The Tainted Coin (14 page)

Arthur is ever willing to be helpful, but I did not think our captive would approve the plan.

“You are a tenant of the manor?” I asked the fellow.

“Nay… villein.”

“Is Sir Philip in other ways a good lord?”

“Nay. A hard man, is Sir Philip, an’ that’s when ’e’s sober. When ’e’s in ’is cups a man had best stay clear.”

“Was he drinking this night?”

“Aye, as every night.”

“So his rage will be great?”

“Aye. He’ll have me whipped first, then ’e’ll hang me, twice, most likely.”

“Twice?”

“Aye. Cut me down when I’m near gone, toss a bucket of water on me, an’ when I’ve come to me senses, hang me again.”

“He has done such a thing?”

“Aye, him an’ Sir Simon.”

“Sir Simon Trillowe?”

“The very man. Sir Philip caught a villein stealin’ eggs from ’is hencoop two years past.”

“And Sir Simon helped him hang the thief?”

“Aye, hanged ’im twice, so I heard. Didn’t see for meself. A villein stealin’ from ’is lord is treason, so Sir Philip said.”

“Is that how he regularly deals with villeins who displease him?”

“Aye. Had a few strokes when I was a lad.”

“Have you never thought of leaving? Have you a wife and children?”

“Think on it near every day. Got no family to suffer for me runnin’ off, but where would I go? A lad fled the manor last year. Sir Philip an’ his men found ’im in Banbury. Didn’t hang ’im ’cause ’e was little more than a child, but beat ’im so ’e can’t stand straight now.”

I had taken an unaccountable liking to this guard, who seemed an honest fellow caught up in an impossible situation. I decided to try him with another question.

“Has Sir Philip any other captive who might bring him gain?”

The guard scratched the back of his head before he replied.

“Sir Philip don’t say much with the commons about to hear ’im. All I know is what ’is valet overhears an’ gossips about. He’s needy, is all I know.”

“But you know of no other he’s taken because they might enrich him?”

“Nay.”

“If I return you to Sir Philip, he will slay you – so you believe. So then, do you wish to accompany us and be away from this place?”

“Aye. I’ve nowhere to go, but when I get to somewhere new I’ll not be whipped and sent to a gibbet… ’less Sir Philip finds me.”

“If I am to help you escape your manor, I should know your name.”

“I am Osbert – Osbert Hanney.”

We stumbled through the forest, becoming thoroughly wet, until by the light of stars through bare branches we found the horses. Sybil complained the entire time: her feet were cold; her cotehardie had become snagged on a twig and ripped; she stubbed a toe against a root; I should take her to South Marston this very night, and if I did not her father would hear of my neglect of her. I was nearly ready to do her will so I would no longer hear her grievances.

Sybil rode the palfrey, I was upon Bruce, and Arthur and Osbert walked before. Stars gave enough light that the road lay faintly visible before us, and no brigands accosted us. We reached Abingdon well before dawn, and I was required to pound upon the abbey gate for some time before the porter’s assistant heard me and opened to us. I told the fellow I had with me a high-born maid for whom I sought provision for the remainder of the night, and when Sybil was safe in the abbey guest house I led Arthur and Osbert to the New Inn. It was nearly time for the Angelus Bell before my head rested upon a pillow. I had accomplished nothing toward finding Amice Thatcher, or the murderers, or the location of the lost treasure, and had succeeded only in enlarging my own responsibilities.

No matter how choleric Sybil Montagu was, it was my obligation to see she was reunited with her father. And I, a bailiff, was now assisting a villein to flee from his manor and lord. These thoughts troubled my slumber so that when dawn roused the other sleepers in the New Inn’s upper room, I was awake before them.

What to do with Sybil Montagu? After several days the hosteler would surely wish to be rid of the maid. He would turn her over to the abbot. I could imagine Sybil complaining loudly to Peter of Hanney, and his response. The vision brought a smile to my lips. The abbot would find some quick way to return the lass to South Marston.

And there was Osbert to consider. He and Sybil were by now discovered missing, for he had told me he was to be relieved at dawn. Sir Philip or his minions would prowl the streets of nearby towns seeking the man. It would be best if he was away from Abingdon. But where? Perhaps South Marston.

I could send Osbert to tell Sir Henry that his daughter was safe in the abbey, and to come and retrieve her. This would remove Osbert from the easy reach of Sir Philip Rede, and solve the problem of what was to be done with Sybil, assuming her father would come to reclaim her, or send servants to do so.

I told Arthur and Osbert of my plan while we broke our fast with loaves from the baker. But before I sent Osbert on his way I had a question. I thought I knew already the answer.

“Beyond Sir Philip’s manor at East Hanney I saw another great house, just beyond the church. Who’s manor is there?”

“Sir John Trillowe,” he replied.

“Does his son, Sir Simon, reside there?”

“Aye. Him an’ Sir Philip is cronies. Was lads together.”

“Has Sir Philip other close friends?”

“Nay, not many.”

“I have reason to believe him and some other guilty of a felony.”

“You mean takin’ the lass?”

“Nay. Murder.”

Osbert was silent for a moment. “Sir Philip’s a bad-tempered sort, him an’ his brother.”

“Sir Philip has a brother? Does he reside on the manor?”

“Aye.”

“Describe these brothers.”

Osbert did so, and I was convinced that these were the men who had slain John Thrale, threatened my Bessie, and seized Amice Thatcher.

Arthur knew of South Marston, and told Osbert how best to travel there, avoiding East Hanney. He was to take the road to Faringdon, and thence to Swindon. He would come to South Marston a few miles short of Swindon. I gave the fellow two pence to see him on his way; enough to feed himself at some inn in Faringdon going and coming, but not so much as to give him thoughts of absconding with my coin without performing his duty.

“When you return,” I said, “we will find some place for you where you will not be ill used. If you do not find us here, ask the way to Standlake and Bampton. You will find me in Bampton.”

I hoped this was so, for if I had returned to my home it would mean that I had found two murderers and Amice Thatcher. I could not leave Abingdon with these obligations unfulfilled.

I was eager to return to East Hanney, convinced that Amice Thatcher lay somewhere in the village, but this desire was tempered now with the knowledge that Sir Simon Trillowe, a man who harbored much ill will against me, might be encountered there. Rather than Amice Thatcher, I might find much trouble in the village.

Never again will I set out upon some venture which might prove hazardous with but an hour of sleep in the previous night. And Bruce seemed resentful of being pulled from the mews and saddled. Perhaps he had more wit than I.

By the third hour Arthur and I, Bruce and the palfrey, were again upon the road to East Hanney. For the first two miles, till Marcham, we followed the way Osbert would have taken, and I thought we might catch him. But not so; the man was a fast walker.

After Marcham we turned our beasts south, to East Hanney, and again dismounted before we reached the village and led the horses into the same forest they had visited a day before.

From the same nettle-covered wall we peered out at Sir Philip Rede’s manor. All was quiet. Perhaps too quiet. None of the normal autumn labor was in view. No men were planting wheat and rye in new-ploughed fields. I had been worried that swineherds might drive their hogs into the wood, pannaging for beechnuts and acorns, and discover us there, but none were about. Tenants and villeins should also be gathering downed wood for winter fires at this season, and, indeed, I saw suitable fallen boughs in the forest behind me, but no man was collecting them.

Arthur voiced my unease. “Awful quiet,” he said.

I was tempted to walk brazenly through the village to see what was there, and learn why no men were about, nor women, either. But Sir Simon Trillowe knows me well, and should I come upon him Kate might soon be a widow. I could not ride Bruce into the village, for a stranger on horseback is noticed where the same fellow afoot might draw little attention.

Sir Simon had seen Arthur a time or two, but I doubted he would have taken much notice of him. Nobles rarely pay much heed to the commons, and aside from the thickness of his chest and arms there is little about Arthur to cause a knight to take a second glance his way.

“Something is amiss in that village,” I said.

“Aye,” Arthur nodded.

“No man of East Hanney knows you, I think. Walk through the village purposefully, as a man determined to reach some place before nightfall, and see what folk there are about. When you have passed through the place circle about through the fields and rejoin me. Do not return through the village, or some man will be suspicious of who you are and why you travel the streets in two directions.”

Arthur nodded and set off. From behind the wall I watched his head and shoulders – all I could see of him from behind the wall which divided field from road – until he disappeared behind a house.

I stood behind the wall, leaning upon the stones and careful to avoid the nettles, while I awaited Arthur’s return. Occasionally I looked to the west, to see if I might catch sight of him returning by the way I had advised, although I did not expect to glimpse him so soon. When he did reappear it was not in the manner or place I had suggested.

Arthur appeared from behind the house where I had last seen him. His head and shoulders bobbed rapidly behind the wall. He was running. This was an exercise Arthur avoided, and did not perform well when it was required. Something was wrong in East Hanney, and Arthur hurried to tell me of it.

I moved from my place, sought the road, and met Arthur as he plunged from the road into the forest. I said nothing, asked no question, for I was sure Arthur would explain as soon as he could. He gasped several times, and bent at the waist, hands upon his knees, to catch his breath, then hurriedly spoke.

“Hangin’ ’im,” he said finally.

“Who?”

“Osbert.” After another deep breath he continued, “Floggin’ ’im now. Whole village is watchin’.”

Here was the reason no man of East Hanney was at his work this day.

“Got ’im tied to a post, whippin’ ’im. Some men is raisin’ a gibbet before ’is eyes while the others beat ’im.”

These sentences Arthur blurted between gasps, then bent again, hands upon knees, to suck more air into his lungs. Whether Sir Philip intended to hang Osbert once or twice I did not know, but I had put him in this place and I must now do what I could to draw him from it. Arthur thought the same.

“What we gonna do?” he said.

Perhaps more sleep might have given me more wit this day. I could think of nothing but a straightforward plunge upon Bruce and the palfrey, into the village.

“To the horses,” I said, and ran stumbling through the forest. Arthur wheezed along behind. During this dash it occurred to me that we must have some sort of plan. When we reached the clearing where the horses were tied I turned to Arthur and told him of my purpose. He made no other suggestion, nor did he roll his eyes at the foolishness of my intent.

The forest was too thick to mount our beasts there. We led them to the road, scrambled into our saddles, and poked heels into the horses’ ribs. The animals obliged by careening into a thunderous gallop which made up in momentum what it lacked in speed. I had ridden Bruce at a gallop once before, and vowed I would never do so again. I was airborne as much as in the saddle. Whether Arthur fared better I cannot say, but palfreys are known for a smooth gait. He could not have been more jolted than me. How Lord Gilbert, clad in armor, stayed upright upon Bruce in the charge at Poitiers I will never know.

I had no sword, but the men I wished to surprise would likely have but daggers on their belts. I had told Arthur to go to Osbert, slash him free from the pole where he was bound, or cut him down from the gibbet if he was already raised there, and toss him over my saddle before me. I would drive men from the place with Bruce’s plunging hooves while Arthur did so. Then, with Osbert over Bruce’s neck, we would flee the village. Our beasts were not speedy, but by the time Sir Philip and his men could saddle horses and be after us we might reach Marcham. What safety that village might provide I could not say, but if we were to be caught up it seemed to me better to be overtaken in some public place than on a road in some barren forest.

The street curved as it entered the village, so the throng about the whipping-post and gibbet heard us approach before we were seen. All eyes were turned to us as we galloped into the village and plunged into the crowd. Those who were laying stripes across Osbert’s bloody back ceased and stared open-mouthed at our rumbling approach. Across the sea of faces I thought I recognized Sir Philip Rede, but I was too much involved with other matters to introduce myself.

Bruce drove into the mob, impelled by my heels poking at his tender flanks. When we neared the whipping-post I goaded the poor animal again with a sharp kick in his ribs, then yanked back on the reins. The insulted beast reared upon his hind legs, his massive forefeet thrashing the air. Those closest to the post scrambled away, including one of the two who had been assigned to flog poor Osbert. This man, in his haste to be away, dropped his bloody lash as he ran. The other stood his ground, sensing what I was about, and swung his whip toward Bruce.

The lash caught Bruce across his muzzle. This so terrified the animal that he reared upon his hind legs again. His flailing forehooves caught the fellow as he was drawing back his lash for another blow. One ponderous hoof struck the man full in the face. I saw his countenance disappear in a red bloom, then he dropped below my sight, into the crowd of frantic onlookers.