The moon lighted our way to Marcham, and when we entered the village I considered once again seeking shelter in the church. But Arthur and I had done so already, so pursuers might seek us there, even if it was squires to Sir John Trillowe and not Sir Philip Rede who followed this time. And I did not relish sleeping again upon a cold stone floor.
We instead drew the horses to a halt before the vicarage. Father Maurice had expressed disdain for Sir Philip. Perhaps he held similar views of Sir John. So I hoped.
’Twas near midnight, so I was required to pound vigorously upon the vicarage door for some time before the clerk opened to us. He was in a foul mood, as I might be if awakened and drawn from my bed on a cold autumn night.
“Who is there? What is it you wish?”
“I am Hugh de Singleton. Do you remember a week and more past I sought refuge in the church?”
“Aye,” he yawned. “What now?”
“We seek Father Maurice’s help again. May we enter?”
I believe that the clerk assumed that when I said “we,” I meant myself and Arthur. He stood aside to permit our entry and I saw, even in the dim light of the clerk’s candle, his eyes blink and widen as Amice and her children passed him by.
A moment later the priest came down the stairs from his chamber in the upper story, wondering about the muted conversation he heard below. The candle provided enough light that the priest recognized me.
“Hugh… again in Marcham in the middle of the night? And seeking aid again, I’ll warrant.”
I told the priest he was correct, introduced Amice Thatcher, told him of her plight, and asked refuge for the night.
“You shall have it,” he replied. Then, peering out the door, which was yet open to the night, he said, “We must stable your beasts. If Sir John or his squires followed they will see them and know you are here.”
To his clerk he said, “Take the horses to William Burghill’s stable. He’ll not mind waking to extra animals in his stalls.”
When the clerk returned his warm bed was taken. Father Maurice had sent Amice and the children to rest there. Arthur, I, and the clerk made our bed of cloaks laid upon rushes piled in a heap. I have rarely slept better.
William Burghill is of that class of prosperous yeomen who are not gentlemen, but possess land enough that some knights — Sir Philip Rede may be among them — envy their wealth. Burghill, Father Maurice said in the morning, cultivated three yardlands, and had married his oldest daughter to a knight of Wantage.
Burghill was not only prosperous, he was hospitable. Next morn I offered to pay for the oats Bruce and the palfrey had consumed, but the man would not take a farthing.
Father Maurice set loaves and ale before us, and when we and the horses were fed we thanked the priest, mounted our rested beasts, and set off for Standlake and the road to Bampton.
I was some concerned that we might meet Sir John Trillowe’s squires along the road. If they had words with Sir Philip they might guess who had freed their prisoner, and where we traveled. On the other hand, they might then also know I served Lord Gilbert Talbot, and not wish to offend such a great lord.
We drew the horses to a halt before Galen House just after noon. Kate took one look at Amice, knew who she must be, and so there would be enough to feed our guests set about adding peas and leeks to a kettle of pottage which was warming upon the coals.
Arthur took Bruce and the palfrey to the marshalsea, and I explained Amice’s presence to Kate, Alice, and Osbert while I, Amice, and her children munched upon a maslin loaf and waited for the pottage to be ready. Osbert, I was pleased to see, sat alert upon a bench, and did not grimace when he moved, although he seemed to stir as little as possible.
“What will become of Amice?” Kate asked when I concluded the tale. “She cannot return to her house in Abingdon. Those knaves will seize her again.”
“She must remain here until she is no longer threatened. She can assist you with Osbert, and Alice may return to her work at the castle.”
Alice seemed crestfallen at this news, but her life there was better than might have been had her felonious brothers had their way. And I knew that Will Shillside, son of Bampton’s haberdasher, had an eye for the lass. Few scullery maids have a quarter-yardland to bring to their husbands at the church door, but Alice did.
I had promised Brother Theodore that I would deal with his fistula as soon as I could, and Saturn was now past Aries. I told Kate that I must leave for Abingdon on the morrow, to perform the surgery. I had another reason for the journey. There were questions I wished to ask the hosteler.
Kate was not pleased that I must travel again, nor, in truth, was I. Sir John Trillowe’s squires had visited my house and stolen John Thrale’s treasure but a few weeks before. Might they return, seeking again to lay hands on Amice Thatcher? I must see that, if they did so while I was away, they would find a harsh welcome. I set out for the castle, found Arthur with his cheeks full of maslin loaf, and told him to organize castle grooms to keep watch over Galen House, night and day, two at a time, until my return.
“Think them squires might want Amice Thatcher back, eh?” he said.
“Aye.”
“A man might want Amice, even if she had no treasure,” he grinned. Cicily looked over her shoulder and scowled, but Arthur spoke true. Amice was nearly as pleasing to look upon as Kate.
I was crossing the castle yard when John Chamberlain saw me and cried out: “Lord Gilbert wishes you to attend him.”
“In the solar?”
“Aye.”
My employer was seated in a chair beside the fireplace, deep in conversation with some gentleman guest I had not met. When John Chamberlain ushered me into the solar the visitor stood, excused himself, and departed. When a lord wishes to discuss matters with his bailiff most knights understand that their presence would be an intrusion.
“That villein you helped escape from Sir Philip,” Lord Gilbert began, “is he well enough to return him to his lord?”
“Nay. He finds it difficult to stand. Becomes dizzy. And the lacerations upon his back are likely to break open if he bends over.”
“How much longer, then?”
“A fortnight… perhaps longer.”
“And if I require you then to send him to Sir Philip, you intend to leave my service?”
“I do, m’lord.”
Lord Gilbert snorted, turned to the fire for a moment, then, as I was about to ask his leave to depart, he faced me and spoke again.
“By heaven, you’re a hard man, Hugh.”
“Men who serve you do not often cross you?”
“Nay… only you. A fortnight, no longer. That villein will be returned to Sir Philip, whether he can stand or not.
“Now, what of the chapman found murdered upon my lands? You are yet my bailiff. Have you found the guilty men?”
“Aye, so I believe.”
“You believe? You are uncertain?”
“I know who the felons are, and why they beat the chapman to death, but I have not yet the evidence which would convince the Sheriff or the King’s Eyre. And the men I suspect are squires to a great knight and may have maintenance.”
“They wear his livery?”
“Nay. Perhaps they do not wish it known who they serve.”
“Who do they serve?”
“Sir John Trillowe.”
Lord Gilbert scowled. “Bah, if his squires did murder upon my lands, his arm will not shield them.”
“If I can discover proof of their guilt.”
“Well, you have a fortnight to do so, for that villein must be returned and then, unless you reconsider, you will no longer serve me in this matter, or any other, if that is your wish. And by the way, the maid Sybil… her father is coming for her day after tomorrow.”
I do not know Sir Henry Montagu, but I suspected that Sir Philip Rede would soon suffer serious embarrassment.