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later it was flung open.
    “What?!” Wyclif roared, then clamped his lips shut when he saw it was me. “I beg pardon, Master Hugh. I thought… never mind what I thought. Come in.”
    Master John held open the door and stood to one side as a welcome. Arthur, his cap in his hands, followed me into the gloomy chamber. The scholar had had no time, and perhaps no desire, to light a cresset to bolster the thin light of a late October afternoon which managed to penetrate the chamber through a single narrow window.
    There were but two benches in the room. Arthur noted this and stood aside, in a shadowy corner, as Wyclif motioned to a bench and sat silently upon the other. Neither of us spoke for a moment.
    “You forgot some business in Oxford?” Master John finally asked.
    “No. I am come to offer my service, as you desired, in the matter of your stolen books.”
    “Ah,” Wyclif smiled. “Some good tidings for a change.”
    “You have made no progress in discovering the books, or who it was who took them?”
    “None. And the issue divides the Hall… more so than it already was.”
    “I… we, uh, overheard some debate just now.”
    “Hah. Debate. Indeed, Master Hugh, you are a tactful man. The monks and seculars are at each other’s throats, each thinking the other’s responsible.”
    “And you,” I asked, “what think you?”
    Wyclif was silent, his lips pursed and brow furrowed. The only sound was Arthur shifting his weight from one foot to another.
    “Thinking on my loss leaves an ache, so I try not to think on it at all.”
    “You are successful?”

    “Nay,” Wyclif grimaced. “‘Tis sure that the more a man tries not to consider a thing, the more he will so do.”
    “You think much on the loss, then?”
    “Aye, but to no purpose.”
    The ringing of a small bell interrupted our conversation. “Supper,” Master John muttered. “I care little for food this day, but you and your man are hungry, surely. Come.”
    Wyclif led the way from his chamber across the yard to the hall. The scholars who preceded us there were in muttered conversation but fell silent when they saw Master John’s scowl.
    Supper was a pottage of peas, leeks, and white beans, with a maslin loaf, wheat and rye. Saturday is a fast day. Nevertheless I detected a few bits of bacon flavoring the pottage. A man watching might have thought this a monastic house where the residents observed silence while in the refectory. There was no resumption of the afternoon argument. The scholars ate warily, one eye on their fellows, the other on Master John.
    Arthur and I ate heartily. We’d enjoyed no dinner. We might have dined at the Stag and Hounds when we left the horses, and, indeed, Arthur had peered beseechingly at me as we left the place. But I have dined many times at the Stag and Hounds. Too many times.
    It was dark when we left the hall. A sliver of moon gave enough light that I did not stumble on the cobbles of the yard. Arthur did. The ale served with supper was fresh. Arthur drank copiously.
    Master John led us to his chamber, and while he lighted a cresset I resumed my bench and Arthur took his place in the corner. But he did not remain standing. His back slid down the wall until he was seated in a crouch on the flags. He released a contented belch as the descent concluded.
    “Lord Gilbert has released you to do service for me?” Wyclif inquired.
    Aye.

    “I am in his debt.”
    “Not yet. I have found no books nor a malefactor.”
    “Ali, but you will. I have faith.”
    Arthur greeted Master John’s judgment with a snore. The scholar smiled and peered into the corner where Arthur sat, elbows on knees and head on arms.
    “You will be weary from your journey this day. I will have straw brought to the guest’s cell for your man and you may seek your rest. Time enough on the morrow to begin your search.”

Scholars at Canterbury Hall take no morning meal. So when Arthur and I left our cell and made our way to Master John’s