Kate watched me eat with, I think, much satisfaction, nor did she allow my cup to go dry, but poured more ale each time I raised it to my lips.
When I was finished I thanked Kate much for the meal. This was necessary for good manners only, for surely she saw from my enthusiastic attack on the game pie that I approved her kitchen skills.
As her father and I finished our cherry pottage we heard footsteps enter the shop. Caxton heaved himself to his feet with an overfed groan and passed through the door to serve his customer. I was left alone with Kate.
Speaking the proper words to a lass is an art, not a skill. A skill may be taught. There is no course in the trivium or quadrivium to teach a man such competence. And if there was, who would teach it? Some bachelor scholar? I suppose ’twould not be the first time a master taught what he had learned from a book rather than from his own experience.
An art is a talent from God, which a man may surely improve with practice and effort. God did not choose to bless me with this craft, nor did I find occasion to practice what little talent He did give. I could set Lady Joan Talbot’s broken wrist with skills I learned in study at Paris, but my conversation with the lady was clumsy. Had it been otherwise the outcome would have been no different. Our stations were too far apart. Sometimes even a God-given art may be insufficient.
Robert Caxton left the room and there followed a silence more awkward than I had experienced in the shop. Kate busied herself at the cupboard while I considered whether or not to belch — to show my appreciation for the meal and to break the uneasy silence. I decided against it. This was good, for at that moment Kate came to my aid. She would do so many times, but this I could not at the moment know.
“Do you return to Bampton today?” she asked.
“No. ’Tis a long journey for an old horse.” I did not add, but could have, that it is also a long journey for a rump unaccustomed to a saddle. “And I have other business in Oxford. I have a matter to discuss with Master Wyclif.”
It had occurred to me that the scholar might have an opinion regarding Thomas atte Bridge’s nocturnal visit to St Andrew’s Chapel. “There are empty rooms at New Canterbury Hall, where he is warden. He will permit me to stay in one this night, or I mistake me.”
“I have heard of Master Wyclif,” Kate replied. “He is, uh, capable of some controversy.”
“Aye. There are those who do not appreciate all he teaches,” I agreed.
Kate is not a timid girl. “And you?” she asked. “Are you among them? Surely not,” she answered her own question, “else you would not seek him.”
“You observe rightly. Master John is a scholar of great wit and insight.”
“Is it his wit or his insight which leads to dispute?”
“Ah…some men are contentious not because of what they say, but the way they say it. Their words are sharp. They take pleasure in wounding an opponent.”
“And does this describe Master John?”
“Not so,” I replied firmly. More firmly than was merited, I fear. Kate shifted her weight back on her feet, her eyes opened wide.
“Master John,” I continued (softly, for I recognized my error), “is gentle with most who challenge him. He is mild with those of little learning, or who have been misled. But he can be hard on men who hold foolish views when they have the learning and opportunity to know better.”
“Oh,” Kate nodded. The corners of her mouth lifted in a hint of a smile. “Who are these who should know better?”
I did not immediately reply. The conversation had drifted to deep waters. But Kate plunged ahead. “I hear students speak of such things from time to time.”
“And what do they say?”
Kate smiled again. “It seems the pope and his bishops are not among Master John’s favorite people.”
It was my turn to display a sardonic smile. “He is known to criticize churchmen from time to time. What do your customers think of this?”
“Oh, he is a favorite among students who do business with my father.”
“As when I was a student,” I concurred. “The young seem always willing to smash the temple idols.”
“And so they should,” Kate replied with some vehemence. “Be it temple, cathedral, or chapel, an idol has no place.”
“What idols seem most in danger these days…from the wrath of Master John’s young charges?”
The girl screwed her lovely face into a mask of concentration. “Most likely they will decry the riches of pope and bishops. I heard one tell another that your Master Wyclif has said that a poor man need not contribute to the keep of a priest wealthier than he.”
“Not a new thought with Master John,” I agreed. “He said much the same thing five years ago.”
“He has worked no great change,” Kate observed. “I have not heard of the pope pleading poverty.”
“Have you not? But he must be poor; he is always in need of money.”
“True,” Kate smiled again. “They say the king’s brother is Master Wyclif’s champion at court.”
“Aye. Prince John seeks to avoid sending funds to a pope in Avignon who is little more than a puppet of the French.”
“Master Wyclif’s theology is useful for statecraft?” Kate concluded.
“Aye. Today. What may be tomorrow or next year no man can know.”
“He may fall from favor?”
“He may…when he is useful no more.”
“When will that be?”
“When we no longer quarrel with the French, and the pope is no longer at Avignon, I think.”
“Ah,” Kate laughed. “Then Master Wyclif will find friends at court for many years.”
“You know much of the affairs of kings and ministers.”
“I do but keep my ears open and my mouth closed,” Kate replied. “So those who have opinions speak them before me, thinking I am witless and will understand nothing. ’Tis common for students to think so…of a lass.”
“Not all young men are so disposed. My mother was a wise woman. My father sought her advice often, and I and my brothers saw.”
“And did she offer counsel even when he did not ask?”
“That, too. But she was no termagant.”
“How many brothers have you?”
Our conversation, which began with hesitancy, flowed from politics to family. I learned that her mother had died when Kate was five years old. She had but little memory of her. Her mother and the child had died at the birth of a younger brother. Her grandfather was a stationer in Cambridge, and rather than wait to inherit the shop there, her father had decided to remove to Oxford and open his own business. He had talked to Baliol scholars and knew the crusty reputation which Aelfred had built for himself.
I told Kate of growing up the youngest of four sons at the manor of Little Singleton, in Lancashire. I told her of netting eels from the Wyre, and watching plague strike my family. I told her of the return of plague four years past, and how the disease had provided the book which sent me to Paris and gave me a profession.
“And now you have a murderer and a poacher to apprehend,” Kate added. “I heard your conversation with father while I prepared dinner.”
I was reminded that, while I was sated, Kate had taken no dinner, but served me and her father. I was reluctant to leave, but if I was to present to Master John the matter of Thomas atte Bridge and his nocturnal visit to John Kellet, I must be away. And my departure would allow Kate to take some of the meal she had prepared but so far not enjoyed.
Robert Caxton’s customer was no longer present. I found the stationer reading at his desk when I passed through the door from the work room. He had surely overheard the conversation between his daughter and me, but had chosen to take no part in it.
There followed many thanks: I to Kate and her father for the meal, they to me for treating Caxton’s wounded back. As I took the shop door latch in hand I turned to ask if I might call when next I was in Oxford. Of course, a man may call at a place of business any time he will without asking, and be welcome for his trade. But I wanted both father and daughter to know that business would not be my reason — at least, not my only reason — to visit Holywell Street when next I traveled to Oxford. These words I did not have opportunity to say. Kate spoke first.