Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series) (3 page)

BOOK: Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series)
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I nodded. “We will find suitable lodging today and Donald can start his studies in the morning.”

“This is Muirteach,” Donald said, introducing me. “He and his wife have accompanied me here.”

“You might speak with the widow Tanner. She has a fine house, rents lodgings, and lives nearby. Her house is just down Canditch, that broad street that runs along the town walls.” I got the direction while the master continued speaking to Donald. “We have several other masters here, associated with the college. Master Delacey, Master Berwyk, and Brother Eusebius. All give lectures for undergraduates at our hall on School Street, inside the city walls. The first lecture starts before dawn, in the hall. These are the ordinary lectures, on the Trivium. Then there is breakfast, and then the extraordinary lectures are later in the morning. You are welcome to attend them if you wish, although I will be your tutor. I can instruct you individually should that be preferable.”

A tall, gangly man approached. He had yellow hair going gray, somewhat curly, and walked with the stooped posture of one who spent much time reading. He wore a much-patched Franciscan habit of gray.

“This is Brother Eusebius. You have wax tablets? And books? Phillip Woode, here, will show you where the stationer is located. And he can show you the widow’s house as well.”

I greeted Phillip again, while Donald respectfully took leave of Master Clarkson, saying he would look forward to his instruction the next day. They made an appointment to meet after breakfast. Then we left.

Phillip seemed happy enough to leave the college for the morning. We found Mariota, examining some herbs in the garden next door to the houses, and set out.

The Widow Tanner’s house was a commodious one, down a bit from the buildings that housed Balliol and facing the town’s wall. It had a large central hall and two stories on either side. She had a stable to house the horses we had brought, although it seemed we’d have little use for horses here in the town. In the back near the stable was a fine garden, and somewhat further down the street was the tannery from which her husband had taken his name. She was pleased to let us have two rooms on the second floor of her house, although the rent was outrageous. The rooms were small, and only the front one had a window. But that may have been just as well, for scents from the nearby tannery, as well as the ditch on the other side of the street, wafted unpleasantly in through the shutters.

“You’ll get used to it,” Widow Tanner assured us. I thought longingly of my farm in Islay, and even my little cottage in Scalasaig, mean as it was, swept by the clean sea breezes.

My thoughts were interrupted by the barks of a small furry reddish-brown dog. It had followed Widow Tanner up the stairs and now yapped excitedly as we looked at our rooms.

“Eh, this is Rufous,” said the widow, as she scooped the dog up into her arms. “Do not worry, sirs, he is quite friendly.”

Mariota reached out to pet the beast, which licked her wrist and squirmed out of the widow’s arms.

“He’s taken a fancy to you, Mistress. He doesn’t always take to everyone.”

As if he understood her words, Rufous growled a bit at Donald, who was loudly tromping around the rooms.

“Behave yourself, pup,” the widow admonished the dog, which quickly trotted downstairs with her.

We settled on our terms for the lodgings and sent a servant to the inn, with the message to bring our belongings and horses to the widow’s house. We were just leaving for the stationers when I heard loud voices hailing Phillip. Looking down the street, I saw the two young students Phillip had been with the evening before, Anthony and Crispin, approaching. They saw us and stopped, glaring. Donald rolled his eyes and groaned when Phillip greeted the boys. Then Phillip led the way to the booksellers through the Smithgate, while the boys continued down Canditch to their tenement.

“Will I never escape those louts?” Donald muttered to me when we were out of earshot.

Adam Bookman had a small shop on High Street. At least they did not forbid women in the bookshops, and Mariota was elated as she viewed the volumes. Donald had brought a copy of Aristotle with him, but needed a copy of
The Sentences
and other volumes, as well as wax tablets, pen, and some used parchment that could be washed clean and reused. The smell of the parchment and the ink minded me of my days at the Priory on Oronsay. Of course his father had provided ample funds and Donald would not need to copy his books, sentence by sentence, from the lectures of his teacher.

Mariota looked longingly at a copy of Galen in Greek, oblivious to the scowls of Master Bookman. I had a feeling she would be back to purchase it soon. As we left the stationer’s and returned to the widow’s, Phillip Woode departed, leaving us to set up housekeeping in our new rooms.

The rooms were well enough appointed, and it took little time to unpack our belongings, which had arrived promptly from the inn. Donald’s room had a small desk with a chair, for study, and a bed with hangings. Our room also had a bed with hangings, a chest, and a table and chair. The widow fussed in and out, accompanied by her little dog, bringing blankets and bedding, and airing the rooms. She seemed impressed enough with Donald’s lineage and called him “my young lordship,” which he seemed to enjoy. While the good widow dithered and my wife arranged our belongings, I wondered at what had brought us here.

It had been that July that I’d heard the first of it. We’d been at Finlaggan, on Islay. John MacDonald, Lord of the Isles, had completed signing a treaty I’d recorded, and then he drew me aside. “Muirteach,” he had said, “I’m needing to get Donald out of the Isles. He’s running wild here, and the latest is that he’s been making sheep’s eyes at that daughter of the MacLean, for all that the lass is betrothed to a MacKenzie, and her father is aye upset about it all.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Now I’m thinking that the MacLean had better send his daughter off to the nuns on Iona, if he cannot be controlling her better. But then she is a flirt, there’s no doubt of that. And at the feast a few days ago, Donald was drinking and challenged that MacKenzie in the hall, and it came to blows. The lad—the MacKenzie it is that I’m speaking of—was knocked down and hit his head on a pillar. Your own wife’s father is saying the lad may not survive the blow. He’s lying senseless the now. You can see it was not Donald’s fault, but the MacKenzie is in a high rage—that boy was the apple of his eye. But, just to calm the MacKenzie down a wee bit, I’m wanting to send Donald down to Oxford. It will get him away from here for a time, until things blow over. And it will be a good thing for him as well.”

“How so?”

“He’ll need more education than he can get here, and it would give him some polish, and experience with the English as well. He’s of an age to go, just turned thirteen this spring. Let him make sheep’s eyes at the English girls and knock some sense into the students there in the south.”

“Yes, my lord?” I had repeated, feeling an uncomfortable sinking in my gut and a tightening in my chest.

“I’m not wanting to send him down there by himself. And, since he’s spent so much time as a hostage at Dumbarton, there’s no servant I’d altogether trust with him. He needs a firm hand.”

“Yes?” I replied, carefully keeping my voice neutral.

“Well, you are close enough to him in age, but still a grown man. You can remember what it’s like to be young. I’m not wanting to be sending him down there with a gray-beard.”

“You want me to go with him?”

“Wasn’t I just saying that?”

“But, sir, I’ve no desire to go. What of my wife?”


Och
, she can go with you. She’s of a serious bent; no doubt she’ll like to see the schools. She’s a healer, is she not? There are doctors, and many learned men there. She’ll enjoy it, Muirteach.”

I tried one last time, hopelessly. “But I’ve no experience with children.”

“He’s not a child, Muirteach, the lad’s thirteen. And close to making horns on the head of the MacKenzie’s son. You’re the man I’m wanting for this task, so go and tell your wife and pack your bags.”

“But how long are we to stay with him?” I had protested. “Surely not for years. Won’t you be needing me here?” It did not do to refuse a direct command of my overlord, but I had no wish to leave Islay. And I did not think at that time that Mariota would like to go, but in that I was proved wrong.

“I’ve clerks who can write up a treaty, so do not fash yourself over that. I’m not thinking he’ll stay that long, there at Oxford, but perhaps the lad will surprise me. Perhaps he’ll show talent for learned disputations.
Och
, perhaps you can both stay just a few months, you and your wife. Until the spring, that should be long enough. To make sure he’s settling into his studies and all. Then, if all is going well, I’ll send Fergus or someone down to stay with him. Although he is not an overly studious lad.”

C
HAPTER
2

In that, Donald’s father had spoken truly. Perhaps the boy had hidden academic prowess, but on the long journey down to Oxford he had seemed much more interested in the game we spotted along the road and in racing his horse at top speed than in practicing his Latin.

So that was how Mariota and I came to be in Oxford. Mariota had been eager to come along, excited by the great learning that such a town must exude. I’d been less impressed, and much less eager. We’d left Somerled, my dog, in Islay, but as we’d traveled I’d increasingly felt Somerled’s four-footed company would have been preferable to the young lordling I was supervising. I was not sure how Mariota felt about it all, as we’d had precious little privacy on our journey. I found myself looking forward, at least, to our private room that night.

By now the afternoon was somewhat advanced, and Donald raced into our room.

“Now,” he declared, “that’s taken care of. We must go into town and see the sights.”

So we set off. Although they say Oxford is not as crowded now as it was before the Plague days, it seemed busy enough to me. We walked through the walls at Smith Gate and down to High Street, then worked our way down to the cathedral of St. Frideswyde’s. St Frideswyde was a Saxon princess, martyred for her faith. Her relics were displayed there in a rich golden casket. There was also a fine bell tower in the town dedicated to St. Martin. We then headed back toward our lodgings, intending to walk down School Street. But on our way there we passed the sign of The Green Man and, it being a hot afternoon for September, stopped in for some refreshment.

Master Jakeson was wiping off the tables in the hall, and greeted us, although he seemed subdued. He professed to be glad when he heard of our new lodgings. His daughter was nowhere to be seen, much to Donald’s dismay. I’m sure it was on the tip of his tongue to ask of her, but his pride would not let him.

We drank our ale and left, walking up School Street, then over through Market Street and back toward Northgate again. It was market day, and the streets of town were crowded.

The market stalls were beginning to close for the day, but still the variety of goods surprised me and delighted Mariota. There were cloth merchants, with all manner of materials—fine velvets and brocades, as well as linen and wool. Mariota bought some linen and some other fabric while I idly examined some silver pins at a nearby stall.

Shoemakers and tailors were just closing their awnings, as were the apothecaries, but the cries of street vendors still mingled with the chatter of the townsfolk. Spices from the east, the smells of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg, mingled with the less fragrant odors of butchered meat, offal, and the liquids running down the drains in the center of the streets. Despite the smell from the tannery, I was glad our lodgings were outside the town walls.

The town was crowded and noisy, elbow to elbow full of people, and I felt a sharp pang of homesickness for my islands. At least outside the walls of the city were green meadows and trees, even if our rooms stunk some from the tannery. Inside the town the first and second stories of the houses jutted over the street, nearly shutting out the daylight. It was altogether new to me, raised in the northern islands, and to Mariota as well; although we’d seen some cities as we traveled south, we had not tarried there or walked the streets.

Donald relished it all. He was more at home in towns, having spent some time in Edinburgh. As we passed the street that led to the Adam Bookman’s we saw Master Clarkson leaving, walking rapidly as though angry, away from the stationer’s. He did not see us in the crowd and strode quickly out through North-gate.

“Yon’s your master,” I jibed. “Don’t you wish to go greet him?”


Och
, no, he seems busy,” replied Donald, who seemed in no hurry to begin his studies. “I’m wanting a meat pie.” He walked back a few steps to the pie man and purchased the treat. Then Donald turned, as though he saw someone he recognized.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“I think it was Jonetta, the tavern keeper’s daughter,” Donald mumbled, his mouth full of pastry. I turned, too, but the crowds were thick and I could not see the woman, just a gray robe disappearing behind a corner.

“Was she wearing a gray cloak?” I asked.

Donald shook his head and wiped some crumbs from his mouth. “Just the same green tunic she had on last night.” He sighed, obviously love-struck. “She’s a bonny girl.”

“Doubtless she’s on an errand for her father,” Mariota put in. Donald looked disappointed, and I thought I saw Mariota hide a smile, but she said nothing else. I smiled back at Mariota and when I next looked round, Donald had vanished. “Where has the lad gotten to?”

Mariota scanned the crowd. “There he is, Muirteach. Oh, dear.”

The reason for Mariota’s distress became evident when I saw Donald making his way back through the streets with a large, bulky package.

“And what is that?” I asked him sharply in Gaelic, regretting the money I had given the lad from his father’s funds before our trip into town.

“It is a lute, a beauty. I’ve always wanted one. A French musician had one on him at Dumbarton.”

“And can you play it?”

BOOK: Study of Murder, The (Five Star Mystery Series)
11.13Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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