The Abbot's Agreement (5 page)

“Explorators have keys to the church and cloister, of course. Brother Gerald has a key to the guest house. And Abbot Thurstan and Prior Philip have keys.”

“Are there no other locks?” I asked. “What of the gatehouse?”

“Oh, aye. Nearly forgot. Stephen Porter will have a key, although I think the gatehouse is seldom locked. Has not been so since I’ve been here. The explorators lock the church each night, so no man can enter and make off with the silver candlesticks and other altar pieces. Only the door to the night stairs has no lock, so brothers may enter for vigils.”

“You were about to begin lessons,” I said. “We will detain you no longer.”

I nodded to Arthur to follow and we left the novices and walked through the empty refectory, thence past the kitchen garden to our lodging in the guest house.

“What now?” Arthur asked.

“I would like to find the lock this key will open.”

We went first to the gatehouse, where Stephen, a lay brother, greeted us pleasantly. I showed him the crude key, and he pursed his lips, then turned to a small chest upon a shelf in
his chamber and drew from it an ancient key. One glance showed that this key in no way resembled the key we had fished from the pond. Nevertheless I asked to try the mysterious key in the gatehouse lock. It did not turn.

“Odd sort of key,” the porter observed as I twisted the key unsuccessfully in the lock. This was so. Rather than iron, the key was made of pewter. It was therefore soft, so that it bent somewhat when I tried to turn it in the gatehouse lock. Whatever lock this key was made to undo must open readily, for the key was too pliable to work an old, rusted lock.

No novice should possess a key, but this key was not made by some skillful smith. What it was made for I could not tell, nor could I be sure that the pouch it was found in belonged to John Whytyng.

We went next to the west entrance to the church, entered the nave, and found a lock hanging from a hasp used to fasten closed the doors in the night. I pushed the lock closed, then tried the key and was again unsuccessful, although as I twisted the key it seemed to me that this well-kept lock nearly yielded to the pressure. The explorators would wonder how the lock came to be closed when they made their rounds this night.

I led Arthur through the dim nave, past the choir, to the north porch. There another lock hung upon another hasp, ready to be fastened when night came. I pushed the lock closed, inserted the key, and turned it. The well-oiled lock opened readily.

“I think,” Arthur said, “that when John Whytyng rose in the night ’twas not to meditate in the cloister.”

“If this was indeed his key,” I said.

“Whose else? But how did he lose it in the pond?”

“I’ve thought on that,” I replied. “I believe one of the strokes of the dagger must have cut the cord which bound the pouch to him. Perhaps he concealed the pouch under his habit, so that the other novices could not see it. When he went into the pond the key and pouch fell free.”

“Oh,” Arthur said thoughtfully. “But where would a novice get such a thing?”

“Made it. See how crude it is.”

“Of what, an’ how?”

“’Tis near time for dinner. We will seek answers to those questions later.”

Our dinner came from the abbot’s kitchen, and since ’twas not a fast day we enjoyed roasted pork, with wheaten loaves and a pottage of dried cherries from the abbey orchard.

The abbey kitchen, or the abbot’s kitchen, would be the most likely place for a novice to find some pewter object which might be fashioned into a key. Basins and kettles made of such stuff are common. I thought that perhaps some pot might have gone missing recently.

The abbot’s cook insisted that all of his vessels were accounted for, but the abbey kitchener had, since Michaelmas, been missing a large pewter spoon. If the utensil was large enough a key the size of the one in my pouch might have been hammered and chiseled from it. I asked, and the kitchener placed both of his hands together to indicate the size of the missing ladle. Large enough for the key within my pouch.

But how could a novice make a key which would fit the lock to the church’s north porch? Keys are similar, ’tis true, but the failure of the pewter key to open either the gatehouse lock or the lock to the west doors of the nave was evidence that even small differences may make a great mismatch. Perhaps John made several keys from the stolen spoon, ’till he happened upon one which succeeded.

Or perhaps the key and its pouch had nothing to do with John Whytyng and his death. If so, finding the key alongside the novice’s boot was a great coincidence. Bailiffs do not believe in coincidences.

“I been thinkin’ about them footprints,” Arthur said. “There was three novices, now but two, an’ three sets of footprints where we found the boot. Henry is a strapping lad, but Osbert is puny. Mayhap all three was on the bank of the fishpond together, Henry’s bein’ the big footprints an’ Osbert’s the little.”

“I think not,” I replied. Arthur’s expression was somewhere between crestfallen and doubtful. “I wondered that very thing. Have you seen a pup grow to become a hound?” I did not wait for Arthur’s reply. “Their paws are often full-grown while the dog is but half-grown. So it is with Osbert. Next time you see him, examine his shoes. They are as large as Henry’s though he weighs hardly half as much.”

“So who made them other footprints? Village folk poachin’ the abbey fish, likely?”

“It may be so. But as I think on it, I have doubts. Would a man slay another for a few fish? If John unwittingly approached poachers he would not have thought to be silent, not expecting to meet any such folk there in the night – although he may have intended to meet someone there, whereas the poachers would surely have been alert to discovery. They’d have seen or heard the novice approach, and retreated to the wood to avoid being found out.”

“If the novice did plan to meet someone there by the fishpond,” Arthur said, “mayhap when ’e got there the folk what was there wasn’t who ’e expected.”

Here was a new thought, and one worthy of investigation, although how I would go about it was unclear. John Whytyng had a key which would open the door to the north porch of the abbey church. This entrance to the church was beyond the abbey wall, and so allowed access to the village. Whether he had made the key or acquired it from another I could not know, and it probably did not matter. That the key was John’s I was certain, because of where it was found. Had the novice used it before, to slip away from the abbey in the night? It must be so, for some man, or men, expected him to be at the fishpond. Unless John had actually surprised poachers in the act of casting a net.

N
ear to the east pond was a substantial house of three bays, its daub whitewashed, its roof well thatched, its barns well kept, its toft filled with hens.

I sought Brother Gerleys and asked whose house adjoined the abbey to the east.

“Simon… Simon atte Pond he is called. Eynsham Abbey’s reeve.”

“It seems the house of a prosperous man. And nearby, across the road, is another grand house. Who lives there?”

“The reeve has five yardlands of the abbey, and village folk in hallmote have chosen him reeve for many years. Across the way is the house of Sir Richard Cyne, lord of his manor at Eynsham.”

If a man is chosen reeve by his neighbors for many years, it is generally because he allows no man to shirk the labor which is his obligation, but is fair when responsibilities for fields and forests and ditches and fences are assigned. No one wishes to be appointed more labor than he believes is his due; nor does he want his neighbor to escape his share of manor obligations. A reeve, like a bailiff, finds it easy to anger many folk and difficult to please most.

The reeve’s dwelling lay but a hundred paces to the east of the abbey church. Hens retreated deeper into the toft as Arthur and I approached the house. When I rapped upon the substantial oaken door it opened almost immediately and a youth of perhaps twelve years peered through the opening. My first thought upon seeing the lad was that here is a boy about the proper age to make the smallest set of footprints I had seen a few hours earlier, less than a hundred paces from where I now stood.

I glanced to his feet and saw that, like those of the novice Osbert, they had outgrown his slender form and were nearly as large as my own or Arthur’s. Whatever youth had stood upon the
verge of the fishpond four or five days past, here was not the lad who did so.

“I seek Simon atte Pond,” I said. “Is he at home?”

“Nay, sir. Master is dealing with them what’s ditching out Swinford Road.”

I knew Swinford Road well, having traveled it to Oxford many times, and once, also in company with Arthur, fleeing an attack as we galloped our beasts to Eynsham and the abbey, seeking sanctuary from men who sought to do us harm.

“Master,” the lad had called the reeve. This is not uncommon. Since the great pestilence many who have escaped death now have tenancy of many yardlands and wealth enough to employ servants. Indeed, some knights and squires resent the prosperity of such men, who may not add “Sir” to their names even though they carry a heavy purse.

We found the reeve and six of the abbey’s tenants at work but three hundred paces east of the village. At first I could not identify the reeve, for all seven men plied spades where I could see that water had gathered in the past, and was beginning to create a swamp which impinged upon the adjacent field. These laborers had yet several hundred paces of ditch to clear before the water which might accumulate in the place could flow freely to a small brook.

One of the diggers looked up from his work, saw us approach, spoke a word, and as one the others rested upon their spades to watch us draw near. The fellows had likely been at this labor since shortly after dawn, and so were pleased for any diversion which would grant a moment of ease.

Arthur and I had approached within a few paces of the ditchers when one man lifted his spade to a shoulder and spoke.

“I give you good day. How may I serve you?”

“I seek Simon atte Pond, reeve of Eynsham.”

“You found ’im.”

The autumn day was cool, but the reeve and those who worked with him had discarded their cotehardies and worked dressed only in kirtles and loose chauces. Yet even so lightly clad,
the reeve passed the sleeve of his kirtle across his forehead to wipe away sweat as he spoke. I was prepared to like the fellow. Any reeve who will labor with the men he oversees is likely to be worthy of trust.

“Perhaps you will not mind ceasing your labor for a moment,” I said. “Abbot Thurstan has employed me to seek a murderer. I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at Bampton.”

The reeve bowed and tugged a forelock, a thing he likely was taught when young, although now his rank was near to my own and his worth perhaps as great.

“Heard about the lad,” he said. News of death, especially one so attended with mystery and wickedness as that of John Whytyng, spreads through a small village as rapidly as the pestilence.

“What have you heard?”

“’E was found yesterday, most of ’is face peeled away by birds. Stabbed in the back, some do say.”

“What do others say?”

“Just stabbed.”

“Did you know the novice?”

“Nay. I have little to do with the monks.”

“Did others of the village know the lad? Did any speak of him?”

The reeve was strangely silent for a moment. “Some knew of ’im, I think. Monks keep to themselves. Lay brothers are about the village often enough, but not so much the monks or novices.”

“Then how did some of the village know of John Whytyng, if monks and novices keep to themselves?”

“Don’t know that many folk did know of ’im. I said I thought some in the village knew of ’im. That’s all.”

“Your home is adjacent to the abbey fishpond.”

“Aye. That’s how folk do call me.”

“You are closer to the pond than any monk. Do you ever see folk, or hear them in the night, taking fish from the abbey ponds?”

“What’s that to do with the novice bein’ slain?”

“Perhaps nothing.”

“That would be the bailiff’s worry, or the abbot’s; not mine.”

“I am told that Eynsham’s bailiff is a venerable man and may, perhaps, be less alert than a younger man for miscreants in the village.”

“That’s as may be, but poachin’ the abbey’s fish is the bailiff’s concern, or the abbot’s; not mine.”

“You have not answered my question,” I said. “Do you awaken in the night and hear men prowling about the pond in the dark?”

“Folks who’d be takin’ the abbey’s fish would be silent while about it.”

“But a net thrown into the water would make a splash.”

The reeve was silent for a moment, long enough for me to wonder if my first assessment of his character was in error. Perhaps he knew of villagers who dined upon the abbey’s fish, and had done so himself, and so intended to keep silence about the offense.

“Folk be slayin’ pigs now. Most have no need to risk takin’ abbey fish,” the reeve finally said.

“But when winter is past,” I said, “perhaps by Whitsuntide, when pork is gone, then you hear men at the pond?”

“Aye,” he admitted. “But not now.”

“When was the last time you heard men in the night and thought it likely they broke curfew to take abbey fish?”

The reeve scratched at his beard as he considered the question. “Not since Lammastide… a fortnight after.”

“But you neither heard nor saw any man near the pond at night last week?”

“Last week? Nay.”

The laborers had rested upon their spades during this conversation, listening intently, for any such talk of village gossip will excite attention. And perhaps among the ditchers was a man who had helped himself to an abbey pike at some time in the past.

Arthur and I left the reeve and his workers to their labor and retraced our steps along Swinford Road to the village. When we were out of earshot of the reeve Arthur spoke.

“Never heard of a reeve what didn’t know everyone else’s business. An’ what’s a reeve doin’ with them as is ditchin’? That’s a hayward’s work, seems to me.”

“Perhaps,” I said, thinking out loud, “the pestilence carried off the hayward, and the reeve has taken upon himself some of the bailiff’s duty, the bailiff being old and incompetent. Men will not say to a bailiff the same words they would to a reeve… even a bailiff who is but a reeve.”

“Hmmm. Mayhap.”

We were passing a field where wheat stubble, left standing after harvest, was being cut to mix with hay for winter fodder. Arthur’s attention was drawn to the women who were busy with scythes at this task, one of whom was a comely lass. She stood from her work to watch us pass, but at a sharp word from an older woman – her mother, perhaps – turned away and bent to her labor. Most matrons would prefer that their daughters not catch the eye of passing strangers.

The lass, or some other in the wheatfield, had caught another eye as well. A few paces beyond the west edge of the field, and on the opposite side of the road, was a large house, well thatched, surrounded by many barns and outbuildings; the residence of Eynsham’s lord, Sir Richard Cyne. A man stood at an upper window, which was open to the chill November breeze. Why it would be so was plain. The fellow stared over our heads toward the women cutting wheat stubble.

Arthur saw me turn to look to my right and followed my gaze. As he did so the man at the window noticed us passing and withdrew. A moment later an arm appeared and drew the window closed. Arthur chuckled.

“Wanted a better look at yon lass than he’d ’ave through the ripples of window glass, eh?”

I agreed that this might be so.

The sun lay low in the southwest, and it would soon be
night. I had learned what I could this day, although this was little enough. A mighty castle may, however, be brought down by the incessant pounding of a trebuchet.

We passed the west entrance to the abbey church, entered the door to the west range of the cloister, and found the door to the abbot’s lodging open. Nones had ended but a short while past. I saw the abbot, head in hands, seated at his desk and bent over an open book. I thought at first that he was deep in study and contemplation, but when I politely coughed to announce our presence at his door, the old monk started as if pricked.

Abbot Thurstan looked up from his book, blinked away the effects of his slumber, and recognized who it was who darkened his door.

“Ah, Master Hugh. What news?” He pointed to a chair and bench. “Be seated… be seated, and tell me what you have learned this day.”

I did. I had learned little enough, so the recitation did not take long. The day’s events had raised as many questions as answers. I tried some of the questions on the abbot.

“Who are the abbey explorators?”

“Prior Philip and Brother Eustace see to locking the abbey doors at night,” he replied.

“How old is Sir Richard Cyne?”

“Sir Richard?” The old abbot stammered at this abrupt change of subject, then continued. “Not so old as me… few men are. Has two grown sons. Wife died when plague came twenty years past. Lost a daughter then, also.”

I glanced toward Arthur and he smiled knowingly in return. ’Twas a stout young man we had seen standing at the upper window of Sir Richard’s house. One of the sons, surely, but knowledge of this would do us no good in discovering the felon who murdered John Whytyng.

Monks have no supper when days grow short, but visitors in the guest house are fed from the abbot’s kitchen. So when Arthur and I entered our lodging the lay brother assigned to attend us told us that he would soon return with our meal.
’Twas but a simple pease pottage, but flavored with a few bits of pork, and with a maslin loaf the supper was most satisfactory. I could not say the same for the abbey’s ale. The monk in charge of brewing the abbey’s ale was ill chosen. Perhaps this is by Abbot Thurstan’s design. A man seldom finds himself in trouble for drinking too little ale, and no monk of Eynsham Abbey was likely to imbibe too much of the foul stuff Arthur and I found in the ewer.

Night comes quickly in the days past Martinmas. The feeble light of a cresset gave illumination to our guest chamber. Was I at home in Bampton, I would light another cresset and read from one of my books, perhaps the gospel of St. John. Next year I might read from my own Bible. But I was not in Galen House, I had no book, the night was chill, and so I was about to surrender to the darkness and seek my bed when it occurred to me that on such a night, when darkness came early to Eynsham, was John Whytyng slain. If poachers were to blame, might they not seek the abbey fishpond again? No man knew of what Arthur and I had found beside the fishpond but for Brother Gerleys, Abbot Thurstan, and the novices.

I told Arthur of my plan. “That reeve,” he replied, “said folk was most likely to take fish from abbey ponds come Whitsuntide, but days is long then. A man would need to wait ’till near the middle of the night, else he’d be seen. Not so after Martinmas.”

The abbey church bell had just rung for compline when Arthur and I left the guest house. We walked silently, hesitantly, past the southern end of the dormitory. I did not much fear discovery. The monks would all be in their choir stalls. Our progress was slow because we had only the light of stars to guide us, the moon not yet being risen. If some men were seeking the abbey’s fish I wanted to be upon them before they could hear us approach.

I found the pond, saw the stars reflected in its mirror-like surface, and together Arthur and I followed the bank until we were near the place where we had found the novice’s boot.

I whispered to Arthur that we should seat ourselves against
the base of a beech tree which grew nearby at the verge of the wood. It seemed to me that if poachers wished to take abbey fish at this season they would do so soon after compline, while the monks slept, and before they awoke for vigils. What man would willingly forsake a warm bed in this season if he could complete his mischief and return to his home before the coldest part of the night?

I was required twice to put an elbow into Arthur’s ribs before the new moon rose over the wood behind us. The man’s snoring would frighten off a host of poachers. If Abbot Thurstan would build a hut at the edge of the pond, and hire Arthur to sleep there, he would never lose another fish.

We remained in shadow, but the pond was now faintly illuminated. If I were a poacher I would have come and gone by this time. Arthur agreed. “A man would have to be witless to cast a net into the pond now,” he whispered. I agreed, told him we would return to the guest house, and stood from my seat at the base of the old beech tree. This was not so easily accomplished as when I was a youth. Muscles had grown stiff with cold and inactivity. Arthur also stood slowly, then stretched. I heard a joint pop somewhere in his back. If his snoring did not chase poachers away, his stretching might.