Sir John Trillowe’s manor is more prosperous than that of Sir Philip Rede. Sir John’s house is larger, its wall freshly whitewashed, with leaded glass in every window. The roof is of slate, not thatch. Perhaps the fines he levied while Sheriff of Oxford, and which so angered the burghers of the town that they begged King Edward to dismiss him, paid for such a roof.
Sir Roger, with me and six sergeants — who now wore his livery — arrayed behind, pounded upon Sir John’s door. A valet opened so soon that I suspect our arrival was not a surprise. The Sheriff pushed past the valet and commanded in a loud voice to be taken to Sir John forthwith. It is likely Sir John heard without the servant informing him.
The valet showed us into a small hall, then trotted off to seek his lord. Neither he nor Sir John appeared soon. ’Tis my belief that Sir John expected the Sheriff’s arrival, and was determined to demonstrate that he was yet a man of authority, even though King Edward had set Sir Roger in his place as Sheriff of Oxford.
“Sir Roger,” Sir John said warmly when he finally appeared. “How may I serve you? Come from Oxford this day? A long ride.” Then, to the valet, who stood behind, “Wine for Sir Roger, and ale, the best, mind you, for his men.”
Sir John swept a hand toward me and the sergeants as he spoke of ale, so although I wore no livery it would be ale for me. But the best, mind you.
After voicing these commands Sir John looked to Sir Roger, and with a bland smile awaited the Sheriff’s reply.
“You have two squires who serve you. I wish to speak with them.”
Sir John shrugged, raised his eyebrows, and said, “I have four squires. Which two do you seek?”
Sir Roger turned to me. “One is tall and slender, and when he does not wear your livery is commonly seen wearing a red cap. The other is short and stout, and wears a blue cap.”
“Ah, you seek Giles and Henry. They are not here.”
“Where are they?” Sir Roger asked.
“London. Why do you seek them?”
“They have done murder,” I said, “and theft, and seized a woman and her children so to demand of her where a treasure might be found.”
“Giles? And Henry? Surely not. You are mistaken.”
“Last night, near midnight, they tried again to take the woman. Sir Simon aided them.”
“Sir Simon? Nonsense. Sir Simon was nowhere near Abingdon last night,” Sir John scoffed. “He is in London. Has been for three days now. Giles and Henry accompanied him.”
“Abingdon,” Sir Roger said. “What has Abingdon to do with Sir Simon?” Sir John had misspoke himself and was caught out.
While we talked I noticed occasional shadows passing before a window. Curious about what this might be, I sidled toward the window until I was near enough to glance through it to the front of the manor house. Between the house and our horses was a group of grooms and valets and tenants, perhaps a dozen or more. Two others arrived as I watched. I saw no weapons, but did not doubt each man possessed a blade concealed upon his person. Sir Roger, his sergeants, and I were badly outnumbered.
Sir John chose the moment to change the subject. “This fellow,” he said, pointing to me, “has stolen a man from Sir Philip Rede. He should be arrested for seizing Sir Philip’s villein.”
Sir Roger looked at me, raising his shaggy eyebrows in expectation of some explanation.
“Sir Philip intended to murder the man.”
“Murder? Nay. The man ran off with you. Sir Philip was but disciplining a wicked servant.”
“The villein was beaten near to death,” I replied, “and the gallows he was to hang upon was standing before his eyes, here, in this village.”
“Sir Philip has the right of infangenthef. The man stole property from Sir Philip. A thief may be hanged for his crime.”
“He stole himself from a wicked lord,” I said.
“Wicked? Because he would not countenance theft of his chattels?”
“Nay. Wicked because he held another knight’s daughter for ransom, and the villein he would have slain allowed her to escape.”
“So you say. A knight is lord of his manor. You have abetted a theft, and Sir Roger must arrest you for it.”
“I may do so,” the Sheriff interrupted, “when I have spoken to Sir Simon.”
“The lad is not here. I have told you. He was off to London three days past.”
“A poor season to travel so far.”
“Aye,” Sir John shrugged. “But when a fair maid is at the end of the road few journeys are too far.”
We were thwarted. Our travel to East Hanney was for naught. I had no doubt but that Giles and Henry were away from East Hanney, and likely accompanied Sir Simon on the road to London, or some other far place. But I doubted that their absence was permanent. And if Sir Simon did travel to London, he had departed East Hanney with the dawn this day.
Sir Roger looked at me, rolled his eyes, then turned to Sir John. “When Giles and Henry return, send word to me immediately. Sir Simon, also.”
“Indeed, Sir Roger. I will do so.”
A valet arrived with wine and ale, and we slaked our thirst while standing, for Sir John had offered no chair, and our business was frustrated and over. The Sheriff thanked Sir John for his time and turned to the door, which an alert valet jumped to open. I and the sergeants filed out into the cobbled forecourt, passed between the silent men assembled there, mounted our horses, and set our faces for Oxford.
“Tell me more of this villein who fled his place,” Sir Roger said when we had left East Hanney behind.
I did so, and when I had done Sir Roger said, “And Lord Gilbert commands that you return him?”
“He does.”
“And you have told Lord Gilbert that, if the man is sent back, you will no longer serve him?”
“I have.”
“Where will you go?”
“I will remain in Bampton and seek my bread as a surgeon.”
“In such a small town?”
“Or remove to Oxford.”
“This matter is no business of mine, although I could make it so. If you return to Oxford I will see that custom is sent to you.”
“My thanks. I would not lack for patients when your sergeants are required to break up some brawl at an ale house of a Saturday eve.”
“Nay,” he chuckled. “My lads might send much business your way.”
Where two roads met to the west of Marcham I left Sir Roger and his sergeants. They took the road through Marcham to Abingdon and Oxford, and I turned Bruce to the left, for Standlake and Bampton. Bruce was weary and I did not hurry him, so that there was barely enough light to see the spire of the Church of St. Beornwald, dark against the sunset, when I arrived.
I left Bruce at the marshalsea and sought my bachelor chamber off the castle hall. Kate was pleased to see me, but with Amice and her children looking on, my welcome home was more subdued than I might have wished.
My quarters at the castle were too small for two women and three children, and as I was bound for Galen House, Kate would not willingly remain longer at the castle. I carried Bessie, nodding sleepily upon my shoulder, to Galen House, with Kate, Amice, and her children trailing behind.
I was pleased to be home, especially with winter near, but gloom soon overtook me. Galen House was warm, for Osbert had kept a blaze upon the hearth, as I had told him to do, but I could not escape thoughts of my failure to apprehend murderers, nor could I tear my mind from considering what might lie ahead for Osbert.
I had laid a scheme to capture felons, and had failed. I had also a plan to save Osbert from the penalty Sir Philip had awaiting him. Would this design be as flawed as the attempt to catch Giles and Henry? I mistrusted my competence.
Amice and her children were put to their rest upon pallets in the vacant ground-floor room, and Kate took Bessie up to our bedchamber soon after. The house and the town were quiet as Osbert sat with me, contemplating the embers of the fire.
“You’ve got to send me back to Sir Philip soon, I know,” Osbert finally said. “When you goin’ to do it?”