“Her tongue be so sharp, Sir Philip couldn’t abide ’er in the house no longer. Put ’er in the hencoop till ’e could decide what to do with ’er.”
“How long,” I asked, “have you been in the hencoop?”
“Three days. Now you must take me to my father.”
“Reckon ’e don’t want ’er either.” The guard was a voluble fellow when he thought himself free of his lord’s wrath, even so he yet had a dagger at his throat.
“You mind your tongue, knave!” Sybil snapped.
“Where is your father’s manor?”
“South Marston.”
When I did not respond Arthur said, “I know the place. ’Tis but a few miles from Swindon. Went there with Lord Gilbert once.”
“We’ll not travel that way this night. And ’tis no time for a maid to be upon the roads if it can be avoided. You’ll come with us to Abingdon and we’ll see tomorrow about returning you to your father.”
“I wish to go home now!” Sybil stamped her foot, but the effect was lost on the damp, leafy mold of the forest floor.
I was becoming vexed with this petulant damsel, and began to feel some sympathy for Sir Philip. She was a nuisance to him, and now to me.
“You will go where I tell you. I did not come to this place to free you from your captor. I had other business, which is now put out of joint because I must deal with you.”
“What’ll we do with this fellow?” Arthur asked. Arthur yet held his dagger close to the guard’s neck, and clasped the man’s right shoulder with his other hand. “If we release ’im he’ll likely raise the alarm to save himself from ’is lord’s wrath, an’ them as are in the manor house’ll be upon us before we’re halfway back to Abingdon.”
Similar thoughts had troubled me. “Sir Philip will be furious with you for allowing us to overcome you and make off with the lass?” I asked the guard.
“Aye, he will that,” he replied, and unconsciously rubbed his neck near where Arthur pressed the flat of his dagger.
“So if we release you, you will hasten to tell him what has happened so to deflect his rage, will you not?”
“Sir Philip’s ire don’t pass so easy as all that. Likely he’ll hang me.”
“So what is to be done with you?”
“I left the club back at the shed,” Arthur said. “I could find another, an’ swat ’im ’cross the head, gentle-like, just so’s to raise a welt. Then ’e could go back when ’e woke up an’ tell ’is lord ’twas the club next the shed what felled ’im. By the time ’e awoke an’ returned to the house we could be on the horses an’ near Abingdon.”
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.”