I turned from the well-fed stationer and hastened to the gatehouse as the porter left his post and came toward me.
"Ah, Master Hugh, there is a maid here seeks you. I told her you were in discourse with another, but she will not be quieted 'til you see her. 'Twill be no hardship for you, sir. She be a pert lass."
I hastened through the gate, John Colyn striding behind, and found Kate waiting impatiently on Schidyard Street.
"Hugh… we must hurry," she exclaimed as she took my arm and drew me toward the High Street. "A young scholar wishes to sell a book from the list you gave to father. I am sent to fetch you. Father is bargaining with the lad to detain him 'til you arrive."
I suspected Robert Caxton's customer must be the same youth who offered Sentences to John Colyn. I needed no further urging to haste, although I was yet convinced that Master Wyclif's books were in the abbey at Westminster and my task now was to see how they might be recovered from that place.
John Colyn's description of the young scholar as "ragged" was accurate. The youth who stood before Robert Caxton was pale and haggard. He was too young to grow a proper beard, and evidently too poor to afford a visit to a barber. A few feathery whiskers curled unmolested from his chin. His gown was near to threadbare. Had he no sturdy cloak he would endure a cold winter in the months to come.
The youth had brought the book with him on his visit to Caxton's shop, perhaps learning from John Colyn that its presence, was it not ill used, might generate a more liberal offer. Caxton was peering at the volume open upon his table as Kate and I breathlessly entered the shop.
It is difficult to pretend indifference when one has so obviously arrived in haste. Surely the scholar had seen Kate hurry away. Now she abruptly reappeared with a companion.
Caxton looked up briefly from the book as Kate and I tumbled through the door, but quickly resumed his examination of the volume. The youth snapped his head to follow Caxton's gaze when we darkened the open door, but when Caxton returned to the book, seemingly paying little notice to me or to Kate, the scholar also dismissed us and turned his attention back to the stationer. In a few steps I was close enough to overhear their conversation.
"Sentences is a book much in demand," the youth claimed. "'Tis a set book all scholars must know, and most do own."
"Aye. You speak true," Caxton replied. "Most, I think, do already own this work. So I am not persuaded I could readily sell it."
"'Tis in fine condition," the lad rejoined. "You will find few like it."
"It is, but for notes some scholar has penned in the margins. Are these your comments I see written here?" Caxton pointed to the page open before him.
"Nay. The monk who owned it before me so wrote."
"I wonder why he chose to sell it?" Caxton mused.
"Said he was to enter a house which had already a copy in its library. An' monks may own nothing of their own, so he was minded to sell the work to provide a small dowry for his sister, who had little to offer a suitor since the great death took away their parents."
This tale seemed plausible. But I knew also that Master John enjoyed writing remarks of approval or criticism in the margins of his books. The young scholar suddenly realized that my hurried entrance likely had to do with his book. I had moved behind Caxton to peer over his shoulder at the volume as it lay open upon the table. He assumed I was a possible buyer. His next words were addressed to me.
"Worth twenty shillings, sir, would you not agree?"
Perhaps the youth hoped I might bid against Caxton.
"It is well bound," I replied. But before I could comment further a margin note caught my eye. I bent over Caxton's shoulder for a closer look, for the light on such a gloomy day was poor. A previous owner had written a phrase in Latin and below the comment signed with his initials, "JW". My theory that Master John's books were now lodged in the abbey at Westminster shattered and fell in pieces at my feet.
I reached over the stationer's shoulder and with a finger silently touched the place on the parchment where Wyclif had marked the page.
"The sheriff's man has visited the shop," Caxton said, "with a list of books recently stolen. I will make offer of eighteen shillings for the work, but first I must know of the monk who sold it to you, so I may be sure I do not purchase stolen property."
I watched the young scholar as Caxton spoke, to see did he recoil at the words. He did. His eyes grew wide and a corner of his mouth twitched.
"The… the sheriff?" he stuttered.
"Aye," Caxton replied calmly. "All who deal in books have received notice to be alert. This volume is on the list of missing books, so I must be sure you came by it lawfully before…"
Caxton could not finish. The youth looked wildly from me to Kate to Caxton, then in a flash he swept up the book from the table and bolted for the door. I leaped to stop him, but caught my foot as I attempted to vault the table. I tumbled to the floor at Kate's feet while the ragged scholar disappeared through the door. By the time I untangled my limbs and followed, the youth had taken to his heels and was fast disappearing down the Holywell Street.
Regardless of his gaunt appearance, short rations did not slow his feet. I pursued him, but to no avail. He ducked through the throng at the Northgate, but by the time I could manage to push through the crowd there he had disappeared among those who had business on Northgate Street. I gave up the chase and returned to Caxton's shop.
Kate and her father pressed me with excited questions when I returned. For most of these I had no answers. I did not know where he had gone, I did not know how to find him, and I did not know what he would next do about Master John's book. But I had a fair idea. A penniless scholar who would sell a stolen book is not likely to abandon the attempt if to do so will leave his stomach empty. I told Kate and her father that I intended to visit Oxford's stationers again so soon as I finished my dinner, to see had any others been offered the book. If so, did they know where the seller might be found; if not, to be aware an offer was likely.
I met Arthur on St John's Street as we both approached Canterbury Hall. I told him of the appearance of one of Master John's books. He was as surprised as I had been, assuming, like me, that the carters had hauled them off to Westminster.
Once past the gatehouse I went straight to Master John's door. He was not within. We found him in the hall in conversation with two scholars, while others prepared the room for dinner.
Master John is a good reader of men. One glance at my face told him I had news and was eager to share it. He dismissed his companions and turned expectantly to me. I told him of the book, the poor scholar, and the initialed note in the margin.
"'Tis my book, Master Hugh. Well done, well done." He nearly danced with glee. "I congratulate you."
"But I lost both thief and book."
"You will find the fellow again. I am sure of it. So my books are yet in Oxford. This is good news indeed."
It did seem so at the time.
I was eager to visit Oxford's stationers, so bolted my meal. It was but another pottage, with maslin loaf. What more may a man wish than the companionship of a virtuous and comely wife and a belly well filled with a savory repast? I might have both of these so soon as I found the pillaged volumes. I told Arthur the reason for my haste and set off for the gatehouse and Schidyard Street. I left him chewing the last of his loaf, with instructions to catch up when he might.
I included Oxford's bookbinders in the search this day, though it was unlikely the youth would seek to sell there. But one other stationer had been offered Sentences. He had offered twelve shillings and the youth did not accept. This was surely the same ragged scholar. The stationer described him, to the meager whiskers upon his chin.