The Abbot's Agreement (10 page)

Arthur and I tied the palfreys to a convenient shrub while thus entertained. I could see in Arthur’s eyes that he would willingly join the combat if he knew which man most deserved aid. This eventually became apparent.

After flinging themselves about in the mud again the fighters stood and I saw Sir Thomas draw his dagger. His opponent raised his hands and backed away when he saw the blade. A fair fight was no longer so. Osbern Mallory was in retreat toward his house. Perhaps in the house he had a dagger, but he did not at the moment. And even had he possessed then a weapon he would not likely be so skilled in its use as a knight.

Sir Thomas advanced upon the yeoman as he backed away. The knight was not content to win the skirmish, I thought, but intended a more permanent triumph.

I felt Arthur stiffen beside me, turned and saw his face twist into a scowl. The dagger in Sir Thomas’s hand offended his sense of fairness. He had been enjoying the combat of equally matched foes, but that pleasure was now ended.

Sir Thomas lunged for Mallory, his dagger describing great sweeping arcs as, with each slashing stroke, the knight’s blade came closer to the yeoman. Unless Mallory turned quickly and ran, one of Sir Thomas’s thrusts would, sooner or later, find its mark.

“Halt,” I yelled. “Cease this combat.”

I might as well have called for two drakes to stop fighting over a duck. My shout had no effect. Sir Thomas continued to advance upon his foe without so much as turning his head to see whence the bellowed command had come. I reached for my dagger and saw from the corner of my eye that Arthur had drawn his as well. Before I could take a step Arthur started for the combatants, intent on evening the unbalanced conflict.

We were too late. Sir Thomas lunged and again swept his dagger before him. The weapon slashed through the sleeve of Mallory’s cotehardie. The blade found another mark also. I saw the yeoman look to his forearm, and at the same instant a red stain appeared upon the edges of his gashed garment. Mallory put a hand to his arm, and blood flowed between his fingers. The man’s arm was sorely wounded.

Sir Thomas must have thought the same. He glanced down at his dagger as if he found it incredible that the weapon could have done such an injury. I thought he might press his advantage against his wounded adversary, but not so. The blood oozing between Mallory’s fingers seemed to cancel Sir Thomas’s wrath. With a last look at his dagger he thrust it into its sheath. He then turned and glared at me. ’Twas then I saw blood dripping from his nose and upper lip. Sometime during the altercation Osbern Mallory had delivered a telling blow.

“Saw you with Maude atte Pond,” the knight snarled. “You’ll learn ’tis best to keep to your own business.”

Sir Thomas turned and strode off toward Swinford, hoping, no doubt, to find his horse before he reached the ford.

I turned from the departing knight to the wounded yeoman. Mallory was fixed to the place where he had stood when he was cut, as if unable to comprehend the injury done to him. I hurried to the fellow to learn how deep was his wound.

When I came near, Mallory looked up from his dripping arm and spoke. “You saw… this cut may be the death of me. See to it the sheriff knows.”

“A man may survive such a wound,” I said.

“Who are you?”

“I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot, and also a surgeon. I can sew you together again.”

I took one elbow, and Arthur the other, and together we helped Mallory through the open door of his house and set him upon a bench. He stumbled upon the threshold and I feared that he was already grown weak from loss of blood. Much gore had puddled his toft where he stood immobile after being wounded, and a trail of large drops followed from the place to his doorway.

With my dagger I completed the work which Sir Thomas had begun and opened Mallory’s ripped sleeve until I could see his wound clearly. The cut was as long as my hand, and when I spread the edges it bled copiously again. But I saw in so doing that the gash was not deep. It had laid open flesh, but not to the bone.

“The cut is not severe,” I said. Then, to Arthur, “Make haste to the abbey and fetch my pouch of instruments. And bring a flask of wine. Explain to the cellarer that it is needed to wash this man’s wound.”

“What did you do to bring such fury to Sir Thomas?” I asked when Arthur had left us.

“Nothing, yet. ’Tis what he fears I may do which caused his choler.” The man spoke strongly even though wounded.

“What could a yeoman do to so anger a knight?” I thought I knew the answer, but wished to hear it from Mallory.

“Nothing of your concern… but I do thank you for driving the fellow off.”

“Sir Thomas seems to hold a grudge.”

“Aye,” Mallory managed to smile through his pain and thickening lips. Sir Thomas had landed a fist or two, as well as a dagger stroke. “That he does.”

While he spoke I lifted the lid of a chest and found there a kirtle. I used it to press against Mallory’s cut and staunch the blood which yet flowed, if more slowly, from the wound.

“No doubt the grudge has to do with Maude atte Pond,” I said.

Mallory looked as if Sir Thomas had caught him upon the ear with one of those large fists. His mouth worked open and closed several times before he replied.

“’Ow’d you know that?”

“Eynsham gossip has it that you’ve an interest in the maid, as does Sir Thomas… and others.”

As I spoke, the child, evidently reassured that angry adults no longer contended with one another, appeared in the doorway and stared open-mouthed at her bloodied father.

“And others,” Mallory agreed. “I’ve near as much land of Osney Abbey as Maude’s father has of Eynsham Abbey, an’ more than Sir Thomas, but no title, so ’er father refuses me permission to pay her court.”

“You have asked him?”

“Twice. Always, ‘Nay.’ Wants Maude to rise above ’er station. Be a lady.”

“Does Sir Thomas know that Maude’s father has forbidden your suit?”

“Don’t know. Guess not, else ’e’d not have come here today.”

“His purpose was to dissuade you from seeking the lass’s favor?”

“Dissuade? Hah. His purpose was to threaten.”

“Which you did not take well? Simon atte Pond forbade your suit, you say. Who did he favor? Who did Maude favor?”

“Dunno. Couldn’t find a way to speak to Maude but once, an’
atte Pond wouldn’t tell me even did he prefer Sir Thomas over that squire.”

“You spoke to Maude? When? How so?”

“Michaelmas. Went to Eynsham with some others to watch the horn dancers. I’d seen Maude before, in past years. Knew her father. But she’d grown up, like, an’ me bein’ alone since me wife died, I spoke to the maid.”

“Did you offer to pay her court?”

“Aye.”

“How did she respond?”

“Said she must ask her father. My hopes was high, for I’d known Simon for many years. But when I spoke to him later that day he refused. Surprised me. I’d make a good husband for a reeve’s lass.

“Odd thing about Maude that day, though. Some of the monks come from the abbey to watch the horn dancers. Maude spent more time watchin’ them than the dancers. Probably never seen much of monks.”

“You said her father refused you twice?”

“Aye. Maude’s not an easy lass to forget. Went to Eynsham a fortnight later to see could I change Simon’s mind. He’d hear none of it. ’Twas then ’e told me of Sir Thomas an’ Ralph. Can’t blame a man for wantin’ to see a daughter well settled, I s’pose. But, despite having no ‘Sir’ before me name, no man would do better by Maude than me.”

“You said that while watching the horn dancers she gave attention to the monks?”

“Aye.”

“Could you tell if ’twas any monk in particular?”

“Nay. Why’d she do so? Them monks was all standin’ together, anyway, so if there was one she was watchin’ more than the others no man could tell. Why do you ask?”

“A novice of the abbey was slain four days past.”

“Heard about that. What’s that to do with Maude?”

“Perhaps nothing. But the lad had boasted to his fellows of his prowess with maids, and Maude enters the abbey each week
to do the monks’ laundry. He might have made her acquaintance at such times.”

Mallory was quick of wit. “So you’ve come to see if I might have slain the novice, seein’ ’im as competition for my own suit. But I’ve got no suit. Not unless Simon atte Pond relents, which I don’t see ’im doin’.”

“Perhaps Sir Thomas thought he might,” I said, “or finds his own suit faltering, and believes you the cause.”

“He’d be mistaken. I’ve given up on the lass. Tried to tell that to Sir Thomas, but ’e didn’t come here to talk, or listen.”

The conversation seemed to tire Mallory. I bid him say no more, held the bloody kirtle firm against the gash, and awaited Arthur’s return.

I did not wait much longer. Palfreys are not speedy beasts, but Arthur must have put his heels to the creature’s ribs, for ’twas not long before I heard the hoofbeats of a galloping horse. The animal halted before Mallory’s dwelling, and a moment later Arthur plunged through the open door, my instruments sack in one hand and a flagon of wine in the other.

“Pity to waste that,” Mallory said with a grimace as I poured wine into his laceration. I sopped up the excess with a corner of the blood-stained kirtle, then threaded a length of silk through a needle.

I closed the yeoman’s wound with twelve stitches, urged him to avoid labor with that arm for a fortnight, and told him that I would return about St. Nicholas’s Day to remove the sutures.

“How much do I owe you for this?” He pointed to his arm.

“Two pence.”

“A bargain,” Mallory replied. “Most work I can deal with myself… but not such as this.”

The yeoman cautiously stood, prodded the stitches tentatively with a finger, then spoke to the child who had watched us suspiciously from a far corner of the house. “Get the little box for me… there’s a good lass.”

The girl went to her father’s bed, ducked and crawled under it, and reappeared with a small casket. Mallory took the box from
her and produced my fee. I explained to the man that he should leave his wound uncovered, and that I would apply no salve. I follow the practice of Henri de Mondeville, who in dealing with battle wounds discovered that cuts left dry and unbandaged healed most readily.

We bid Osbern Mallory “Good day,” retrieved the horses from the shrub, and set off for Swinford. I thought it likely we would come upon Sir Thomas, unless he had found his horse and ridden ahead of us back to Eynsham. I said so to Arthur.

“He was near to Swinford when I come back from Eynsham with your instruments,” Arthur replied. “Still afoot. Saw nothing of his beast along the road.”

We came upon the knight at the ford. He stood contemplating the cold current, evidently trying to decide whether or not a quick return to Eynsham was worth wading through frigid water which would reach above his waist. He heard our approach, turned, and scowled.

The fellow was no doubt of two minds regarding our arrival. On the one hand Arthur and I had interfered with his attack on Osbern Mallory. On the other, our arrival meant that, were we amenable, he might climb behind one of us and cross the icy stream dry-shod.

I was not amenable. Not until I asked some questions of the knight and received acceptable answers. If he chose not to reply, he could continue to seek his beast, or soak in the Thames.

Sir Thomas’s martial ardor had cooled. Perhaps he had put a toe into the river. He frowned as I dismounted, but made no move to carry out his earlier threat that mischance might follow if I did not mind my own business. Perhaps he had reconsidered, and now thought that my business should include his transfer from one side of the Thames to the other.

I had two questions for Sir Thomas, and depending upon his answer to the first, the second might be irrelevant.

“Your beast has left you on the wrong side of the river,” I said with a smile. My expression was not due to a felicitous meeting, but rather I smiled at Sir Thomas because I knew the
effect a grin on my face would have on the thwarted knight. This may have been a sin. May the Lord Christ forgive me.

Sir Thomas desired our aid in crossing the river, but it pained him to ask. His conceit caused him to bite his lip and remain silent. I placed a foot in a stirrup and readied myself to remount the palfrey. Sir Thomas saw his chance for gaining the opposite bank dry-shod about to vanish and swallowed his pride.

“My horse has disappeared,” he said. “I’d be in your debt if you’d carry me across the water. I’ll not trouble you further… ’tis but a short walk on to Eynsham.”

“Are you left-handed?” I asked.

“Aye.”

Sir Thomas scowled again. This was an expression he performed well – due, I suspect, to much practice. But he is to be forgiven. My question had nothing to do with his need.

“Just curious. One other matter, then we will cross the river and you may be on your way. Do you own a fur coat?”

“A fur coat? Do you jest at my misfortune? Aye,” he snapped, “I have a coat lined in fur. Glad I am I did not wear it today, to have it spoilt in the mud and in the water.”

“It will soon be cold enough you will find it needful,” I said.

“Aye,” he muttered. “I will have it from my chest anon. What has that to do with crossing this stream?”

“Nothing. Here, take my hand and climb up behind me.”

Sir Thomas placed a foot in the stirrup after I had withdrawn my own, and ignoring my offer of a hand in assistance grasped the saddle and swung himself upon the palfrey’s haunches with a grace that belied his bulk. A few moments later we were across the Thames and again upon solid ground.

Sir Thomas muttered, “Much thanks for this aid,” dropped to the road, and set off for Eynsham. Arthur and I followed and soon passed him. When we were well beyond the knight Arthur spoke. “Owns a fur-lined coat, does Sir Thomas.”

“Aye,” I said. “But he’s left-handed. I suspected so when I watched him battle with Osbern Mallory. The blows he aimed at
Mallory came mostly from his left fist, and he held his dagger in that hand as well.”

“Is that important?”

“Cast your mind back to the wounds which took John Whytyng’s life.”