Angelus Bell, I saw them ride east.”
“Did they ride easy, or seem hurried?”
“They seemed in some haste. They’d not spurred their beasts to a gallop, but they did not travel at an easy pace. More like a canter. Fast enough to raise the dust as they passed.”
No man would raise dust upon the road this day. I had searched the lane from Bruce’s back for any sign of a print made by a broken horseshoe, but between Bampton and St. Andrew’s Chapel the only impressions upon the road were the footprints of those who had walked this way since the rain ceased shortly after dawn on Sunday.
I thanked Kellet for this news, bid him good day, and set off for Abingdon. The curate bent again to his labor on the toppled wall, and I marveled once more at the change in the man. The John Kellet I knew two years past would not have troubled himself to repair the churchyard wall of St. Andrew’s Chapel even were there no nettles to impede the work.
It was midday when Arthur and I led the horses to the mews behind the New Inn. We found a dinner of pottage of eggs in the public room.
The pepperer’s wife had said that John Thrale had lived in the house on East St. Helen Street since Lammastide. I wondered where he had made his home before, so sought the woman to learn if she knew. Before I set about this task I told Arthur to walk the streets of Abingdon with his eyes fixed to the ground, seeking the track of a horse with a broken shoe. If he found such a mark he was to follow the track, if he could, to see where it led. In the marketplace before the New Inn I drew in the mud a copy of the misshapen horseshoe, then set off for East St. Helen Street while Arthur circled the marketplace before setting off to explore side streets.
The door to the pepperer’s shop was open, the owner at work grinding peppercorns and sneezing as a result of his labors. The man’s wife was absent, but he was as likely to know where Thrale had lived before Lammastide as his spouse.
“Ock Street,” he replied when I asked. “Near to the river, with the tanners.”
If John Thrale had lived near tanners it was no wonder he chose to move his residence from the stench of that occupation. I thanked the pepperer for this information, bid him good day, and followed his directions to Ock Street.
Tanners and rope-makers lived along Ock Street – a convenient location, for water was at hand in the river and both trades used large amounts. Near to a place where the river curved close to the street I found a florid-faced tanner fleshing a hide, greeted him, and asked if he knew a chapman named John Thrale.
“Oh, aye… don’t live near anymore, though. Bought ’imself a house freehold over on East St. Helen Street.”
The tanner shook his head gently as he said this, as if to add to the incredulity in his voice.
“Where did he live before he went to St. Helen Street?”
“Just over there.”
The tanner pointed to a hut across the street and two houses closer to the marketplace. There was but one window in the hovel, and a broken shutter hung askew over it. Weeds grew in the dirt before the house, and in several places the thatching of the roof was so thin that the contour of rafters could be seen.
“If you seek ’im, he’ll likely be on ’is rounds. Travels about, does John, sellin’ stuff to folks as don’t have shops or markets in their village. Might be ’ome, but I’d doubt so. Winter comin’, ’e’ll be at ’is business while roads is firm.”
“Have you seen the chapman since he moved from here?”
“Nay. Why’d ’e come by here if ’e didn’t have to? Never knew there was such profit in sellin’ buckles an’ buttons an’ such.”
“Did he sell the house when he moved away?” I asked. “Looks like no one lives there now.”
“Nay. Belongs to the abbey, as does all the ’ouses here on Ock Street. Paid rent, like the rest of us. Abbey wasn’t pleased to see ’im go, I’m thinkin’. Empty ’ouses all through
“Did they ride easy, or seem hurried?”
“They seemed in some haste. They’d not spurred their beasts to a gallop, but they did not travel at an easy pace. More like a canter. Fast enough to raise the dust as they passed.”
No man would raise dust upon the road this day. I had searched the lane from Bruce’s back for any sign of a print made by a broken horseshoe, but between Bampton and St. Andrew’s Chapel the only impressions upon the road were the footprints of those who had walked this way since the rain ceased shortly after dawn on Sunday.
I thanked Kellet for this news, bid him good day, and set off for Abingdon. The curate bent again to his labor on the toppled wall, and I marveled once more at the change in the man. The John Kellet I knew two years past would not have troubled himself to repair the churchyard wall of St. Andrew’s Chapel even were there no nettles to impede the work.
It was midday when Arthur and I led the horses to the mews behind the New Inn. We found a dinner of pottage of eggs in the public room.
The pepperer’s wife had said that John Thrale had lived in the house on East St. Helen Street since Lammastide. I wondered where he had made his home before, so sought the woman to learn if she knew. Before I set about this task I told Arthur to walk the streets of Abingdon with his eyes fixed to the ground, seeking the track of a horse with a broken shoe. If he found such a mark he was to follow the track, if he could, to see where it led. In the marketplace before the New Inn I drew in the mud a copy of the misshapen horseshoe, then set off for East St. Helen Street while Arthur circled the marketplace before setting off to explore side streets.
The door to the pepperer’s shop was open, the owner at work grinding peppercorns and sneezing as a result of his labors. The man’s wife was absent, but he was as likely to know where Thrale had lived before Lammastide as his spouse.
“Ock Street,” he replied when I asked. “Near to the river, with the tanners.”
If John Thrale had lived near tanners it was no wonder he chose to move his residence from the stench of that occupation. I thanked the pepperer for this information, bid him good day, and followed his directions to Ock Street.
Tanners and rope-makers lived along Ock Street – a convenient location, for water was at hand in the river and both trades used large amounts. Near to a place where the river curved close to the street I found a florid-faced tanner fleshing a hide, greeted him, and asked if he knew a chapman named John Thrale.
“Oh, aye… don’t live near anymore, though. Bought ’imself a house freehold over on East St. Helen Street.”
The tanner shook his head gently as he said this, as if to add to the incredulity in his voice.
“Where did he live before he went to St. Helen Street?”
“Just over there.”
The tanner pointed to a hut across the street and two houses closer to the marketplace. There was but one window in the hovel, and a broken shutter hung askew over it. Weeds grew in the dirt before the house, and in several places the thatching of the roof was so thin that the contour of rafters could be seen.
“If you seek ’im, he’ll likely be on ’is rounds. Travels about, does John, sellin’ stuff to folks as don’t have shops or markets in their village. Might be ’ome, but I’d doubt so. Winter comin’, ’e’ll be at ’is business while roads is firm.”
“Have you seen the chapman since he moved from here?”
“Nay. Why’d ’e come by here if ’e didn’t have to? Never knew there was such profit in sellin’ buckles an’ buttons an’ such.”
“Did he sell the house when he moved away?” I asked. “Looks like no one lives there now.”
“Nay. Belongs to the abbey, as does all the ’ouses here on Ock Street. Paid rent, like the rest of us. Abbey wasn’t pleased to see ’im go, I’m thinkin’. Empty ’ouses all through
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