Mel Starr - A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel

I guided Bruce to the High Street, where I stabled the grateful beast at the Stag and Hounds. I relieved my hunger with a half capon. It is often comforting to note that the world continues day after day with little change. But the unimproved character of the food and ale at the Stag and Hounds did little to reassure me of the permanent nature of things. Capons are to be fat. Mine this day was stringy as an old rooster, which I suspect it was.

I was not much distressed to leave off gnawing at my meal and set my feet toward my first object in the town. I dodged illegal vendors and students on Cornmarket Street, turned east on Broad Street, and presented myself to the porter at Baliol College. He was new, and did not remember me. Not that this made any difference, for the scholar I sought, he informed me, was no longer there.

Master John Wyclif had another position, the porter told me, as Warden of New Canterbury Hall. So I retraced my steps down Cornmarket Street, past the High Street, to St Aldates and Master John’s new home.

The porter at New Canterbury Hall admitted me with little hesitation, this being a time of peace between the town and its university. I followed his pointed finger across a cloister and thumped on the door he indicated. I was unsure if Master John would be within, for the day begged to be enjoyed out of doors. Or the scholar might be about his duties, which are always heavy when dealing with young men full of sap and conceit.

But my old (well, not so old; he is only ten years older than me, but has grown a beard to distinguish himself from his pupils) teacher was in his chamber, and greeted me at his door.

“Master Hugh! Welcome. You have found me.” The warden of New Canterbury Hall swept his arm about the cloister. “What do you think of my new position?”

“Baliol College has the worst of the bargain, I think.”

“Hmmm. I would agree, but ’twould be unseemly. Come in…come in, and tell me how that business turned out which drew us together last.”

“’Tis a long story. Better told on such a day while we stroll the water meadow.”

Wyclif peered up at the sky from under his hood. “You speak truth, Master Hugh. I devote too much time to study. It is well you have come to draw me from my books for a time.”

We crossed the meadow toward the Cherwell, and I told Master John of Hamo Tanner, his daughter, and Sir Robert Mallory. I told only so much of Lady Joan as was necessary to the tale, but Master John is a quick man and saw there was a part of the story I had neglected.

“What of Lady Joan?” he asked.

“Married. To Sir Thomas de Burgh…and with child, I am told.”

Master John stopped and faced me there in the tall meadow grass. “I hear melancholy in your voice, Hugh. Did you wish to win the lady for yourself?”

“She was above my station. I gave the matter no thought.”

“If you would share conversation with me, Hugh, I wish you would be truthful.”

I protested, but Master John turned and resumed his path toward the Cherwell. The meadow grass was tall, ready to be cut, and brushed my knees as I strode after him.

“So, you find me out,” I laughed. “’Tis true, if the lady would have had me I would have been her slave for life.”

“But you never offered that service?”

“Nay. To do so would have placed a gulf between us, for she could not have accepted.”

“Aye. You are correct, I’m sure. Is there another lass to consider?”

I admit that a fleeting vision of Alice atte Bridge darted through my mind as I answered, “No.”

“You have given up the pursuit, then?”

“Not so. I pray daily that God may send me a good wife.”

“But thus far He has refused? What do you to aid His work?”

I did not reply, for in truth I did nothing to alter my estate. We walked on in companionable silence until we came to the river.

“You might consider yourself fortunate,” Wyclif said.

“How so?”

Master John picked up a fallen willow branch and cast it into Cherwell stream. “Consider…had you married the Lady Joan Talbot and brought her to your bed, could you have provided for her the wealth to which she was accustomed? Surely not. Might she not soon regret her poverty and rue her life with you? And even did she not, you would see in every frown, in every disapproving word, a hint that she resented her state.”

“So you advise me to seek a poor lass for a wife?”

“Perhaps. But not if such a woman thinks you, a prosperous man, be her path to a life of ease.”

“So I must not marry either rich or poor? What of beauty? Lady Joan was…is a great beauty.”

“Aye. I believe I saw her once in company with her brother. I’ll not debate the issue. She is indeed a great beauty. But consider, then, her husband,” Master John continued, seating himself on a log and gazing out at the willow-banked Cherwell. “Men gaze lustfully at his wife. Must he not consider that some of these be more handsome, or more wealthy, or better spoken than he? Perhaps there are men who are all three. Will he not fret that his lovely wife’s affection be stolen from him? Women are the ficklest of all God’s creation, so say the sages.”

“Lady Joan would not betray her pledge,” I remonstrated. “You do not know the lady.”

“Ah, but will not Sir Thomas worry anyway, each time his comely wife holds a gentleman’s eye? I do not know the lady, but I do know men.”

“So I should seek an ugly wife?”

“You put words in my mouth, Hugh. Can a man find happiness married to a woman no other man wants?”

“You vex me, sir. A wife must be neither rich nor poor, neither beautiful nor ugly.”

“Ah…there you have it, Hugh. ’Tis Aristotle’s Golden Mean. Moderation in all things. Find yourself a wife who is beautiful, but not extravagantly so. A lass who comes of a father with some money, but not so much that he has indulged her. A woman who is quick of tongue and mind for good conversation, but not so witty that she may become a shrew.”

“You have my future well in hand. Where do I find such a woman? And mind you, I still prefer beauty, regardless of your logic.”

“That,” he chuckled, “I leave to you. And to God. I am at an end to my advice.”

An end to his advice, perhaps, but he knew well where I might find such a lass as he described and was about to set me in her direction.

We sat upon the log in collegial silence, watching the flowing stream and listening to the hum of the town across the water meadow. I was loath to disturb the moment, but finally spoke.

“There is another matter I would seek your views upon.”

Master John raised his eyes from the river to meet my gaze. “I thought as much. Few men seek me for marital advice.”

I thought to remark that I was not surprised, but held my tongue.

The sun was low across the meadow, washing Oxford’s steeples and towers in golden hues, when I completed my account of Alan the beadle, Henry atte Bridge, the beast, the shoes, the blue yarn, a dead lamb, and the nail-studded block. When I finished I drew the block from my pouch and placed it before Master John.

The scholar held it aloft to catch a ray of the setting sun angling through the willows.

“’Tis indeed an unusual instrument. But you have divined its purpose, or I mistake the set to your jaw.”

“Aye, I have a theory.”

“As do I,” Wyclif replied. “I would hear yours.”

“Such a tool could tear a man’s throat and none the wiser. And should a wolf howl in the night, the injury would seem to be done by the beast, not a man.”

“Such are my thoughts,” Wyclif agreed. “But the man who did this is dead, you say?”

“Aye, and I know not why he would kill the beadle. Surely a man will not kill another for his shoes?”