"Is Mistress Kate at leisure?" he asked.
Caxton glanced at me, then answered, "Near so. Preparing a pot of ink in the workroom. Be done shortly."
"I'll wait," the fellow said with a smile. "'Tis a pleasant morning. And if Kate has no other concerns, I'd have her walk with me along the water meadow."
He might as well have swatted me over my skull with a ridge pole. My jaw went slack and I fear both Caxton and this unknown suitor got a fine view of my tonsils.
Robert Caxton was not so discomfited that he forgot his manners. He introduced me to Sir Simon Trillowe. A knight. And of some relation to the new sheriff of Oxford, I guessed.
When he learned that I was but a surgeon and bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot, Sir Simon nodded briefly and turned away, his actions speaking what polite words could not: I was beneath his rank and unworthy of his consideration.
"We heard naught of you for many months, Master Hugh," Caxton remarked.
This was true. I had neglected pursuit of Kate Caxton while about Lord Gilbert's business in Bampton. And, to be true, I feared Kate might dismiss my suit should I press it. A man cannot be disappointed in love who does not seek it.
"No doubt a bailiff has much to occupy his time," the stationer continued.
Sir Simon doubtless thought that I was but a customer, not that I was in competition with him for the fair Kate. He would learn that soon enough.
The door to Caxton's workroom was open. Kate surely heard this exchange, which was a good thing. It gave her opportunity to compose herself. A moment later she entered the shop, carrying my pot of promised ink, and bestowed a tranquil smile upon both me and Sir Simon. I smiled in return, Trillowe did not. Perhaps he had guessed already that it was not ink I most wished to take from Caxton's shop.
"Mistress Kate," Sir Simon stepped toward her as she passed through the door. "'Tis a pleasant autumn morn… there will be few more before winter. Perhaps we might walk the path along the Cherwell… if your father can spare you for the morning."
With these words Trillowe turned to the stationer. Caxton shrugged a reply.
"Good." Sir Simon offered his arm and, with a brief smile and raised brows in my direction, Kate set the pot of ink on her father's table and took Trillowe's arm. They departed the shop wordlessly.
Caxton apparently thought some explanation in order. "You didn't call through the summer. Kate thought you'd no interest. I told her last night you'd asked to pay court. But Sir Simon's been by a dozen times since Lammas Day… others, too."
"Others?"
"Aye. My Kate does draw lads to the shop. None has asked me might they pay court, though. But for you."
"Not Sir Simon?"
"Nay. Second son of the sheriff, and a knight. He'll not ask leave of one like me to do aught."
"And Kate returns his interest?"
Caxton shrugged. "She's walked out with him three times now. A knight, mind you. And son of the sheriff. Can't blame a lass for that."
"No," I agreed.
"Can't think how his father'd be pleased, though. A stationer's daughter! A scandal in Oxford Castle when word gets out, as it surely has, by now," Caxton mused.
"Aye. What lands his father may hold will pass to his brother. The sheriff will want Sir Simon seeking a wife with lands of her own."
I hoped that was so. But if a second or third son acts to displease his father, it is difficult to correct him. How can a man disinherit a son who is due to receive little or nothing anyway? So if a son courting Kate Caxton displeased the sheriff of Oxford, such offense might escape retribution. This thought did not bring me joy.
2
Nothing much else of that day in Oxford brought joy, either. Even Caxton's refusal to accept payment for parchment and ink could not raise my spirits. I trudged through the mud to the Stag and Hounds, retrieved Bruce from the stables, and from the old horse's broad back watched as the castle keep faded into the distance while we two, horse and rider, sauntered past Oseney Abbey toward Bampton and home.
I arrived at the castle at the ninth hour, in time for supper. Lord Gilbert was in residence, so this was a more elaborate meal than when he resided at another of his castles, with several guests, and many grooms and valets occupying lower tables.
A groom brought an ewer, basin, and towel to the high table and I washed the dust of the Oxford Road from my face and hands. The water was pleasingly scented with mint.
I had enjoyed no dinner that day, so as soon as Lord Gilbert's chaplain offered thanks to our Lord Christ for the meal I broke the loaf of wheaten bread before me, spread butter on the fragments with my knife, and set about calming my growling stomach.
It was during the third remove, a game pie, that I noticed Lady Petronilla peering at me from the other end of the high table. There are, I believe, subtle signals of sorrow which women perceive more readily than men. I was unaware that my discontent was plain to another. And to Lord Gilbert it was not.
The game pie this day seemed beneath the cook's usual standard. I had little desire to finish my portion. And the subtlety also seemed to lack appeal. Perhaps the wheaten loaf poisoned my appetite.
Three days later, after a supper of eels baked in vinegar and spices, pike in galantine, and salmon in syrup, John the chamberlain approached me as I entered my chamber. Lord Gilbert, he said, was in the solar and would see me.
A blaze in the fireplace both lit the solar and warmed it against the chill of an autumn evening. Lady Petronilla glanced up at me from her needlework as John ushered me into the chamber, and Lord Gilbert looked my way briefly before continuing his conversation with Sir Watkin Kidwell, a guest to whom I had been introduced at Tuesday supper when I returned from Oxford.
I stood, confused about the summons, until Lord Gilbert nodded toward a bench which rested, unoccupied, between him and Lady Petronilla. This seat was pleasingly near the fire, and while I sat a groom replenished the logs to the accompaniment of a great salvo of sparks which swirled up the chimney. I was tired, and had recently supped. The combination produced drowsiness. I feared I might topple into the fire.
The hum of conversation ceased. I awoke from my lethargy to see Sir Watkin rise, bow, and bid Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla "Good night." I stood, perhaps a bit wobbly, to honor Sir Watkin's departure, as did Lord Gilbert.
When the guest had departed Lord Gilbert resumed his chair and motioned me back to my bench. I drew it away from the fire, for the logs recently placed on the blaze were now burning furiously.
"Lady Petronilla," Lord Gilbert began, "would have me speak to you."
Lady Petronilla looked up briefly from her work and smiled from under lowered brows. I could not guess why she thought conversation necessary, but her gentle smile reassured me that the discussion was probably not going to center upon some malfeasance on my part. Few men enjoy a command to meet with their employer, and I admit to some apprehension when John delivered Lord Gilbert's summons. I had been reluctant, two years past, to accept Lord Gilbert's offer to become bailiff of his Bampton estate. But now I found myself equally reluctant to leave the post should Lord Gilbert have detected some dereliction on my part.
It was not Lord Gilbert, but his wife, who had detected a change in my manner, and it was this she had noted and urged her husband to investigate. Therefore my summons this evening.
"M'lady," he continued, "believes some thing is amiss with you, and would have me seek it out."
"Amiss, m'lord?"
"Aye." Lady Petronilla laid her work in her lap and spoke. "You were laughing and in good spirit when you departed for Oxford Monday. But since your return you are morose. I have watched you at table… you eat but little. I told m'lord, `Some mishap has overtaken Master Hugh while at Oxford."'