“But such does not serve, eh?”
“Too many knots. Who set out for Alvescot with a sack over his shoulder? Was it Thomas atte Bridge? He carried a sack to St Andrew’s Chapel. And who struck me down at Alvescot Church? The same man who carried the sack? Thomas atte Bridge? Or perhaps the man who put an arrow into Henry atte Bridge’s back? And there are other knots in Bampton yet to be unraveled, of which you know not.”
“Such a town! I am pleased I live in a quiet, gentle place.”
“Oxford? Where scholars dispute even a comma in the scriptures.”
“Aye, we dispute. But we do not go about clubbing one another across the skull or tearing out men’s throats.”
“Hah…I remember my first year at Baliol and the St Scholastica Day Riot.”
“Hmm. You have a point. But that was about an important matter…so the students thought. The price of watered ale…or was it wine?
“What are these other knots which bind your town?” Wyclif continued.
I told him of the baker, the baker’s wife, the smith, and John Kellet. I told him of finding Kellet at the chapel after Edmund had struck him, and his words when he thought no man heard: “Henry got hinges…I’ll have more’n that. A penny, no, tuppence a month or I’ll see that all know.”
The scholar’s brows lifted and furrowed as I told of these events. “I wonder what it is that your priest may tell to all men? And why his silence may be worth tuppence each month to the smith?”
“I think he knows of Margery’s infidelity, and Edmund cuckolding the baker.”
“I wonder how he would know this…the confessional, you think? If so, ’tis a grievous sin to tell of it. And what of the hinges? Was it Henry atte Bridge he spoke of?”
“Aye. I did not tell you of the nails which Henry used to slash Alan’s throat. They came from a set of hinges Edmund made for Henry’s door.”
“Iron hinges for a cotter’s door?”
“Aye. The priest’s words are telling, are they not? I think Henry got his hinges without payment.”
Wyclif scratched his scalp for a moment. “Which means, perhaps, that Henry knew of the smith and the baker’s wife also…else why a gift from the smith, if not to purchase silence?”
“These are my thoughts,” I agreed. “But how would atte Bridge know of the liaison, and how would the priest know what Edmund had paid for Henry’s silence?”
“Ah, we have many questions this night and few answers. But take heart, Hugh, for the questions have become wiser than those we might have asked a month ago.”
“Aye. But the wisdom has come in part through a stroke against my head. I have enough wisdom if that be how I must gain more.”
Wyclif rose from his bench and went to a chest in a shadowy corner of his chamber. The lid creaked open and I watched him fumble about in the dim depths of the box. ’Twas too dark to see what the scholar did there, but soon I heard an exclamation of success and saw him stand and turn from the chest. He held some object to him, but ’twas too dark to see then what it was.
It was a dagger. Wyclif laid it on the table before me. “You have found dangerous work,” the scholar commented, “but I see only a dinner knife in your belt.”
I was surprised that an Oxford master should own such a weapon. Wyclif must have seen this in my eyes, for he explained how he came by the dagger.
“I found this in a gutter outside Baliol College one morning during the St Scholastica Riot. I have kept it since, not for my own need, but so long as it lay in my chest it could do no harm. Now I think it time to put it to use.”
“But what of scripture? We are commanded not to kill.”
“Nay, Hugh, ’tis a mistranslation. God’s word tells us not to do murder. Is there not a difference between murder and killing?”
“Aye…I suppose. But are we not to turn the other cheek?”
“We are, when another insults us with a slap. But when some miscreant would carve flesh from my cheek or another man’s with his blade, I think our Lord would not require me to permit the fellow to do so. If murder is evil, as it is, it is a man’s duty to stop it when he can…even when the murder be his own.”
I took the dagger and slid it under my belt.
Wyclif gazed at his dark window. “We must sleep on these things and talk more in the morning. Perhaps God will grant a dream to resolve these matters.”
He did not. Oh, He granted a dream, true enough. But not of Bampton and poachers and murderers. ’Twas of Kate Caxton I dreamt. And a delightful vision it was. No wonder. So when Master John asked me in the morning if some new insight had come to me in the night, I replied truthfully that I was as confused as before. It was well he did not ask of my dreams. I would have had to lie. What I dreamed was not such that it could be told a scholar.
We broke our fast with loaves hot from the kitchen and ale. The ale was not fresh, and near sour. Rather like my mood. For this Master John apologized. For the ale, I mean, not my mood.
“Fare you well, Hugh. When you have solved these mysteries I would hear of it.”
“You may credit too much, Master John. You assume I will find a murderer and a poacher.”
“I am a man of faith. What is it the Holy Scripture says of faith? ’Tis ‘the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.’”
“Aye, well, there is much I do not see and therefore must hope for.”
“Because there is evidence not yet seen does not mean you will never see it. As the apostle wrote, ‘now we see through a glass darkly, but then, face to face.’”
“The glass is surely dark. That much is true.”
“Be of good cheer, Hugh. You are too solemn. You think too much of failure. Look rather at your success. All men fail on occasion. ’Tis our nature. Only the Lord Christ was perfect in all things. And consider that what seems failure this day may become success tomorrow or next day. You were much perplexed about the bones found in the castle cesspit, were you not?”
“Aye.”
“But time and wit found the answer.”
“And perhaps the grace of God, who looked on my feeble effort and chose to lead me through the maze.”
“He does that, when we ask. Even, betimes, when we do not think to ask.”
The scholar’s words brought to mind the times I sought guidance. I nodded agreement. It is difficult to disagree with Master John.
“So before you are off to Bampton let us beseech God to grant you wisdom and success in this business.”
Perhaps I expected a scholar’s prayer to be filled with flowery language and erudite references. Master John spoke as if a third man sat with us in his chamber. A friend. A friend with authority, to be sure, but a beloved companion, rather than a great lord at whose feet we must tremble.
Wyclif’s prayer requested two things: that God would grant me wisdom to find truth, and courage to do truth. What more does any man need? A man may want much more than these. I want more. But my needs and my wants, Master John saw, were different matters.
I breathed “Amen” along with Master John when he finished his petition. And silently added a request for one of my wants: a good wife. I admit it; this request accompanied an image in my mind’s eye of Kate Caxton. A year before the image would have been Lady Joan Talbot. I was startled to consider that Lady Joan had not entered my thoughts for many weeks. Since near the time I met Kate.
How many other young men, I wonder, have breathed a similar prayer with the stationer’s daughter in mind? They cannot all be answered. Well, yes, they will be; but the answer for most will be “No.” Will my plea be among those? It surely was when I made similar appeal to God regarding Lady Joan.
A want? No, a need. God himself decreed that it is not good for a man to live alone and so made a helpmeet for him. I must adjust my thinking and my prayers and request our Lord that he provide for my need, not merely for my desire.
Chapter 16
Bruce neighed and stamped his great hooves when I approached his stall behind the Stag and Hounds. At home in Bampton the old horse was put out to grass in the west meadow most days. No doubt he found his stay in Oxford boring; the day spent staring at stable walls of wattle and daub.