I awoke next morning, cold, at the ringing of the Angelus Bell. The Church of St Beornwald is several hundred paces north of Bampton Castle, but the dawn was still and sound carried well. I thought how pleasant it would be to have a good wife to warm my bed on such mornings. This musing was not new to me, and brought no joy, for as I tossed in my cold bed I thought on Lady Joan Talbot, now the Lady de Burgh, and of Kate Caxton.
The fire in my chamber was but black coals. A few embers glowed when I blew on the ashes; enough that I was able to resurrect the blaze with a few carefully placed splinters and then two logs. My feet were cold on the flags, so I climbed back into my bed until the fire might warm the chamber. Cold as the bed was, it was warmer than the floor.
After a loaf of maslin and a wedge of cheese I mounted Bruce, the old gelding Lord Gilbert had assigned to my use, and Arthur climbed astride an ancient palfrey which had once borne Lady Petronilla. Riding the shaggy old beast did not seem to displease Arthur. Most grooms, when forced to travel, must do so afoot. I slung a leatherand-wood box containing my surgical instruments, and a pouch of herbs, across Bruce's broad rump. What use these might be to me I did not know, but I dislike being without my implements.
A slanting sun illuminated the tops of the oaks in Lord Gilbert's forest to the west of Bampton as Arthur and I rode under the portcullis and set off toward Mill Street and the bridge over Shill Brook. It was a fine day for travel, did a man have a joyous reason and pleasant destination in mind. I had neither.
Lord Gilbert had set me to a task for which I felt unequal. And the pursuit of Kate Caxton, which a week past brought cheer when I thought on it, now lay leaden on my heart.
Villeins and tenants were busy in the fields we passed. Wheat and rye had been sown, and oxen and the occasional horse drew harrows across the fields to cover the seed with soil. Children shivered in the morning air, their fists filled with rocks to toss at birds which would steal the seed before the harrow could do its work.
Acorns and beech nuts had fallen, so swineherds had driven their hogs into the forest for pannaging. The pigs might regret their appetite on Martinmas. Pigs are much like men. Or perhaps men are like pigs: we think little of what today's pleasure may cost tomorrow.
The sky was pale blue and the sun lacked warmth. It was not only swine which roamed the forest. Tenants and villeins also stalked the woodland, gathering fuel for the winter soon to be upon us.
The tower of Oseney Abbey was a welcome sight when it appeared above the trees which lined the Thames. I appreciated the gift of Bruce, the old dexter which had borne Lord Gilbert at the Battle of Poitiers, but I have never become inured to the saddle. True, it is better to ride than walk sixteen miles. Better yet to stay home at Bampton Castle and have neither sore rump nor legs.
But I had a duty to Lord Gilbert, and, indeed, to Master Wyclif as well. By the time Bruce clattered across the Castle Mill Stream Bridge I was resolved to exert myself in the matter of Master John's books. And in the matter of Mistress Kate Caxton, also. But I admit I felt more confidence regarding the discovery of missing books than the winning of a fair maid. Thieves are more predictable than a lass.
Canterbury Hall owns no stable, so Arthur and I left our beasts at the Stag and Hounds. Oxford's streets were crowded as we walked south toward St John Street and Canterbury Hall. Perhaps among the throng was a thief, or more than one. How I was to find him I knew not.
The porter at Canterbury Hall recognized me and sent me straightaway to Master Wyclif's chamber. Arthur had walked before me as we pressed through the crowd on the High Street, but trod respectfully behind after we approached the porter. Arthur is a good man to have about when it is necessary to make a path through the throng. He is not so tall as me, but weighs, I think, two stone more. His neck is as thick as my thigh.
The scholar was absent. There was no response to my knock on his chamber door. The Michaelmas Term was begun, so I assumed Master John to be at his work, lecturing students. Perhaps he had been at the business long enough that he could carry on without his set books.
While I stood, uncertain, before the door I heard a voice raised in argument. Cells for the students of Canterbury Hall lined the enclosure opposite the warden's chamber, and a kitchen and hall closed the western side of the yard. Three glass windows gave light to the interior of this hall, and although they were closed to the autumn air, they permitted the sound of angry dispute to flood the enclosure.
Arthur also heard the argument and peered at me under a furrowed brow. I left Master John's door and walked to the nearest of the three windows. Arthur followed.
From beside the window I could hear the dispute plainly. I had the gist of the quarrel in less time than it takes to pare a fingernail. The inhabitants of the Hall were divided into two opposing camps, each accusing the other of complicity in the matter of their warden's stolen books. Occasionally I thought I heard Master John over the din, trying to calm the debate. A man might as well try to arrest the wind as silence an Oxford scholar who wishes to make known his opinion.
In addition to the three windows, the east wall of the hall included a door. It was behind me as I stood at the window, so I heard, rather than saw, the door open abruptly and immediately slam shut. Arthur and I turned and watched Master John stalk across the yard toward his chamber. He had not seen us against the wall, for the open door blocked his view, although the afternoon sun bathed the enclosure in a golden glow.
Wyclif did not hear us follow; he was muttering to himself as he strode. So he pushed through his chamber door and slammed it in our faces unknowingly. Arthur stared goggle-eyed, first at me, then at the door. I was accustomed to scholarly disputes. Indeed, I had shouted my way through several in my youth. But such discord was new to Arthur. He thought he was to spend some days in the peaceful company of scholars and masters. But there are few men so disputatious as scholars. Arthur was learning this and the knowledge startled him. I think had I released him at that moment he would have sought out the Stag and Hounds, mounted the old palfrey, and scurried off for Bampton.
I rapped on Master John's chamber door and a heartbeat later it was flung open.
"What?!" Wyclif roared, then clamped his lips shut when he saw it was me. "I beg pardon, Master Hugh. I thought… never mind what I thought. Come in."
Master John held open the door and stood to one side as a welcome. Arthur, his cap in his hands, followed me into the gloomy chamber. The scholar had had no time, and perhaps no desire, to light a cresset to bolster the thin light of a late October afternoon which managed to penetrate the chamber through a single narrow window.
There were but two benches in the room. Arthur noted this and stood aside, in a shadowy corner, as Wyclif motioned to a bench and sat silently upon the other. Neither of us spoke for a moment.
"You forgot some business in Oxford?" Master John finally asked.
"No. I am come to offer my service, as you desired, in the matter of your stolen books."
"Ah," Wyclif smiled. "Some good tidings for a change."
"You have made no progress in discovering the books, or who it was who took them?"
"None. And the issue divides the Hall… more so than it already was."
"I… we, uh, overheard some debate just now."
"Hah. Debate. Indeed, Master Hugh, you are a tactful man. The monks and seculars are at each other's throats, each thinking the other's responsible."
"And you," I asked, "what think you?"
Wyclif was silent, his lips pursed and brow furrowed. The only sound was Arthur shifting his weight from one foot to another.
"Thinking on my loss leaves an ache, so I try not to think on it at all."