you,’ I said, turning to the other man, ‘can you fetch some strong fellows and a hurdle or a door, so that we can carry him away from here? I will stay with him. We could take him to the hospital. ’Tis but a few steps.’

  ‘I do not think John de Idbury, our Warden, will allow that,’ the man said. ‘This fellow is none of ours.’

  So much for Christian charity, I thought.

  ‘Then we will carry him to St Peter’s,’ I said, ‘though it is a greater distance to bear such a heavy burden.’

  They climbed up to the road and started on their way, the one walking briskly toward the East Gate, the other slowly and with backward looks, toward the nearby gatehouse of St Jo
hn’s Hospital. I sat down on the grass beside the body, and forced my shoes on over my wet hose. What a waste of a young life, I thought. Jordain had thought highly of the lad, knowing that he was to stay on after he completed the Quadrivium, to continue to higher studies in Law or Philosophy or Medicine.

  The body lay sprawled in an ungainly pose, so I stood up and tried to arrange him in a more seemly position. It was then that I saw what I had not noticed in the river. Indeed, the river had washed most of it away.

  The breast of the boy’s cotte bore a wide stain which could be but one thing. Blood.

  By the time the one lay brother had returned with two strong servants from the hospital, carrying a wicker hurdle between them, and the other hurried back from the town with one of the parish constables, Edric Cromer, the light was fading. In the dim of twilight, William Farringdon’s body was reduced to a tumble of flaccid limbs and heaped clothes reeking of dirty river water. I was reeking myself, and growing colder by the minute. While I had waited, I had examined the body more carefully. Tipping it on to its side, I had discovered more and larger traces of blood on the back of the cotte, where a slit in the cloth showed where a knife had penetrated. There was only the smallest of holes on the front, so the knife or dagger had been long enough to pass right through from his back, the tip just emerging from his chest. I decided to say nothing at present about what I had seen, in the presence of so many strangers.

  As we carried William’s body up from the bank to the road, we found a small crowd already gathered in front of the row of cottages, which faced the gate of the hospital on the other side of the road. I picked out one sharp-faced boy and beckoned him over.

  ‘Do you know Hart Hall?’ I said. ‘At the far end of Hammer Hall Lane?’

  ‘Aye, maister.’

  ‘If you run there and ask for the Warden, and tell him to meet Master Elyot at St-Peter-in-the-East as soon as he can, then you shall have a silver ha’penny.’

  ‘Aye, that I will, maister.’ And he was off. The prospect of a silver ha’penny was even more enticing than the gruesome spectacle of watching a body being recovered from the Cherwell and carried into town.

  I followed the men carrying the hurdle, squelching in my sodden hose, and beginning to grow very cold. At the last moment I remembered my sack of feathers and went back for them, silently cursing that I had chosen this evening to walk to Yardley’s farm. Had I not been crossing the bridge when the body was washed toward it, I should have known nothing about it and would be at home now eating my supper and sending my children to bed. Now my family would be worried, not knowing what had become of me. And then I felt ashamed. For had I not been there, William would not have been found, except, perhaps, miles down river, by strangers.

  We made a sad, bedraggled procession, in through the East Gate and along the High Street. The body left a dripping trail in the dry dust of the roadway, and I left my own dripping trail, following along in its wake. We reached St Edmund Hall, at the south end of Hammer Hall Lane, and turned the corner into that narrow alleyway, which zigzagged past the church and behind Queen’s College, eventually reaching the town wall at the small postern, Smith Gate, near Hart Hall. Just beyond the boundary wall at the back of St Edmund Hall lay St Peter’s churchyard, with the south door of the church at its far end. The west door opened directly on to the lane, but the constable fetched by the lay brother had sent word to the rector to open the south door for us.

  Jordain’s quickest route here would be along Hammer Hall Lane from the far end, but it was one to be avoided at night – and night was drawing in now. Beyond the church there was a cluster of poor cottages, leaning together, with a maze of narrow footpaths between them, so narrow you could not stretch out your arms at your side. It had always been one of the worst areas in Oxford, but the Death had wiped out all but a few of those who lived there. The last dregs of humanity had fled, leaving the cottages derelict and falling every year into greater decay. Now they had been taken over by thieves and vagabonds, and the worst of the pox-ridden prostitutes lodged there. Students were warned to stay well away from them, but not all of them listened. And no man who valued his purse or his life would walk that way after dark. The place was a disgrace to Oxford, but we were all slow at recovering after so much had been lost. Some day, perhaps, the town authorities would clean the place up, or simply knock the ramshackle hovels down. If William’s body had been found there, it would not have surprised me.

  We turned into the churchyard and followed the path to the south door of the church. It was a relief to see that the rector was already there, with the churchwarden, who held aloft a flaming torch, providing us with some light to see by, although it also gave the scene a somewhat macabre air. I heard running steps behind me and turned to see Jordain, his academic gown flying out like wings.

  ‘You did not come by the lane, did you?’ I said. ‘After dark?’

  ‘It is the shortest way. Besides, if this child is not afraid–’

  ‘The child has nothing about him worth stealing,’ I said.

  Behind him, the boy held out a grubby hand. I felt in my purse and found a silver ha’penny.

  ‘Now,’ I said, ‘if you run another errand, you shall have another.’

  ‘Aye, maister?’

  ‘Just along this side of the High, three houses past the gate of Queen’s, there is the bookshop.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Go there and tell Mistress Makepeace that her brother is delayed, but not to fret, he will be home soon. Can you remember that?’

  ‘Bookshop. Mistress Makepeace. Brother delayed, but home soon. That’ll be you, maister?’

  ‘Aye, that’s me.’

  He nodded and ran off.

  ‘Well?’ Jordain said, eying the group which was being ushered into the church, ‘What’s to-do?’ He peered at me, as we stood on the edge of the circle of light. ‘Nicholas, amicus meus, have you been swimming?’

  ‘Very nearly,’ I said grimly. ‘It’s bad news, Jordain. William Farringdon. I found him in the Cherwell. He’s dead.’

  Jordain turned visibly pale and crossed himself, murmuring a soft prayer. His eyes were wide in dismay.

  ‘I could have prevented! I knew something was amiss, but he would not say. Oh, why will the young fall into such despair? There’s little in this life that cannot be mended in time. But suicide – that serves no end, and now he has imperilled his immortal soul.’

  I took Jordain by the elbow and leaned close, so that I might whisper.

  ‘Did I mention suicide? Do not assume it was suicide in front of these people. I have pointed out that it might have been an accident, that he slipped into the river and could not scramble out.’

  He looked at me shrewdly. ‘What is it that you are not saying, Nicholas?’

  ‘Later.’

  The boy was back, panting a little.

  ‘I seen Mistress Makepeace, maister, and told her you got a soaking, but none the worse.’

  I grimaced, I had not given him leave to tell Margaret that. It would be time enough for that particular drama once I reached home. If I ever did, this night.

  ‘Here’s your ha’penny.’

  His hand closed over it swiftly, but he did not run home. Instead he began to sidle toward the door of the church. Jordain seized him by the back of his cotte.

  ‘They will not want you in there, my lad. A poor fellow tumbled into the river and drowned. They’ll lay him to rest quietly there while they lock the door. There will be nothing more doing tonight.’

  ‘Aye,’ I said. ‘I thank you for running my errands, but off with you home to your mother now.’

  I regretted my words as soon as I had spoken them, for so many of Oxford’s children are motherless nowadays, but the boy gave no sign of distress. Slowly, glancing back from time to time, he made his way out of the churchyard.

  ‘We’d best see how they fare,’ I said. Jordain and I hurried after the others into the church.

  The rector turne
d to us in relief. ‘The constable says the boy should be left here for the present, but if he is guilty of felo de se . . . I am not sure . . .’

  His words trailed away and he twisted his hands together. The constable, one of those doing duty for the parish this year, Edric Crowmer, a vintner with a shop not far from mine, was looking stubborn.

  ‘I’ve nowhere else to put him, Master Elyot.’ He turned to Jordain. ‘They say he’s one of your students, Master Brinkylsworth. From Hart Hall.’

  ‘Aye, but I cannot take him there. It would be too distressing for the other students. Besides,’ Jordain turned to the rector, ‘there is no evidence that this is suicide. He must have fallen in. I do not think he could swim.’

  The rector looked relieved, and wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

  ‘Poor lad. Then he shall rest here.’

  He turned to the servants from the hospital, who had laid the hurdle on the floor and looked as if they were anxious to get away as quickly as possible. In the more confined space of the church, the stench of the polluted river water was stronger than ever.

  ‘This way.’ The rector beckoned and we all followed him to the far west end of the north aisle. ‘In this corner. It will be less disturbing when the parishioners come for Mass. I will fetch a cloth to cover him.’

  With the body laid where he indicated, the servants and lay brothers hurried away to St John’s Hospital, clearly relieved to be free of the unpleasant task that I had wished upon them. The rector brought an old and worn altar cloth and laid it carefully over William, then Jordain and I, the constable and the churchwarden, knelt with him to say a prayer for the dead.

  When at last we were able to make our way back to the High, Jordain seized my arm and hurried me along past Queen’s College nearly at a run.

  ‘Your teeth are chattering like a flock of sparrows quarrelling,’ he said. ‘If the filth in the river doesn’t kill you, the wet and the cold will.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ I said, but my sarcasm was wasted in a fit of sneezing.

  Mercifully, Margaret had not yet bolted the door and Jordain hustled me quickly through the shop and into the kitchen. Margaret sprang up from her wicker chair by the hearth with a face betraying a mixture of fear and anger.