Mel Starr - The Tainted Coin

After mass and a dinner of roasted capon I sought Lord Gilbert, told him of the assault on Kate, and requested permission to take Arthur from his duties at the castle. As is his custom, Lord Gilbert raised one eyebrow as I related the previous day’s events. Three years past, when I was new to Bampton, I had tried to emulate him in this. I failed.

My employer was florid with anger when I completed the tale. His brows were now lowered in a scowl, and he seemed ready to leap from his chair to accompany Arthur and me to Abingdon.

“Take Arthur, and any other you may need,” he said when I fell silent. “No man will threaten your Kate and Bessie in such a manner and escape, if I can do aught about it.”

“Arthur is worth two in a scrap,” I said.

“Aye, he is that. And he’s no dullard, even so he is low-born.”

Arthur, as I suspected, was eager to leave the drudgery of castle labor and set off for Abingdon. I told him to arm himself with a dagger, and be ready to leave next day at dawn. My warning that violence might find us, or we might find violence, did not seem to trouble the man. He raised his head, grinned, and promised to be ready at the appointed time. Men who generally win their fights do not much fear being drawn into another.

I visited the marshalsea and told a page to have Bruce and an old palfrey ready next morn, then set off for Galen House. I was through the gatehouse and crossing the castle forecourt when a disagreeable thought came to me. What if the men I sought learned of my pursuit before I found them? Might they seek vengeance upon me by returning to Bampton, knowing I was in Abingdon, and do harm to Kate and Bessie? I could not leave my wife and daughter alone.

Lord Gilbert was in the solar, with Lady Petronilla, when I returned to the castle. I explained my worry, and he readily agreed that Kate and Bessie should remove to the castle until I had discovered the men who murdered the chapman and assaulted Kate.

When I was a bachelor I went where I would, when I would. It is difficult to learn a new manner of living, to think of others before making a decision, but after nearly two years since I wed Kate under the porch of the Church of St. Beornwald, I was beginning to consider new obligations before my own plans.

After a supper of bruit of eggs I told Kate she must leave Galen House and lodge with Bessie in the castle, in my old bachelor chamber. She was not pleased with the move, as I knew she would not be, and her lips drew tight across her teeth while I told her what she was to do. But when I pointed out that the men who had attacked her and threatened Bessie might return in my absence, she rubbed her chafed wrists absent-mindedly and reluctantly agreed to my decision.

I told Kate to prepare what she wished to take to the castle, and that next day she should expect a cart from the marshalsea to move her thence. I reminded her to lock the door to Galen House upon leaving, to which admonition she rolled her eyes. Such advice was probably unnecessary, but the longer I am wed, and the more I consider my responsibilities to Kate and Bessie, the more cautious I seem to become.

Next morn I kissed my Kate farewell, and was pleased that her embrace did not betoken so much displeasure as I had feared. At the castle I found Uctred, another of Lord Gilbert’s grooms, and told him to take a horse and cart to Galen House, there to load what Kate wished taken to my old chamber off the Bampton Castle great hall. Arthur and I then mounted our horses and set off across Shill Brook.

The journey took us past St. Andrew’s Chapel, where I saw John Kellet at work, his robe drawn up and tucked into the cord he used for a belt, mending the tumbled-down wall about the churchyard. He looked up as we approached, sucking upon a thumb as would a babe. Nettles grew in profusion against the wall. I believe the priest had found one as we came into view.

“Good day, Master Hugh,” Kellet greeted me amiably, and nodded recognition to Arthur. “A fine day, after the rain.”

I agreed that this was so, and asked the priest if he had seen two men ride this way late Saturday.

“Many folk pass by here,” he said. “But not so many mounted. There were but two men on horseback toward evening.”

“Did one wear a red cap, the other blue?”

Kellet thought for a moment. “Aye… so they did. Passed the chapel twice, first going toward Bampton, then, as I was ready to sound the Angelus Bell, I saw them ride east.”

“Did they ride easy, or seem hurried?”

“They seemed in some haste. They’d not spurred their beasts to a gallop, but they did not travel at an easy pace. More like a canter. Fast enough to raise the dust as they passed.”

No man would raise dust upon the road this day. I had searched the lane from Bruce’s back for any sign of a print made by a broken horseshoe, but between Bampton and St. Andrew’s Chapel the only impressions upon the road were the footprints of those who had walked this way since the rain ceased shortly after dawn on Sunday.

I thanked Kellet for this news, bid him good day, and set off for Abingdon. The curate bent again to his labor on the toppled wall, and I marveled once more at the change in the man. The John Kellet I knew two years past would not have troubled himself to repair the churchyard wall of St. Andrew’s Chapel even were there no nettles to impede the work.

It was midday when Arthur and I led the horses to the mews behind the New Inn. We found a dinner of pottage of eggs in the public room.

The pepperer’s wife had said that John Thrale had lived in the house on East St. Helen Street since Lammastide. I wondered where he had made his home before, so sought the woman to learn if she knew. Before I set about this task I told Arthur to walk the streets of Abingdon with his eyes fixed to the ground, seeking the track of a horse with a broken shoe. If he found such a mark he was to follow the track, if he could, to see where it led. In the marketplace before the New Inn I drew in the mud a copy of the misshapen horseshoe, then set off for East St. Helen Street while Arthur circled the marketplace before setting off to explore side streets.

The door to the pepperer’s shop was open, the owner at work grinding peppercorns and sneezing as a result of his labors. The man’s wife was absent, but he was as likely to know where Thrale had lived before Lammastide as his spouse.

“Ock Street,” he replied when I asked. “Near to the river, with the tanners.”

If John Thrale had lived near tanners it was no wonder he chose to move his residence from the stench of that occupation. I thanked the pepperer for this information, bid him good day, and followed his directions to Ock Street.

Tanners and rope-makers lived along Ock Street — a convenient location, for water was at hand in the river and both trades used large amounts. Near to a place where the river curved close to the street I found a florid-faced tanner fleshing a hide, greeted him, and asked if he knew a chapman named John Thrale.

“Oh, aye… don’t live near anymore, though. Bought ’imself a house freehold over on East St. Helen Street.”

The tanner shook his head gently as he said this, as if to add to the incredulity in his voice.

“Where did he live before he went to St. Helen Street?”

“Just over there.”

The tanner pointed to a hut across the street and two houses closer to the marketplace. There was but one window in the hovel, and a broken shutter hung askew over it. Weeds grew in the dirt before the house, and in several places the thatching of the roof was so thin that the contour of rafters could be seen.

“If you seek ’im, he’ll likely be on ’is rounds. Travels about, does John, sellin’ stuff to folks as don’t have shops or markets in their village. Might be ’ome, but I’d doubt so. Winter comin’, ’e’ll be at ’is business while roads is firm.”