A Trail of Ink (12 page)

“It is of this I would speak. You agreed I might pay court to Kate. I have done so, and she approves my suit.” I swallowed the frog in my throat and pressed on. “I wish to make her my wife.”

Caxton peered somberly at me. “She approves?”

“She does.”

“Will you continue to seek Master Wyclif’s books and be wed also?”

“I have thought on that,” I admitted. “I have no home in Oxford for a bride, and cannot seek stolen books from Bampton. Does Kate agree, we may have betrothal and read the banns so soon as she may wish, and be wed when I conclude the business of Master John’s books.”

“You believe this will be soon?”

“Kate will be incentive to make it so,” I smiled.

“There must be time to discuss dowry and like matters,” Caxton replied. “No need for haste.”

That was his opinion, but not necessarily my own.

The stationer turned toward the workroom door and called for his daughter. Kate appeared immediately in the door. I think she had been pressed against the doorframe, listening while we spoke of her future.

“Kate, Master Hugh asks for your hand. Will you have him for your husband?”

“Aye, father, I will.” She did not hesitate.

“Then I consent and offer my blessing.” Caxton smiled, then turned quickly and busied himself at a shelf stacked with parchment gatherings.

Another awkward silence followed. How does a man know what to say at such a time? He has no experience nor practice for the moment. Voices from the street intruded upon the stillness, and I entertained the odd thought that, given twenty years or so, God willing, I might be in Caxton’s place.

Kate broke the hush. “A pottage is warming on the hearth, and there is a loaf and cheese for our dinner.”

A man might turn from warmed pottage, but not after eating molding bread and drinking foul water for two days. Kate ladled the pottage into three bowls, broke the maslin loaf, and directed me to take a place at the workroom table. Caxton spoke a prayer over the simple meal, asking the Lord Christ to bless the food and our marriage, and thanking him for intercession and my freedom from Oxford Castle. The pottage was liberally flavored with pork, and was delicious. Or was it Kate, gazing at me from across the table, that was tasty? Perhaps my senses were confused.

I remained at the shop after dinner to discuss betrothal with my future father-in-law. Upon Sunday the priest at St Peter-in-the-East Church would announce to the parish the forthcoming marriage of Kate Caxton and Hugh de Singleton. Before this priest we would pledge to marry. There would be ample witnesses, and the banns might be first read then as well.

The banns must be read in Bampton, also, as the Church of St Beornwald was my parish. And when wed, in Bampton we would live. I wished for the marriage to take place in Bampton, and thought the stationer might object, but he was amenable.

I did not expect a great dowry to accompany Kate. The lass was gift enough. But Caxton offered a house in Oxford, also on the Holywell Street. This house was one of three he had purchased when he came from Cambridge to set up his business here. One house was his shop and home, the others he rented. It was one of these he offered as Kate’s dowry. I was much pleased. The income from such a house, twenty shillings each year, would be a welcome addition to the stipend Lord Gilbert provided.

For Kate’s dower I offered twelve shillings. When we made Galen House our home Kate would have a toff, so I also offered to buy for her a rooster and a dozen hens.

I have heard that there is often much vigorous bargaining before dowry and dower are agreed upon and a wedding may proceed. Perhaps such is the case when each party brings great wealth to the marriage. Kate and I could not do so. Robert Caxton and I came to agreement in little more time than it has taken me to write of the covenant.

I would have enjoyed speaking more to Kate that day, but she might not have thought the same. I reeked of the cell and its filth, and was unshaven. I requested of Caxton that he tell his daughter of the terms of her betrothal, and that I would join her on Sunday at St Peter’s Church whence we would make pledge to each other. Tomorrow I would be about seeking Master Wyclif’s stolen books. For this work I had new ardor. When the thieves were found I would be free to take a bride and return to Bampton.

The kitchen at Canterbury Hall provided two buckets of hot water. In one I soaked my filthy clothes and in the other I scrubbed the Oxford Castle gaol from my flesh. I had thought to scrape the stubble from my chin, but decided to leave it. Perhaps I would grow a beard. I was soon to be wed, no longer to be thought a lad. And a beard might remind me of lessons learned in the dungeon of Oxford Castle. It was not clear what these lessons might be, but when I discovered them the beard might serve to remind me of them.

Master Wyclif provided a scholar’s robe for the afternoon while my kirtle, chauces, and cotehardie dried in the pale autumn sun. Arthur had watched my purification wordlessly. When I was done with the work and adjusting the robe, he spoke.

“Near forgot, with all that’s happened since, but I learned a thing in castle forecourt the day you was took to gaol. Don’t know as it has to do with Master Wyclif’s books… but you said to tell you of aught I heard.”

“I did. What news?”

“Where the forecourt verges on Great Bailey Street a pieman has a stall. Mostly pie, little meat.”

“You purchased one?”

“Aye. Wanted to stand close an’ hear ‘im gossip with regular customers.”

“He has regular customers for meatless pies?”

“Aye. Some as bought from ‘im got pies from one pile; others, like me, got from another.”

“Ah… so you ate a pie and listened for gossip and scandal?”

“As you wished,” Arthur protested, as if, unbidden, he would do no such thing.

“So I did. And you must have overheard some tale or I would not be hearing of these pies.”

“Aye. Right after them gentlemen near came to blows, a fellow told the pieman his brothers was gone to London. Brothers is carters. They was takin’ a chest to Westminster, to the abbey.”

“That is your news?”

“Not all of it,” Arthur replied defensively. “Told you it might have naught to do with books. You said…”

“I know. Tell me what else you heard.”

“The chest was locked and not to be opened. And twas not to get wet. A linen shroud, waxed stiff, was to cover the box.”

Arthur’s tale became more interesting. “Did the man say who it was hired his brothers for this work?”

“Some scholar. Wore a scholar’s robe, an’ was tonsured.”

This identification was of no help. Near half the men of Oxford might fit such a description.

“When were they to take this chest to Westminster?”

“Said as they left a week and more past. Told the pieman as how ‘e wouldn’t be seein’ ‘em for a fortnight.”

“Seems about right, to travel to London with a cart and horse and return. These carters might be finished with their work and on their way home by now, I think.”

“Aye, so I thought. An’ the fellow spoke the same.”

“You talked to him?”

“Aye. Told ‘im I heard ‘im say ‘is brothers was carters an’ how my lord might be needin’ some sturdy lads for a bit o’ work.”

“You learned their names?”

“Aye. Their place, too.”

“Good man. Perhaps there is nothing to this, but it will be worth seeing to.”

“Thought as much. Roger an’ Henry Carter. Live on Kybald Street. Got a stable behind for horse and cart.”

“You went there?”

“Aye. I’ll show you the place.”

I trudged off with Arthur into Oxford streets crowded with late-afternoon business. It was but a short way down St John’s Street to Grope Lane, then right on Kybald Street to the carters’ house. The building housed two families, with entrance doors at either end.

One of these doors was open to the mild autumn afternoon; I rapped my knuckles upon the door-post and awaited a response.

A well-fed matron answered my knock, glanced at my scholar’s robe, and said, “You’ll be wantin’ ‘Enry. Ain’t back from London yet. You can pay what’s due then.”

The woman thought I was the scholar who had hired her husband. Perhaps, was anything to be learned from the woman’s error, I might make the most of it.

“I thought as how the roads be dry, he might have returned sooner than expected,” I explained. Arthur stood a respectful distance behind me and nodded agreement. If the woman thought it strange that a scholar-monk should have a burly companion garbed in a noble’s livery, she gave no sign.

“Nay. Expect ‘im Monday, maybe, an’ ‘e travels on Sunday. ‘E don’t like to, y’unnerstand, but ‘tis a long way, London an’ back. ‘Im an’ Roger done it once before, an’ that was two… three years past.”

“You will send word when he returns? I wish to be certain of the safe delivery of my chest.”

“Aye. Soon as ‘e’s home.”

“You know where to find me?”

“Aye. The Abbey of St Mary at Eynsham…ask for Brother Michael.”

“Just so. I will await a word from your husband.”

Arthur grinned broadly at me as I turned from the door. I could not help myself and smiled in return. Perhaps the shipment to Westminster had nothing to do with stolen books. But perhaps it did. It was worth considering, anyway.

“This puzzle of stolen books seems soon to be solved,” Arthur remarked cheerfully as we returned to Canterbury Hall.

“Perhaps. Who can tell what might have been in the chest, and if it was books, whose they might be. And if they were Master John’s books, how did a monk of Eynsham come to have them?”

“Might be ‘e knows a scholar at Canterbury Hall,” Arthur suggested.

“Likely. Most scholars and monks here know one another, especially do they come to Oxford from the same house.”

“The monks what study at Canterbury Hall is Benedictines?” Arthur asked.

“Aye, as are those at Eynsham.”

“Then we have but to wait ‘til the carters return an’ from Brother Michael or the carters discover what was in the chest an’ where it was took.”

“There may be more required than that. If the chest did hold books, the monk would say they belonged to the order and were being returned to Westminster. Such might be truth, and was it not, who could gainsay him?”

“Oh. But would a monk lie… a man in holy orders?”

“I would not like to think so. But would a scholar steal another man’s books? Never! Yet it surely happened at Canterbury Hall, and some of the scholars there are monks. A lie to cover a theft might not be wrenching even to a monk.”

“‘Tis easier to lie than to steal,” Arthur concluded.

“Aye. And I have other work for you while we await the carters’ return. Tomorrow you will go to the inn, mount your horse, and return to Bampton. Tell Father Thomas he is to read the banns at the Church of St Beornwald this Sunday and those following for Hugh de Singleton and Katherine Caxton. And tell Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla also. Lord Gilbert charged me this day to tell him how my suit progressed. You may return Monday. Perhaps the carters will have arrived and we may gain information upon which we may act.”

Arthur grinned at me. “Always liked to bear good news.”

When I awoke on Saturday - All-Saints Day - my chauces were dry and my cotehardie nearly so. I was pleased to be seen once again as different from the horde of black-gowned youths and men who swarm Oxford’s streets. Benedict thought such a desire sinful, so his rule prescribed a uniform habit for monks of his house. I did not feel impious as I drew my fur coat over my shoulders. I felt warm. Perhaps the sainted monk might have thought that sinful also.

But Master John’s gown had proven useful. When I donned the garment I did not know it might assist my purpose. Perhaps God knew. Had I not been tossed into Oxford Castle’s malodorous gaol, I would have felt no need to scrub the stink from my clothes. There would have been no reason to approach Henry Carter’s wife in the guise of a scholar-monk. Then surely I would have left the woman without the knowledge of a monk of Eynsham and his hire. Did God then set Simon Trillowe against me, so that from his evil intent, was I shrewd enough to see how, good might come? I must ask this of Master John - does God send evil so that it might be turned to good, or does He but permit evil, and allow us to use it for good, have we the stomach and wit to do so? And what of the world’s evils which remain so terrible that no good seems ever likely to come from such calamity? I found myself wading in waters too deep for me. I will allow the bishops to consider the point. But perhaps I will some day ask Master John his thoughts on the matter.