Chapter 10
I planted my feet on the cold flags of my chamber as soon as dawn lightened my window. The cook was surprised to see me, as I am not usually early from my bed. There was a warm wheaten loaf fresh from the oven, and cheese and ale, for my breakfast.
I searched out John Holcutt while the marshalsea prepared Bruce, and told him of my journey. He would serve as Lord Gilbert’s agent in my absence, which I planned to take but two days. A trip to Oxford and back might be completed in one day, on a younger horse, by a competent rider, who did not mind arriving home after dark. But Bruce was aged, and my skills at horsemanship are meager, and I remembered clearly the last time I rode at night alone. And there was more I wished to do in Oxford than purchase ink and parchment.
There is much profit in a springtime journey to Oxford. It was indeed a pleasant occupation to observe the countryside as Bruce ambled upon his way. Villagers were mostly at work in their tofts, as by this day in May the fields were all plowed and sown.
Birds darted from meadow to forest, completing nests. Even the oaks, last of the trees to achieve full foliage, seemed sure enough of the season to bring forth leaves.
The journey brought me nearer to Oxford, but no nearer to assembling the events of the past months into some coherent pattern. I gave up the attempt and turned myself to observing the approaching town as Bruce’s great hooves clattered across the Oxpen’s Road Bridge.
Some of my most agreeable memories involve Oxford. But some unpleasant memories of the place are yet green in my mind as well. The St Scholastica Day Riot, of which I took no part, but which drove me and many other students from the town, remains vivid in my mind’s eye. And as Bruce ambled past the castle and the old keep I thought back to the testimony I gave there before the king’s eyre which came near to sending an innocent man to the gallows. It is, perhaps, good to remember our errors. But perhaps not. Men seem to repeat their mistakes with some frequency. Is it forgetfulness or foolishness which is to blame?
I guided Bruce to the High Street, where I stabled the grateful beast at the Stag and Hounds. I relieved my hunger with a half capon. It is often comforting to note that the world continues day after day with little change. But the unimproved character of the food and ale at the Stag and Hounds did little to reassure me of the permanent nature of things. Capons are to be fat. Mine this day was stringy as an old rooster, which I suspect it was.
I was not much distressed to leave off gnawing at my meal and set my feet toward my first object in the town. I dodged illegal vendors and students on Cornmarket Street, turned east on Broad Street, and presented myself to the porter at Baliol College. He was new, and did not remember me. Not that this made any difference, for the scholar I sought, he informed me, was no longer there.
Master John Wyclif had another position, the porter told me, as Warden of New Canterbury Hall. So I retraced my steps down Cornmarket Street, past the High Street, to St Aldates and Master John’s new home.
The porter at New Canterbury Hall admitted me with little hesitation, this being a time of peace between the town and its university. I followed his pointed finger across a cloister and thumped on the door he indicated. I was unsure if Master John would be within, for the day begged to be enjoyed out of doors. Or the scholar might be about his duties, which are always heavy when dealing with young men full of sap and conceit.
But my old (well, not so old; he is only ten years older than me, but has grown a beard to distinguish himself from his pupils) teacher was in his chamber, and greeted me at his door.
“Master Hugh! Welcome. You have found me.” The warden of New Canterbury Hall swept his arm about the cloister. “What do you think of my new position?”
“Baliol College has the worst of the bargain, I think.”
“Hmmm. I would agree, but ’twould be unseemly. Come in…come in, and tell me how that business turned out which drew us together last.”
“’Tis a long story. Better told on such a day while we stroll the water meadow.”
Wyclif peered up at the sky from under his hood. “You speak truth, Master Hugh. I devote too much time to study. It is well you have come to draw me from my books for a time.”
We crossed the meadow toward the Cherwell, and I told Master John of Hamo Tanner, his daughter, and Sir Robert Mallory. I told only so much of Lady Joan as was necessary to the tale, but Master John is a quick man and saw there was a part of the story I had neglected.
“What of Lady Joan?” he asked.
“Married. To Sir Thomas de Burgh…and with child, I am told.”
Master John stopped and faced me there in the tall meadow grass. “I hear melancholy in your voice, Hugh. Did you wish to win the lady for yourself?”
“She was above my station. I gave the matter no thought.”
“If you would share conversation with me, Hugh, I wish you would be truthful.”
I protested, but Master John turned and resumed his path toward the Cherwell. The meadow grass was tall, ready to be cut, and brushed my knees as I strode after him.
“So, you find me out,” I laughed. “’Tis true, if the lady would have had me I would have been her slave for life.”
“But you never offered that service?”
“Nay. To do so would have placed a gulf between us, for she could not have accepted.”
“Aye. You are correct, I’m sure. Is there another lass to consider?”
I admit that a fleeting vision of Alice atte Bridge darted through my mind as I answered, “No.”
“You have given up the pursuit, then?”
“Not so. I pray daily that God may send me a good wife.”
“But thus far He has refused? What do you to aid His work?”
I did not reply, for in truth I did nothing to alter my estate. We walked on in companionable silence until we came to the river.
“You might consider yourself fortunate,” Wyclif said.
“How so?”
Master John picked up a fallen willow branch and cast it into Cherwell stream. “Consider…had you married the Lady Joan Talbot and brought her to your bed, could you have provided for her the wealth to which she was accustomed? Surely not. Might she not soon regret her poverty and rue her life with you? And even did she not, you would see in every frown, in every disapproving word, a hint that she resented her state.”
“So you advise me to seek a poor lass for a wife?”
“Perhaps. But not if such a woman thinks you, a prosperous man, be her path to a life of ease.”
“So I must not marry either rich or poor? What of beauty? Lady Joan was…is a great beauty.”
“Aye. I believe I saw her once in company with her brother. I’ll not debate the issue. She is indeed a great beauty. But consider, then, her husband,” Master John continued, seating himself on a log and gazing out at the willow-banked Cherwell. “Men gaze lustfully at his wife. Must he not consider that some of these be more handsome, or more wealthy, or better spoken than he? Perhaps there are men who are all three. Will he not fret that his lovely wife’s affection be stolen from him? Women are the ficklest of all God’s creation, so say the sages.”
“Lady Joan would not betray her pledge,” I remonstrated. “You do not know the lady.”
“Ah, but will not Sir Thomas worry anyway, each time his comely wife holds a gentleman’s eye? I do not know the lady, but I do know men.”
“So I should seek an ugly wife?”
“You put words in my mouth, Hugh. Can a man find happiness married to a woman no other man wants?”
“You vex me, sir. A wife must be neither rich nor poor, neither beautiful nor ugly.”
“Ah…there you have it, Hugh. ’Tis Aristotle’s Golden Mean. Moderation in all things. Find yourself a wife who is beautiful, but not extravagantly so. A lass who comes of a father with some money, but not so much that he has indulged her. A woman who is quick of tongue and mind for good conversation, but not so witty that she may become a shrew.”
