Mel Starr - The Tainted Coin

“Did she return to her home?”

The hosteler shrugged. “Brother Anselm didn’t say.”

“How long past was it she left the hospital?”

“She was gone well before terce.”

“I must find some other haven for the woman. There are men about who may believe that she knows of treasure, and would threaten harm to her and her children if she does not tell them where it is hidden.”

“Treasure? The woman knows of treasure?”

“Nay. But there are men who may think she does.”

“I could not think so poor a widow could possess knowledge of treasure,” said the hosteler.

“Let us hope the felons who seek the loot agree with you.”

“You know where the wealth is to be found?” Brother Theodore asked.

“Nay. But those who seek it have murdered a man already to have it, and I fear for Amice Thatcher if they believe she can lead them to the treasure.”

All this time the hosteler had held his stained linen cloth before the ugly fistula which lay aside his nose, high on his cheek. He looked down at the befouled fabric, then spoke again.

“’Twill be many days before Abbot Peter will permit you to deal with my wound. You are sure you can heal me?”

“Few things in life or surgery are sure. But I know how to repair the fistula so that God, does He will it, may complete the cure.”

“There is another matter,” the hosteler hesitated. “I own nothing, nor does any monk. If you are paid for the skills you apply to my face, it must be from abbey funds. What is your fee for such surgery?”

I thought for a moment of the wealth accumulated in the abbeys of England, then replied, “Three shillings.”

The monk’s eyes widened at this, and well they might, for I would serve a poor man who suffered so for three pence, which I believe the hosteler knew. But he voiced no complaint; he merely said, “A fortnight, then, when Saturn leaves the house of Aries.”

“Indeed,” I said, and was about to turn and seek Amice Thatcher in the bury when three monks appeared between the guest hall and the abbot’s kitchen, striding purposefully toward the porter’s lodge and the gatehouse. This path took them straight toward me, Arthur, and Brother Theodore. The hosteler saw my attention diverted and turned to see what had caught my eye.

“Oh, Lord,” he said softly.

Since none of the three who approached seemed to resemble the Lord Christ, I took his remark to be a malediction.

Two of the approaching monks were of normal size and appearance, but the third, who walked, or rather waddled, between the others, was nearly as wide as he was tall. His tonsured head thickened where it sat upon a neck which disappeared into multiple chins and rolls of fat. The monk’s robe billowed before him as if some great gust of wind had filled it like a sail, but ’twas his belly. An ornate cross hung from a golden chain about the monk’s fleshy neck.

Brother Theodore said nothing more as the three approached. I noticed that his eyes were cast down.

The three monks stopped before us and waited for Brother Theodore to speak. He did so, and introduced me to the cellarer, the prior, and the rotund abbot, Peter of Hanney. The abbot peered at me through the fleshy slits in his face, and said, “So you’re the surgeon who would treat Brother Theodore when the heavens declare any cure at such a time must fail.”

“The heavens,” I said, “declare the glory of God, but say nothing of a surgeon’s skill.”

“No skillful surgeon,” the prior growled, “would defy the stars and planets. Saturn must not be trifled with. ’Twas when Saturn conjoined with Jupiter and Mars that the Great Pestilence, with its choler and noxious vapors, struck down so many souls.”

“So it was said.”

Behind the three monks smoke arose from a chimney of the abbot’s kitchen. I wondered if he followed the Benedictine Rule as ardently as an abbot should. His girth said not. Abingdon is on the way between Oxford and Winchester and an abbot has an obligation to serve high-born guests at his table. Rule or not, I suspect that Abbot Peter partakes often of the beef and pork and lamb served to his visitors.

Abbot Peter dismissed me with a wave of his fleshy hand and turned toward the abbey church. The prior looked back briefly, then followed his superior. His glance said much: a message of dismissal and disdain. The cellarer continued toward the porter’s lodge.

“By heavens,” Arthur said when the abbot was a safe distance away, “I’d like to graze in ’is meadow.”

God will forgive a man his sins, if he asks, but his body may not. What other of the seven deadly sins Peter of Hanney may be guilty of I know not, but he is surely guilty of gluttony.

I was about to bid Brother Theodore good day, when four men stepped from the porter’s lodge at the cellarer’s approach. The cellarer did not break his stride, but passed through the gatehouse into the marketplace. The four men followed. They were not monks, and I saw that each man had a sword slung from his belt.

Brother Theodore followed the direction of my gaze and explained. “Four years past the town hired a lawyer, up from London, to plead against the monastery’s claims upon the town and market. M’lord abbot bribed the jurors, and the judges dismissed the case. There is much bad blood,” the hosteler sighed, “between abbey and town, so that monks cannot walk the streets unless they are defended.”

Arthur and I followed the cellarer to Burford Street, and watched as he walked toward St. Helen’s Church. A few men doffed their caps and bowed as the monk passed, but as many, when his back was to them, spat in the street behind him before continuing on their way. No cowl is so holy but that the devil can get his head under it.

Arthur and I sought the alley where Amice Thatcher dwelt and I soon stood before her door. No bushel topped the pole set there. The woman had no ale fresh this day, but as there was no sign of her or her children, I assumed she was at work brewing a fresh batch, her children perhaps joining in the labor.

I rapped upon the door, but received only silence in response. I thumped again, louder, so that the fragile assembly of planks seemed ready to collapse, but yet there was no sound from Amice Thatcher’s house.

The pounding had attracted the attention of a crone who dwelt across the street. “Ain’t ’ome,” she said. “Come ’ome, then went off again.”

“Amice returned here this morn?”

“Aye. Didn’t stay. Two fellas come by an’ she went off with ’em. Her an’ the children.”

Two men? Were these the same who had slain John Thrale? If so, how did they discover she was no longer under the protection of abbey walls?

“Was one of these men tall, wearing a red cap, and the other fat, with a blue cap?”

The old woman pressed a finger to her cheek, thought for a moment, then spoke. “B’lieve so. Didn’t pay ’em much mind. Folks often seek Amice’s ale… she don’t water it as some do.”

I looked to Arthur. He read my mind and said, “Too many folks about. If one of them rides a horse with a broken shoe, the track would be well covered.”

The crone heard him and said, “No man comes to the bury mounted. Streets be too narrow, an’ men hereabout don’t think much of gentlefolk.”

“When Amice departed with these men, which way did she go?”

The old woman pointed a bony finger to the declining sun, where the narrow lane curved around toward the south.

“Toward Ock Street,” she said.

Arthur and I elbowed our way through the crowded lane. Or, more truly, Arthur pushed through the mob and I followed. Arthur is well able to clear a path through a throng, and I trailed like a rowing boat drawn behind a great ship.