Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 105, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 640 & 641, March 1995

Mandeville and the Staple by Terry Mullins

One of the delights of reading an historical mystery is the probability of coming across some tidbit of information one did not know before. And of course it’s not only the reader who may discover something new. Terry Mullins tells us: “Before writing ‘Mandeville and the Staple’ I had not realized the full importance of wool in English history. I knew about the famous woolsack on which the Lord Chancellor sits when the House of Lords is in session, but it was largely a curiosity to me. In fact, it symbolizes the part wool played in making England a world power. That woolsack has sat beside the throne since before the time of Henry VIII.” Mr. Mullins’s sleuth, Sir John Mandeville, is based on an historical figure...

For several centuries before the Renaissance, an organization of large wool merchants controlled the sale of wool from England to the Continent through The Staple. They shaped the commercial destiny of Western Europe through this monopoly.

A while after giving up his wanderings over the globe and settling down in the quiet town of Liege to write, Sir John Mandeville heard that the merchants of The Staple were threatened with destruction of their trade. As a member of the Fellowship of The Staple, Sir John felt compelled to go to their aid.

He left Liege two weeks before Lent was over and he planned to stay until after Easter. The Bishop of Liege had become somewhat too zealous in encouraging the good citizens of Liege to fast, and Sir John’s landlord (and taverner) was responding with inexplicable devotion. Since Sir John liked meat and drink almost as much as he liked a good audience for his stories, he viewed the encroaching saintliness with disfavor. The Bishop of Calais was, as he well knew, more broadminded about such things.

He found the merchants of The Staple terrified and confused. Jorge Stonor, the hearty, honest man in charge of The Staple, seemed at his wits’ end.

“We have had a time of it, Sir John,” he said. “We have really had a time of it. It’s an even chance whether we’ll have to move The Staple back to England.”

“Tell me about it, Jorge. I’ve only heard rumors, some of them pretty wild.”

“We get the wool over from England all right. It’s here in Calais the mischief begins. There’s been wool burnt and seals broken and even a customs officer of the English Crown beaten. The Crown demands that we protect its officers as well as our own members — which we would, we would, if we had any idea who’s behind it all. If we was in England, where wool lost by one man could easily be replaced from another source, I’d suspect the Lombards, but they wouldn’t damage wool here, not when they’re buying and scarce wool will drive the price up. No, I can’t fix the blame at all.”

“Any new people around?”

“Not in The Staple. ’Course, there’s new people all the time ’prenticed to the wool merchants and there’s more small merchants all the time. Two new ones came with the fleet last crossing, but they’s as scart as the rest of us. It’s a near thing, Sir John, a near thing. If The Staple’s damaged, all England’s damaged. The Crown depends on us for its customs revenue, not to mention borrowing from merchants when it’s short of deniers, which is most always.

“Trouble for The Staple is danger for all England. Money for ships and soldiers comes from us. It ain’t easy to fight England’s troops, not after Crécy and Poitiers, nor to get at the king. But it’s easy as pie to hide and damage The Staple. And that counts as good as winning in fair battle.”

“You could always go to Bruges.”

“What good would that do? They would just follow us.”

“Or go with you. Yes, I agree that Bruges or Antwerp wouldn’t help you none. Since The Staple is in the dark, I’d like to talk with some of the smaller merchants.”

Jorge seemed relieved. Just the presence of Sir John was comforting, but having him take part was downright encouraging. “Here’s a list of the hosts where we put up the merchants who don’t own homes. We have three of the small merchants with Clark Torney.”

He seemed about to go through the whole list, but Sir John broke in, “That sounds fine. If there’s room at Clark Torney’s I’d like to stay there and get to know the three who lodge there.”

Jorge was delighted, poured Sir John some more beer, and gave him directions for reaching Clark Torney’s house.

Sir John went first to see the governor of Calais, Sir Peter Courtenay, Knight of the Garter and a gallant but impetuous fighter. He welcomed Sir John and promised to see justice done if the culprits were caught, but he made it clear that the royal troops were for military action and The Staple would have to do its own police work. They talked for some time and made some plans.

That evening Sir John dined at the high table with his host and was glad to see that the three small merchants staying there had not been relegated to side tables but were beside him. They were young men, earnest and intent, but somewhat lacking in assurance. Richard Buckley of Broadway had made three trips to Calais and knew his way around. Elward Philpot and Bill Stace, both of Northleach, had made their first crossing. All three were in awe of the great traveler who had journeyed through Cathay on camel-back, had walked the Land of Promissin, and had talked with Saracen, Turk, and paynim in their own tongues.

“Do any of you have ’prentices?” Sir John asked.

They laughed. “That’s too high for us,” Bill Stace replied. “Ned and I have a man watching our fells with a musket and Dick here hired a local man to keep an eye on his until all is sold, but we do the business ourselves. Frederick Elthan has two ’prentices working for him, big louts but crafty. And Charles Swynford has three, but they didn’t save him from having six fells stole and a bale of wool burnt.”

This was the sort of thing Sir John wanted. “When did all this start?” he asked.

“It’s been going on for a couple of weeks, since two days after we landed. Lewis Tyburn had five sarplers cut into and the seals broke. Canvas where the wool was packed was slashed and bales throwed into the water. So most of us took precautions, but soon fire was set to the shed where Robert Picard had his wool stored. He’s a big merchant and he’d’ve lost all he had if his man hadn’t smelled sump-tin and raised a crew to put it out. Since then, every night it’s been sumptin and the customs officer was beat, too. Now there’s talk about moving The Staple out of Calais.”

“Who’s been hurt the most?”

“So far it’s been Tyburn and Picard that’s suffered the most loss.”

“And who hasn’t been hit yet?”

“None of the small merchants has been hurt. A couple of them is sleeping on their wool all night to protect it. Among the important merchants, Frederick Elthan of Lambeton hasn’t been bothered, but he’s worried. I seen him today and I can tell you, he’s worried.”

Before Sir John could continue the conversation, the meal arrived and Clark Torney himself pronounced the blessing. Sir John was delighted to see that it was English fare with nothing of Lent about it. There were puddings, an enormous goose, pastries, and plain beans of several sorts. The meal was served by two elderly male servants whom Sir John supposed to be French, though they never said a word.

They were commanded by Dame Torney, a large woman who sat at her husband’s right, spoke only to the servants but never looked at them, and whose eyes missed nothing. She was the only person at the table who seemed unimpressed by Sir John, and he mistrusted her greatly.

The great traveler was expected to entertain the feast with one of his marvelous stories, and some quirk of perversity led him to tell of the isles of Colcos and Lango whose lord, Yporcas, had a daughter who looked remarkably like an enormous dragon and lived in an old castle in a cave from which she emerged only twice or thrice a year. If any man were to have the courage to kiss her on the mouth, she would become fair and comely and he would become lord of the kingdom. So far as Sir John knew, several had died in the attempt, and none had succeeded.

The men of the company enjoyed the tale, but Dame Torney received it coldly.

As usual, they drank sparingly of the wine, but after the meal the men remained for ginger cakes and beer. Sir John intended to secure the help of the three young wool merchants to put an end to the menace to The Staple, but first he needed to take the measure of his potential allies and to learn more about circumstances. He approached his task with admirable indirection.

“Have any of you heard of Engelbert of Admont?”

None had.

“He was a writer and thinker of a generation or so before yours. He held that sufficiency, tranquility, and security are the necessary conditions for a prosperous state. I think there is much to be said for his position.”

The men agreed. Torney called for more beer and the young men waited for Sir John to continue. He waited for the beer, dealt with it, and resumed.

“Now the wool trade is providing sufficiency for England, and the strength of The Staple has provided a certain amount of tranquility and security as well. The recent Treaty of Bretigny bids fair to give us the sort of peace which may continue the prosperity of the state. But if The Staple is destroyed, or seriously damaged, all of this will be undone. Much as you small merchants dislike or envy The Staple, you know that the bulk of revenue for governing England comes from Staple customs payments on wool, leather, and tin. We cannot do without it.”

Clark Torney voiced his hearty agreement. Even the young men, who as small wool merchants were not part of The Staple and who tended to resent its power, were swayed by Sir John’s logic. Buckley suggested that Spaniards were behind the attack on The Staple. No one agreed with him.

“Spanish wool and English wool don’t compete,” Philpot said. “Theirs is next-best wool and can’t be used alone by any of the weavers of Ghent or Michlin. Except it be mixed with English wool, it is useless. So without English wool, Spanish wool would have no market for its product.”

Sir John thought it time to come to the point. “Are you planning to check on your wool tonight?” he asked.

“Yes. We usually go an hour or two after supper, but it ain’t easy getting around a strange town in the dark.”

“Do you go armed?”

“Each of us has a musket.”

Sir John frowned. “That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“I don’t like firearms,” Sir John said. “There’s no telling who’s going to get shot. I thought I might come with you tonight, but not if you are using muskets.”

Eager to have Sir John’s help, Bill Stace said, “We wouldn’t need to take them if you didn’t want.” He looked at his fellow merchants, who nodded agreement.

“Good,” said Sir John. “Arm yourself with daggers or clubs. I have my sword. We’ll set out at your usual time, and when you’ve secured your property, we’ll go after the vandals at a place where I think we can find them.”

The ginger cakes were gone, so they drank a final round of beer and then set off for their rooms to prepare for the night’s adventure.

Sir John came down dressed for the work of the night. He found the young merchants dressed as if they were going to a fair. They all wore their best boots, so tightly laced as to make walking elegant and running impossible. Buckley actually wore a Flemish beaver hat. Philpot and Stace also wore fresh clothes which looked as if they had been newly bought from some booth at a Flemish fair. All three wore gloves, and Buckley had lace on his cuffs.

“Do you realize,” Sir John asked, “that it’s so damned dark out there that no one will be able to see you?”

They missed the point entirely and Philpot replied, “Of course. The moon has been dying for four days past half moon and there’s a beastly fog from the sea, but we can find our way. Don’t worry.”

Sir John shrugged. It was clear that any walk through a strange town was an occasion for these young men and they dressed for it regardless. He hoped they did not underestimate the seriousness of their undertaking. Ruffians who attack storehouses, steal bales of wool, set fire to buildings, and assault customs officers were not likely to respect the persons of honest wool merchants met in dark and deserted streets at night.

Clark Torney saw them off and promised that his servant would be on hand to readmit them when they returned. “This reminds me,” he reminisced, “of the days when King Edward brought his army to Calais. Another writer stayed with me then, a young poet named Geoff Chaucer, who was in the service of Prince Lionel. He used to slip through Calais at night and go across the Channel and back with secret dispatches. The French caught him and Prince Lionel had to pay his ransom. I showed him a copy of your Travels and he was much impressed.”

Sir John paused going out the door and said, “That’s the first you’ve mentioned it. You must tell me more when we have time. For now there is dire business ahead and I must deal with it promptly.”

And so he left the candlelit house of Clark Torney and plunged into the Stygian blackness of a fog-wrapped Calais.

He and Buckley went together, followed by the Northleach merchants. Sir John found Buckley of Broadway a mixed bag of goods. The young man had nothing of the sea about him except a rough reddish sunburn which might have been acquired in any outdoor occupation. His walk was a long stride without the sailor’s roll to it, and his hands, though strong enough, lacked the heavy calluses of a seaman. He had a broad plain face which suggested honesty without guaranteeing it. He stood a head taller than his Northleach companions.

They, in turn, had the half-sea, half-soil look which marked most of the English in Calais, whether they were wool merchants or clerks. The Treaty of Calais in 1359 had filled the city with hundreds of such hearty tradesmen. Sir John felt a comfortable superiority in such company and assumed a leadership which they never questioned.

They made their way first to the small warehouse where Buckley’s wool was stored. The guard was asleep and when Buckley shook him to wake him up, the fellow thought he was being attacked and tried to flee. However, all was well and they left the place more safely guarded than they found it.

So off they went, the tall young man now following the shorter two and Sir John a cautious fourth. He wanted to see how well the young men knew Calais. They had got to the first warehouse quite directly. The second was not far, and there they found the guard awake and prepared to shoot them. On finding out who they were, he seemed glad for company and the five of them talked awhile in the dark. As they talked, a land breeze sprang up and the sky cleared. A crescent moon hung almost overhead and gave enough light to show the shapes of buildings but not enough to throw a shadow.

“And now we must go to Frederick Elthan’s warehouses,” Sir John said.

“Why?”

“Because we have to scotch those vandals. It will do little good for you to save this shipment of wool if you never make another. These attacks could drive The Staple out of Calais; and that could drive England from the Continent. A few large merchants form the main support of The Staple and Elthan is one of the most important.”

“Why Elthan in particular?”

“Because of something you all told me at supper. Come now, his warehouses are a way off and I want to get there before they are damaged.”

Philpot and Stace were willing enough, but Buckley was not enthusiastic. Since seeing to his own goods, he had lost all sense of urgency. He was, Sir John realized, a loner who was not sure enough of himself to go it alone. He finally went with Sir John because the others did.

From there on Sir John had to lead the way. Sensing that he had a captive audience, he described some of his early adventures. “I was only thirteen when I first came to Calais,” he said. “A local wool merchant had just bought all of our May clipping. (We always sold to merchants, never to broggers.) And I talked my father into letting me go with the merchant as a ’prentice. I earned and learned, for the man kept me busy helping at whatever task needed an extra pair of hands. We sailed from Hull and halfway across were attacked by Scottish pirates. We held them off with a small cannon and our bows. Once when the others were busy breaking out the darts, I got to fire the cannon, but they never let me load it. That, they said, took skill. When the pirates saw we were well armed, they steered off and we never saw them again.”

For a while they talked about pirates and storms, of ships lost, men lost, and worst of all, whole cargoes of wool lost.

They were less than a quarter of a mile from Elthan’s houses when they heard cries for help. Brandishing their clubs, the three young men rushed forward. They heard sounds of a small but furious scuffle and, as they reached the scene, they saw a torch being lit.

Two ruffians were assaulting the guard while a third man was waving his newly lit pine torch to get it to burn more vigorously. His intention was obvious. He was just waiting for the other two to dispose of the guard and he was going to set fire to the building.

The attackers heard Sir John’s party and turned to face them. A vicious but unskilled brawl ensued. Stace struck the firebrand from the first man’s hand and dealt him a solid blow on the ear before the man seized a small timber and counterattacked. The others were evenly matched, clubs against clubs. Sir John observed that Buckley was mainly concerned to counter the blows of his opponent, and as a result received several blows to his arm and shoulder. The two from Northleach were driving fiercely forward, backing their adversaries down the street. Sir John drew his sword, and when the vandals saw the glint of moonlight on steel, they dropped their clubs and fled.

Sir John stamped out the burning slivers and helped the warehouse guard to his feet.

“You was just in time,” the guard said. “In another few minutes they would’ve killed me and burnt the house.”

Sir John turned to his friends. “What damage did you do?” he asked.

“Mine will have a fat ear tomorrow,” Stace replied.

“And mine a knot on his noggin,” Philpot added.

“Good,” said Sir John. “Let us remember that. Now I think we can return to our lodging.”

Doubtless his words stirred some curiosity in the three wool merchants, but he gave them no opportunity to question him, for he talked all the way back.

On rising at noon the next day, Sir John found that the story of the night’s encounter had spread throughout the house and beyond. Without being at all modest about their own exploits, his companions had made him the hero even though he hadn’t struck a blow. Partly this was because of the magical effect his sword had on the enemy, but mostly it was because he had been their general. They recognized him as the brains of the affair. The household greeted him with a cheer.

“Sir Peter has summoned all the wool merchants into his presence,” Torney told him. “Since you are a member of the Fellowship of The Staple, I guess you’d better go too.”

“And so I shall. It was largely at my insistence that the gathering was called. Sir Peter Courtenay and I plan to solve the mystery of who is behind this attempt to undermine The Staple.”

“For all your traveling, you are still English,” Torney commented. “The Irish create mysteries. The Germans wallow in mysteries. And the Danes hate mysteries. But only the English insist on solving mysteries. Well, good luck to you.”

The wool merchants were assembled in the governor’s hall with Sir Peter himself presiding. The Fellowship of The Staple was foremost, with a crowd of smaller merchants crowded at the rear.

Sir Peter, an impetuous man at all times, moved things along at a fast pace and soon had complete reports from all the merchants who had sustained damage. Then he called on Buckley, Philpot, and Stace to tell what had happened the night before.

“Did you get a good look at the vandals?” he asked each of them. They had, but they did not know who they were. They were dismissed and worked their way back among their fellow small merchants.

Sir Peter turned abruptly and said, “Well, Sir John?”

Sir John was beside the governor and now moved forward. “I saw them, too, and I had never seen them before. But I have seen them recently. They are in this hall!”

There was a commotion and the governor’s men seized three persons who tried to flee. The three ’prentices of Charles Swynford were dragged forward. One had a swollen and badly damaged ear. Another had a bandage about his head. The third had one hand bandaged.

Sir John explained. “Charles Swynford was among the first to report losses, but he suffered little. He claimed six fells stolen. I think they may turn up when you inspect his goods. And he had a bale of wool burnt. One bale of wool! Why would vandals burn one bale of wool when they could have burned the warehouse down? He burned it himself, of course, to throw off suspicion. And he probably has all the wool stolen from the others. He meant to drive up the price by destroying his competitors, and he might have succeeded if you hadn’t acted promptly.”

“I’ve a mind to treat Charles Swynford as King Edward wanted to treat the six burghers of Calais!” an enraged Sir Peter roared.

“His head wouldn’t be worth much to you,” Sir John replied. “But his goods would. Why not declare all his goods forfeit to the Crown and send him back to England a beggar. That would be the worst penalty you could give a greedy merchant.”

“Done!”

The governor invited Sir John to dine that evening, but knowing that Sir Peter was a man to go to extremes, the great traveler begged off until after Lent.

“I wish to find out more from my host Clark Torney about a certain poet he met during negotiations for the Treaty,” he explained.