Free A Trail of Ink by Mel Starr Page A

William with this very coat these past two years.”
    Sir John turned again to me and spoke through thin lips. “I think it odd that Lord Gilbert would give such a coat to a… a bailiff. I know Lord Gilbert. He is a parsimonious fellow. I doubt he owns such a coat for his own shoulders.”
    “Then send for him and ask,” I challenged.
    “I see no need to trouble Lord Gilbert when I have before me two witnesses who say you are a thief.”
    The sheriff turned to his clerk and spoke. “Fetch the gaoler.” To Sir Thomas he said, “We are fortunate the county court is assembled this week. Trial in this matter will be Friday. Be he guilty, we may hang him Saturday.”
    I had no doubt but Sir Simon and his friends would make certain that I would be condemned. I tried again to convince Sir John to consult Lord Gilbert.
    “Unless you send to Lord Gilbert,” I cried, “you will do murder come Saturday. I am no thief. I am in Oxford to seek thieves… those who have stolen Master John Wyclif’s books. And Master John has seen me wear this coat. He also can tell you ‘tis mine, not Sir William’s. “
    “Master Wyclif?” Sir John pursed his lips. “Troublesome fellow.”
    As the sheriff delivered this opinion his clerk appeared with a slovenly man I assumed to be the gaoler. This conjecture was quickly proven correct. The fellow lifted shackles and chain in his left hand and expertly bolted the irons about my wrists before I could react. What good reacting might have done I cannot tell.

    I was led from the clerk’s chamber, through the gallery, to a stone staircase. Shadows there were dark. I could not see where the staircase ended for the gloom. The gaoler gave me a shove when he detected my reluctance and as I took the first step I heard laughter echo down the corridor from the clerk’s anteroom.
    I found the bottom step more by feel than by sight. The gaoler, perhaps accustomed to the shadows in which he worked, shoved me a few paces past the last step, then stopped before an indentation in the stones which, when my eyes grew more familiar with the dark, I saw to be a door.
    Before I could draw another breath I heard the door swing open and received another shove which propelled me into a cell darker even, was that possible, than the corridor in which a moment before I was standing.
    The gaoler slammed the door shut behind me and replaced the bar. How many men, I wondered, have heard that same sound while standing in this place? Perhaps Thomas Shilton, imprisoned on my mistaken testimony, occupied this very cell. He emerged unscathed when I learned my error. Would I escape also? This seemed doubtful, for those who placed me here knew I was no thief and if they were in error seemed glad of it.
    The cell was not utterly dark. Near the top of the vaulted ceiling a slit was cut into the wall, perhaps three fingers high and a forearm long. Dim light penetrated the cell through this aperture. It perhaps opened to some shaded part of the castle yard. The slit was too high to reach, and it would have been of no use to try. Even a man as slender as I could get no more than a hand through the opening. And then only if his wrists were unshackled. Mine were not.
    Some previous occupant of the cell had tried, I think, to enlarge the slot. As my eyes grew accustomed to the place I could see about the hole rounded and chipped edges to the stonework. Some wretch, bound for the gallows, had discovered some tool with which he had chiseled away at the opening. Perhaps he had scraped at the stone with the irons about his wrists. I forced the thought from my mind. I did not wish to consider how a man might tear flesh from hands and fingers in such a futile effort.

    Some wretch! I was now that wretch. Did not the sheriff predict the gallows for me come Saturday? It was Wednesday. I had three days to live, did not Lord Gilbert or Master John intercede for me. Why should they? They did not know where I was, nor did any other who might be