"At his lodgings, I suppose. Didn't say."
I decided to be frank with these Balliol scholars. "It was not found there. It was a book stolen from Master John Wyclif many weeks past."
"Master Wyclif's book?" one exclaimed. "How would Robert come by that? He was no thief."
"A man hungry enough might become what he was not," another of the scholars suggested softly. "You are sure," he continued, "that this was Master Wyclif's book that Robert wished to sell?"
"Aye. I saw the book when Salley tried to sell it to a stationer on the Holywell Street. It is Master Wyclif's book, there can be no doubt. I saw Master John's mark by a note he made on a page."
The scholars peered at one another with furrowed brows. "We've heard of Master Wyclif's loss," one said. "Twenty books stolen, 'tis said."
"Twenty-two."
"Did Robert take them," another puzzled, "why did he seek to sell but one?"
"And where are the others?"
"There are no books where he lodges," I told them. "I found the place… a tavern on Little Bailey Street. Salley eluded me when I sought him there. Had I caught him, he might yet be alive. Master Wyclif has commissioned me to seek his books. I searched the place where Salley slept. There were no books there."
"And little else, I'd wager," a scholar remarked through pursed lips.
"Aye. A bed, a table, a bench, and a small chest with little in it. Did Salley have other friends where he might have left the book 'til he found a buyer?"
The young scholars exchanged glances again, this time with a wary cast to their eyes. I had asked a tender question. I did not press the matter, but waited until one might find his voice and explain. This did not happen readily. I was about to speak again when one found his tongue.
"Robert has… had… kin nearby. Not as he ever won much aid from him. Couldn't, really, as monks are to own nothing."
"A monk, in a house near Oxford?"
"Aye. Another cousin to his mother, Robert said."
"Which house is it?"
"Eynsham."
"Did Robert travel there often?"
"At first. But not much in the last year. Got nothing when he did seek his cousin, so gave up, I think."
"Did he name this monk?"
"May have. Don't remember." The speaker peered at his companions. They all shook their heads to acknowledge ignorance, but one finally spoke.
"He was from Longridge, or some such place. Robert said as 'twas not far from Salley and the abbey. He's librarian at Eynsham Abbey."
Unless another monk from Longridge had place at Eynsham Abbey, Robert Salley was cousin to Michael Longridge. My assumptions regarding the monk were in tatters. If he hired the carters to transport Master John's stolen books to Westminster, how did Robert Salley come by one of them? Perhaps Longridge took pity on his impoverished relative and gave him a book, knowing well he would sell it to feed himself.
If such a thing occurred it showed a lack of thought on the monk's part. A stolen book offered for sale in Oxford must soon be identified. Perhaps Longridge had, after all, nothing to do with Master John's missing books. Perhaps he sent books to Westminster in sale or simple exchange, one abbey to another. Perhaps Robert Salley was in league with other penniless scholars. Perhaps with others who knew the worth of Master John's books, he conspired to steal, then sell the volumes. Perhaps the other missing books were with Salley's companions in mischief. There were too many "perhapses" to the business.
I had no more questions for the scholars. What use were more questions when I found no answers for the questions already asked? Kate took my arm and we walked north to the East Bridge. The youths watched us depart enviously. Their wistful expressions caused me to stride with head high and shoulders back. Pride is a sin, but it is difficult to walk with Kate and remain humble.
10
We walked silently, absorbed in our own thoughts of death and murder. Who would mourn Robert Salley? Is there a greater loss than to die unlamented? Kate must have contemplated similar notions. She broke the silence.
"I wonder will any seek St Ebbe's Church tomorrow to see Robert Salley buried?"
"There will be few who know he's dead," I replied.
"The one who did murder will know. And the Balliol scholars will tell others before this day is done."
"So among those who will grieve at St Ebbe's Church tomorrow will be a few of Salley's friends and, perhaps, a murderer. I will join the mourners."
I left Kate at Holywell Street. Arthur I found stalking the lanes about the Red Dragon. I told him of Robert Salley's death and together we made for St Frideswide's Lane and Canterbury Hall.
After supper that evening I sought Master John and told him of Robert Salley. His eyes gleamed in the light from a cresset as I explained that the dead scholar was a cousin to Michael of Longridge.
"This may be of significance," he declared, when told of the relationship. "Would you agree?"
"It so may be, but how or why eludes me," I admitted.
"Me also, but there is a tie between the two and my stolen books or I am much mistaken."
Master John is seldom mistaken.
Most men, when they die, are borne to church by family and set down in the lych gate. Robert Salley was taken to St Ebbe's Church by two castle servants. I suspect he spent little time in the lych gate and no priest met him there to escort his corpse to the church.
Arthur and I arrived next day at St Ebbe's Church as the sacrist at St Frideswide's Priory rang the bell for terce. Dark days of winter approached, so this was but a short while after dawn. I thought it unlikely that any priest would rise early from his bed to say mass for Robert Salley, and likewise thought it doubtful that any funeral for the poor scholar would last long.
My timing was excellent. A few black-gowned scholars milled about the church porch. Among these I saw the youths who had found Salley in the Cherwell. Some townsmen mingled with the students. With one of these burghers was a maid of perhaps eighteen years. I looked also for a tonsure, but no hooded monk was present. If Salley's cousin from Eynsham knew of his death, he chose not to travel to Oxford. Or perhaps Abbot Thurstan refused him permission to leave the abbey.
A priest opened the porch door and bid us enter. There were but twelve souls present to follow him. If the love and respect a man earns in his life is reflected in the multitude who mourn at his funeral, it must be written that Robert Salley died in small repute.
The priest hurried through the mass, the Lord's Prayer, and the absolutions, then concluded with a brief sermon:
"Good men, ye see here a mirror to us all. A corpse brought to the church. May God have mercy upon him, and bring him to his bliss that shall last forever. Wherefore each man that is wise, make him ready, for we all shall die, and we know not how soon."
The priest spoke these words with little conviction, as if he, at least, expected to live yet many more years. But his observation gripped me, as if the giant I had seen at Eynsham had wrapped a fist about my heart and squeezed it still. Not for the first time I prayed silently that the Lord Christ would grant me enough days that I might wed my Kate and see children play about my feet.
Robert Salley's four friends took up his coffin when the priest was done. We mourners followed them from the echoing nave into a churchyard now bright with sunlight. A morning fog had burned away. It was near pleasant enough to dispel grief for those who knew Robert Salley, but not for all. The lass was overcome and sobbed noisily into the shoulder of the older man who accompanied and steadied her. I learned later this was her father.
The priest blessed the ground and grave-diggers bent to their task in a far corner of St Ebbe's Churchyard. When their work was done the four who bore Salley to the place slipped short ropes under his coffin and lowered him into his grave. I was some surprised to see the coffin go into the hole. Most poor families will rent a coffin from a carpenter, then draw the corpse from it at the grave and bury the dead only in a shroud. Someone thought enough of Robert Salley to pay for a coffin. I wondered who, and if that person knew Salley well enough to know where he might conceal a book.