Mel Starr - The Tainted Coin

“I cannot do this.”

“They could set off unwed. Who would know? Making them husband and wife will keep them from sin.”

Father Thomas was silent for some time, struggling within himself. I saw his consternation and kept silent. “’Tis most irregular,” he finally said. “Father Simon and Father Ralph would never approve.”

“I know that. This is why I have come to you.”

“You think me more pliant?”

“I think you more just.”

“Oh. Well, I must think and pray about this. If you demand an answer now, it must be ‘no’.”

“Very well, but there is little time to contemplate the matter. Lord Gilbert, if Osbert crosses his mind, may summon me to the castle at any moment and charge me to return him to East Hanney.”

“And you will refuse, and resign your post?”

“Aye. Lord Gilbert will find some other to do the work. I will not. Osbert Hanney will die.”

“Return at midday. I will give you my answer then.”

I was optimistic that Father Thomas would agree to my scheme, so walked to Galen House with lighter heart than when I left it. Although, when he discovered that Osbert was away, Lord Gilbert might dismiss me from my post before I could resign. That troubled me, but I could live with reduced income more readily than with Osbert’s mangled corpse upon my conscience.

I gathered Amice and Osbert to the fire, and told them of my scheme. Behind Galen House was a cart, nearly new, and a young cart-horse, the property of John Thrale, which would have come to Amice had he lived a few weeks longer. I could see no reason it should not do so now. I had searched, but found no heirs of the chapman to whom the cart and horse should go. Lord Gilbert needed neither, and would not know they were missing.

“I have this morn spoken to a priest. Do you wish to wed?”

“Aye,” Amice answered. Osbert was silent. I waited, and Amice looked to him. Osbert looked down to his hands, which he was twisting in his lap.

“I’ll not make of Amice a widow twice,” he finally said. “You need not. I have asked Father Thomas if he will make you husband and wife this night at the church porch. He has promised an answer in a few hours. If he agrees, you must then be ready to flee the town and even the shire.

“The chapman’s horse and cart can take you far. If Father Thomas agrees, we will make ready this afternoon, and you may flee in the night.”

“But where can we go?” Osbert asked. “Sir Philip will not rest till he finds me.”

“Will he go so far as Lancashire to seek you out?”

“Dunno. ’Ow far is that?”

“Many miles.”

“But where in that shire could we find safety?”

“My older brother was lord of the manor of Little Singleton, after my father. He died and left a wife and sons when the plague first came, nineteen years past. The oldest lad will by now be lord of the manor, and if he is like other knights he will possess fallow land for which he has no tenants, plague having taken off so many.”

“But I have no money for gersom,” Osbert said, “nor to buy food for such a journey.”

“Kate will send you off with eggs from her hens,” I said, and glanced to my wife, who nodded agreement. “Perhaps Father Thomas can be persuaded to offer alms from the poor fund, and provisions from his new tithe barn. And in the castle are stored the goods John Thrale had yet in his cart when men set upon him. If you sell them while on your way north to Lancashire, you will have enough for the journey. There is woolen fabric, buttons and combs. The stuff is stored with Lord Gilbert’s Chamberlain.”

I saw Osbert brighten before my eyes, his face like the sun appearing after many clouded days.

“You think the priest will marry us?”

“If he can without the other vicars learning of it, yes, I believe he will.”

“What will Lord Gilbert say of this?”

“He will know nothing of the matter. If Father Thomas agrees to meet us at the church porch this night, you must afterward go to your beds, but arise in the night and be gone. If Lord Gilbert asks of you I will then be able to tell him that you fled in the night. This will be no lie.”

Kate had listened to this conversation intently, and offered a suggestion. “You must pen a letter to your nephew and sister-in-law,” she advised. “Else when two strangers arrive asking to take up a yardland and claiming you sent them, they may not be believed.”

“Can you read?” I asked Osbert.

“Nay,” he replied. I looked to Amice and she shook her head.

“No matter. Kate’s counsel is wise, and I will do so.”

Kate had prepared Leach Lombard for our dinner this day. I enjoy the dish, but grew tense as the hour approached when I must seek Father Thomas and learn if he would consent to join Amice and Osbert in matrimony. They might flee even if he would not, but it would be seemly to be wed in such circumstance. In Lancashire no man would know if they were wed or not, but they would. When I left my house after the meal I took with me one of the sacks I use to transport herbs and my instruments when I travel.

“No man must ever learn of this,” Father Thomas said when I sought him after dinner.

“Neither I nor Kate will ever speak of it,” I said. (I did not promise not to write of the matter.) “If your clerk holds his tongue, no man need ever know.

“The couple is in great want. Osbert was a villein, owned nothing but his stomach. Amice is a widowed ale wife, and what little she possessed is in her house in Abingdon. She dare not return there. The men who captured her once, and tried to do so a second time, are yet at large, and believe, wrongly, that she knows where treasure may be found.”

“What is it you ask?”

“Six pence in alms, and grain from the tithe barn.”

The priest left his seat and walked to a table upon which a small, iron-bound chest rested. He produced a key from a lanyard attached to his belt, unlocked the box, and drew six silver pennies from it.

“What more will you ask of me?”

“Tell your clerk to go to the tithe barn after the Angelus Bell tonight and set before the door some sacks of grain, held back for the poor, oats and barley, so they may eat and feed their horse until they reach their destination.”

“What is their destination?”

“If you do not know, you cannot tell. But the sacks should be large, for the distance is great.”

So Father Thomas reluctantly agreed to meet us at the church door an hour after the evening Angelus. From his vicarage I walked to Catte Street and the home of John Prudhomme, Bampton’s beadle. I told him that he might see some folk near the church that night, violating curfew. If so, he need take no notice. Later he might see a horse and cart quietly leaving the town. This also he should ignore.

From Catte Street I set off for the castle, praying that I could enter the place without Lord Gilbert knowing I was there. He would be sure to ask inconvenient questions did he learn of my presence at the castle.

John Chamberlain was not in his chamber. I knocked upon the door to no response. As his presence was not required for what I intended to do, I pushed the door open and entered.

John Thrale’s goods were stacked neatly upon the floor, beside a table. I did not take all of the items. The sack was not large enough, and if all the goods were missing John would surely notice and wonder at the loss. But if only a part of the stuff was gone he might never notice.

John Chamberlain and Lord Gilbert might never know that some of the chapman’s goods had been appropriated, but I would. These things, as well as the horse and cart, might have been Amice’s had the chapman lived a few weeks longer. But he had not, so I must pray that the Lord Christ forgive me the theft. My conscience was some troubled later, when I thought upon the pilferage, but not so much as it would have been if I had consented to Osbert’s death at the hands of an evil lord.