But I am an inquisitive sort of man, and the noisy host caught my attention. It is said that curiosity killed the cat. It can prove hazardous for meddlesome bailiffs as well. I was on the road near Eynsham, on my way to Oxford. I did not travel muddy autumn roads for pleasure, although I thought some joy might follow, but to seek an addition to my library. In the autumn of 1368 I owned five books: Surgery, by Henri de Mondeville; Categories, by Aristotle; Sentences, by Peter Lombard; De Actibus Animae, by Master Wyclif; and a Gospel of St. John which I had copied myself from a rented manuscript while a student at Baliol College. I sought a Bible, if I could find a fair copy for no more than thirty shillings. Such a volume at that price would not be lavishly illuminated, but I cared more for the words upon the page than some monk’s artistry. If no such Bible was to be had, I would be content with a New Testament, or even a folio of St. Paul’s letters. When I told my Kate of my intentions she demanded that Arthur accompany me to Oxford.
