The Tainted Coin (10 page)

I looked down at the road where I stood, and saw there the mark of the ill-shod horse we had followed into the forest. We had trailed the beast back to the road. Arthur followed my eyes and studied the mud at our feet.

“Them fellows didn’t return the way they come,” he said. “Nay. Had they found treasure in the forest, they would return home, but the track leads on toward Standlake… unless that is near their home. We’ll retrieve the horses and see where these men may lead us.”

Past Standlake the roads diverge, one way leading north, to Witney, the other west, to Bampton. I considered as we passed through Standlake what I should do if the trail led north.

I was spared the decision. The mark of a broken horseshoe traveled toward Bampton.

We followed, watching closely for any place where the horse had left the road.

Through Aston and Cote we saw no such trail, and at Cote rain began to fall, soaking us thoroughly and slowly obliterating the track we followed.

The deluge had nearly blotted out the trace of a broken horseshoe when we came to the place near to St. Andrew’s Chapel where John Thrale had been beaten to his death. Here the horse we followed again departed the road, and went along the same path which led to the clearing where I had found the chapman’s horse and cart.

I turned Bruce from the road, and Arthur followed. We were already soaked through, wet and cold. What matter if we became colder and wetter?

It was not necessary to dismount to follow this path. I knew the way, and I thought I knew where it would lead. I discovered soon enough that my knowledge was incomplete.

We came to the clearing where John Kellet and I had found Thrale’s horse and cart, and here I dismounted to inspect the surrounding forest for cavities made by those who sought the chapman’s hoard. No such digging was visible, but two wicked men had recently come to this place for some reason. It was not to enjoy the solitude of a peaceful autumn wood.

I told Arthur to circle about the clearing to the right, and I would do the same to the left. No more than ten paces from the clearing I found a duplicate of the ruins we found near Standlake. Here there were twenty leaf-and-mold-covered columns, four across and five in length, standing in a shallow declivity, as in the first discovery. Here was a place where ancient men had once lived, but a half-mile from Bampton, yet so far as I knew, no man of Bampton knew of the place. Perhaps some swineherd had passed by, or men seeking downed limbs for winter firewood, but if they saw the lumps in the forest they thought little of them. I was sure I would find holes dug into the earth nearby, and soon did so; four of them.

I called softly to Arthur and a moment later he appeared, stepping silently through the sodden forest.

Here the layer of fallen leaves covering the holes and the accompanying piles of dirt was thinner than at Standlake. Rain had surely loosened some this day, so whoever dug these pits had done so recently, perhaps this very morn. I held a finger to my lips to silence Arthur, though in truth he made no sound as he stepped near, and glanced about to see if any men might at that moment be seen observing us from behind an oak. Arthur caught my intent, and did likewise. We stood thus for some time, silent in the dripping wood, but neither saw nor heard any other man.

“’Tis sure the villains who delved here found no riches at Standlake,” said Arthur.

“Aye, they would not trouble themselves here had they done so. Nor did they find silver or gold here, I think.”

“Four holes, rather than one?”

“Aye, unless the fourth pit rewarded their labor.”

Arthur peered about, water dripping from his cap and eyebrows, and shivered. This was unlike him, for he bore discomfort as well as any man. I knew this from having spent some hours with him bound uncomfortably in a cold swineherd’s hut a year and more past.

“We have missed our dinner,” I said. “But mayhap cook will have a morsel remaining, and I am wet through and need dry clothes. Let us be off.”

Once or twice as we neared, then passed St. Andrew’s Chapel, I thought I saw in the road the mark of a broken horseshoe, but the pelting rain had so eroded all impressions in the mud that I could not be sure the felons had entered the town. And I was so wet and chilled, I no longer cared much where the fellows had gone. My mind, as we approached Bampton Castle, was fixed on warm, dry clothes, and a warm, dry wife. I found both readily.

Chapter 7

R
ain continued all the next day. I sought Arthur and told him we would not return to Abingdon until the morrow, when the deluge, I hoped, would have passed. I spent the day in my old bachelor quarters, playing with Bessie and enjoying conversation with Kate.

Saturday dawned clear but cold. After a loaf and a cup of ale, Arthur and I were off again for Abingdon, with a sack of my instruments and herbs slung across Bruce’s rump. I had spent so much of the journey on Thursday watching the road pass beneath me that I could not refrain from doing so this day as well. If the men I sought had found no treasure yet, perhaps they might be again upon the roads. They were not.

We left our horses in the mews behind the New Inn, consumed a dinner of stockfish and pease pottage, then set off for St. Nicholas’s Church and the abbey gatehouse.

The porter was not present, perhaps at his dinner, but the lay brother who served in his place trotted off willingly to seek the hosteler. Brother Theodore appeared soon after, the stained linen cloth pressed to his cheek. The monk did not seem comforted to see me.

I carried over my shoulder the sack of instruments and herbs I would use to mend Brother Theodore’s fistula. His eyes went to the sack as he approached and I saw him sigh.

“I have brought all things needed to deal with your hurt,” I said.

“I am sorry for your inconvenience,” the monk replied.

“You have changed your mind? You no longer wish me to treat your fistula?”

“Nay. I wish it heartily, but m’lord abbot forbids it.”

As we spoke the porter appeared, returning to his post. He overheard Brother Theodore and explained.

“Saturn is in the house of Aries, as any competent leech or surgeon should know, and will remain for a fortnight. No surgery upon a man’s head or face will succeed at such a time. Brother abbot has forbidden it.”

I knew the tradition that Saturn, that malignant planet, might bring medical and surgical care to naught, was the physician or surgeon so bold as to try his skill when Saturn was opposed.

But I also knew of Henri de Mondeville’s experience in mending men after battle. He once extracted an arrow which pierced a man’s cheeks, through from one side of his face to the other, no matter the position of planets or the moon in the zodiac. What good to a man wounded in battle to wait a fortnight, or even a day, to minister to his injury?

De Mondeville wrote of his cures that recovery from wounds seemed dependent more upon the skill of the surgeon than the position of the stars and planets. So after reading
Surgery
, which book set me upon my chosen work, I paid scant attention when learned doctors at the university in Paris required of us students that we become expert in the zodiac and the influence of the stars and planets over our work.

And while a student at Baliol College I read
The Confessions of St. Augustine
. He wrote that astrology strikes at the root of human responsibility. To men it says, “What has happened is not my fault, it was decided by the stars. Venus or Mars or Saturn did this, not my foolishness or sin.” God, creator of the stars and planets, is to be blamed for whatever mistakes we make or evil we do.

But if the abbot forbid me dealing this day with Brother Theodore’s fistula, so be it. An abbot may not be contradicted within the walls of his demesne. Brother Theodore had lived with his malaise for some years. He would need to endure a fortnight longer.

“How does Amice Thatcher?” I asked.

“Brother Anselm sent her away this morn,” the hosteler finally said.

“Away? Why so? She may be in danger. The infirmarer knew this. What cause did he give?”

“Said the children were too noisy, disturbed those who were ill.”

The hosteler seemed skeptical. Had it not been so, I would not have prodded the monk further.

“Did you hear of others who complained?”

Again the hosteler hesitated. “Nay… well, not much. My chamber is in the guest hall, so as to be near my charges. I’d not have heard even were the children troublesome.”

I believe he did not wish to seem disloyal to a friend, but wished to speak the truth. This is often a trying thing for an honest man, whether he serves abbot, bishop, or King.

“Did Mistress Thatcher annoy the infirmarer? Had she some distasteful habit, or did she demand more than proper of a guest?”

“Nay, not so far as I could see. But somehow she vexed him. He was in a choler when I saw him this morn, before matins.”

“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.