Deeds of Darkness

by Mel Starr

  I am accustomed to being awakened in the night, as is the father of any infant – excepting those nobles and wealthy burghers who may employ nurses to care for their progeny in a distant wing of the house. But the din which roused me that night was not the result of John’s squalling, nor was it a matter for Kate’s attention rather than my own.

  Imprecations I could not distinguish arose from the ground floor of Galen House, shouted loudly enough to awaken the quick and the dead of all Oxfordshire. It can only have been my somnolent state made the shouts and howls from below indecipherable to me.

  Although I could make no sense of the uproar, I had wits enough to understand the noise could mean no good thing. I fumbled in the dark for my dagger, withdrew it from its sheath, and ran to the stairs in but kirtle and braes, as Kate shouted a question and Bessie and John woke up to add their own frightened howls to the din.

  I stumbled down the stairs. ’Tis a wonder I did not impale myself upon my dagger, for I carried the weapon before me as if I expected to meet some assailant coming up as I descended.

  Pausing momentarily in the darkness at the foot of the stairs, to ascertain whence originated all the uproar, I heard next a dull thud, as if a man had swung a staff against a sack of barley. A scream of torment followed this straightway. Then silence for perhaps the space of two heartbeats, then I heard another thump, followed by yet another howl.

  All this din came from the kitchen, which space was as dark as a heretic’s heart, or should have been, the single window to the room being boarded over and so allowing little moonlight or starlight to enter the room.

  I hurried there as best I could with no candle lit, and saw the dim glow of a new moon where the darkened window should have been. Then, suddenly, the square of faint light was darkened. As I peered at the place I heard the sound of some man exerting himself, then the opaque rectangle of the window reappeared.

  All this time I had been silent, attempting to discover what mayhem had come upon Galen House by what I could hear, which was loud but baffling, and what I could see, which was near to nothing. I finally found my voice.

  “What man is here?” I shouted – to give warning as much as seek information.

  “’Tis me,” I heard my father-in-law say. “The rogue has fled.”

  “Rogue? What rogue?”

  “Came through yon window, as you said could not be done.”

  “And fled? You are sure?”

  “Aye, but not before I delivered two strokes with me poker. Caught the knave with both blows. He’ll not soon return, I think.”

  Kate’s cookery had indeed been marvelously restorative. Two weeks past Robert Caxton could hardly have lifted the fire-iron, much less laid it across another man’s ribs or skull with enough vigor to compel a thief to abandon his nefarious scheme.

  A few coals yet glowed dimly upon the hearth. I used one to light two cressets and in their flames examined first my father-in-law and then the window. Caxton was breathing heavily, but seemed otherwise sound. He assured me he had taken no blows, but to the contrary had delivered a few. He seemed exceedingly proud of the encounter, as might a man who thought his days of combat were well past, then discovers he has yet the strength to defend his own against a scoundrel.

  In the light of the cressets I could see the boards I had nailed to the window frame were missing. I leaned through the opening and saw them on the ground below the window in the moonlight.

  “Were you awakened when the nails were drawn from the boards?” I asked.

  “Nay. My ears are not so good, but I’d still have heard that.”

  “As would I,” Kate said. She appeared in her kitchen clutching John, Bessie trailing alongside fearfully, holding tight to the skirt of her mother’s shift. “What has happened?”

  “Some man tried to enter Galen House in the night, but your father has driven him away.”

  “I was awake in the night,” Kate said, “awaiting John’s wish to be fed, as is oft my custom, when I heard the clamor begin. I heard no squeak of nails drawn from wood, which I would have done, even over your snores.”

  I opened the door to the toft, took a cresset with me, and kneeled to inspect the boards. Each nail had been drawn so that but a tiny portion of the point remained visible. Just enough to hold the slats in place, but so little that with his hands a man might draw them from their position. Quietly.

  Two paces from the scattered boards I saw what appeared to be the coppiced shoot of a beech or similar tree. This limb was longer than my arm and as thick, straight and smooth. It had not been there in the toft the previous day.

  “How did you learn of the intruder?” I said to my father-in-law, “if the miscreant made no sound when he came through the window?”

  “Stepped on me, didn’t he. It was too dark to see me on my pallet ’neath the window, so when he put his foot against what he thought was the flags he trod upon my ribs. Gave us both a start.”

  “That’s when the shouting began?”

  “Indeed. Couldn’t find my poker at first, dark as it was an’ the poker black. And when I did get it in hand I wasn’t sure where the fellow was. I just gave a good swing and must have caught him square. He let out a screech, and next I saw was the form of some man scrambling to the window. So I gave the fellow another stroke to hurry him on his way. That’s when you came. You know the rest.”

  ’Twas early morning, but not yet dawn, when this altercation occurred. The sliver of the moon gave enough light so I could see to replace the boards, and with a mallet drive the nails back into place, or nearly so. What good that might do I could not say, but I felt comforted knowing the boards were in place again. When had the nails been drawn so that the removal of the obstacle to felonious entry could be made silently? Perhaps, I thought, with all of the evil about the shire, I should invest in shutters for my windows.

  We of Galen House, along with most residents of Church View Street, had attended the archery practice on Sunday. A man could easily linger anywhere along the streets between Galen House and the castle, watching to see if we all had passed by. He would know then that he might draw the nails without alarming me or Kate or my father-in-law.

  But why not complete the deed and enter the house then? Was the felon unsure of our return? Would he rather enter a house knowing its inhabitants slept, or hoping so, than enter a place being uncertain of the owner’s return? None of these conjectures discovered the truth, as I was to learn.

  I could not contemplate taking my rest again, as my blood was up and a return to sleep would surely elude me. I urged Kate, however, to return to bed. She could accomplish nothing by keeping vigil for the remainder of the night, and she would sleep easy knowing I stayed on guard ’til the morning. A new mother must rest when she can, to renew her strength and provide for her babe.

  Caxton and I sat together on a bench as Kate took our little ones back up. Our ewer caught my eye. Kate had filled it on Saturday with ale fresh-brewed by the baker’s wife. I poured two cups full of the ale, and Caxton and I drank together in silence. A few moments later we consumed two more cups. The ale was well brewed, and Bampton’s ale taster was honest and would not accept a bribe, so the brew was not watered. Kate would need to purchase more when came the new day.

  Perhaps ’twas the ale, or the silence of the night, but I and my father-in-law began to drowse as dawn neared. The frenzy of conflict had faded. But had I returned to my bed I am certain I would have lain there awake, alert, staring at the ceiling beams. Somnolence at such times will only overtake me when I would remain awake. When I would sleep, I cannot.

  So it was that I was swaying upon the bench when my father-in-law said, “Ho! What is there?”

  The two cressets, along with the first light of dawn penetrating the crevices between the boards replaced over the window, had illuminated something on the flags which caught Caxton’s eye. I watched sleepily as h
e rose from the bench, stepped toward his pallet, and bent to lift some object from the floor. His back was to me as he held the thing close to his eyes, then answered his own question.

  “A tooth, by the saints! See here…” And he held the tooth before me. “I must’ve smitten the fellow across his mouth.”

  “Aye,” I agreed. “If he lost a tooth to your blow he’ll likely have torn and bloody lips, and perhaps other teeth loosened.”

  “I gave the fellow another blow as he darted for the window. Caught the rogue in the ribs I think. Too dark to know for certain.”

  “You did well. A man who has suffered bruised or broken ribs and a smashed mouth will not likely attempt hamsoken again at the place where he was wounded.”

  I heard John demanding his breakfast and moments later I heard Bessie’s childish speech. Her words were indistinct, but no doubt she felt ready for her sops of bread and milk. My own stomach began to growl in response to these incentives.

  How to discover the man who had entered Galen House in the night occupied my mind as I consumed a loaf to break my fast and drank my meager portion of the remaining ale in Kate’s ewer. I need not have been so troubled about the matter. The culprit was soon identified.

  Chapter 15

  There came a rapping upon Galen House door as I consumed the last of my loaf and ale. I opened the door to see Father Thomas. I greeted the priest and invited him in. I could offer no ale. I hope he was not much disappointed.

  “How may I serve you?” I said when Father Thomas had seated himself upon a bench.

  “’Tis not me who needs your service,” he said. “I am come from the Weald. Walter Mapes’ lad summoned me an hour past. His father, he said, was injured and wished my attendance upon him.”

  “Injured? How so? What did Walter wish of you?”

  “Before you came to Bampton I was often summoned when folk wounded themselves, or needed herbs to deal with some affliction. I have not your skills, so I am no longer called to minister to the injured or ailing.”

  “But you were asked to treat Walter Mapes this morn?”

  “Aye. Too much ale last night, he said. Tried to cross Shill Brook near to his house, slipped, and fell headlong upon rocks. His face is bruised and bloody and his teeth askew. Complains of his ribs, as well.”

  “Why did he not cross the stream upon the bridge?”

  “Who knows what a drunken man will do?” The priest shrugged. “I told Walter his injuries are beyond my competence. I told him I would send you to deal with his hurts.”

  “Was he pleased to hear you say so?”

  “Nay. He did his best to dissuade me. Said you’d demand more coin than he could pay.”

  “You’ve treated men’s injuries freely in the past?” I asked.

  “Aye. Walter knows this, so sent for me. He is a poor man, and for all his faults and villainies is worthy of our care as one of God’s creation.”

  “Aye, he is. But my instruments have been stolen and I have not replaced them yet. I fear that I can do little to aid the man. Describe to me his wounds and I will see what I may find to deal with the hurts.”

  “He has lost a tooth, perhaps several, but I cannot be sure. His lips are so torn and bloody and swollen that an examination of his teeth is difficult. And he complains of his ribs. Says he cannot bend and that it pains him even to lay abed.”

  “Did you inspect his ribs? Could you see a bruise?”

  “Aye. There is a place behind his right arm beginning to purple.”

  “Odd, don’t you think, that he fell face-first upon a rock, but when he tumbled into the stream ’twas his back which also received an injury?”

  “Hmmm,” Father Thomas muttered and tugged at his beard. “Didn’t consider that. Mayhap he fell twice, once damaging his ribs, another time doing injury to his face.”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed. But I knew this explanation was not true.

  From Kate’s sewing chest I took her finest needle and a spool of flaxen thread. The needle was larger than I would have wished for the delicate work of stitching a man’s lip, and flax is a poor substitute for silk in such a situation, but I had at the time little concern for Walter Mapes’ comfort or future appearance. I was certain ’twas his tooth Caxton had found beside his pallet. As for the scoundrel’s ribs, even if one or more was cracked, there was nothing to be done but allow time to mend the fracture.

  I had no wine with which to bathe Mapes’ torn lips, but as my pouches of herbs had been discarded and found, I could give Walter a thimble full of crushed hemp seeds to soften the pricks of the needle when I patched his face. He must provide the ale, for I had none.

  For a moment I considered withholding the hemp seeds to let Mapes receive the full measure of pain for his misdeed. I do know the Lord Christ commanded us to do good to those who use us badly and not return evil for evil. But what man could swallow such medicine without a bellyache? The Lord Christ would never have needed to be so firm in His commandment if it was going to come naturally. I managed to put down this upwelling resentment with a moment’s struggle.

  So I placed a rather large needle and the flaxen thread in a small box, which I carried in a leather pouch with the crushed hemp seeds, and set off for the Weald and Walter Mapes’ hovel.

  Father Thomas had told the man he would send me, so I was expected. The door stood open to the warm spring morning, and I saw the face of one of the sons peering through it. He saw me approach and turned away – to tell his father of my arrival, no doubt. The lad reappeared before I reached the door, tugged a forelock, and greeted me. His words and tone were pleasant, as well they might be to greet a man who could repair his father’s mangled face.

  And mangled it was. ’Twas too dark within the house to see well, but light enough to see how severe an injury my father-in-law’s blow had done to Walter’s face. His nose was askew and likely broken again, his upper lip torn in two places, swollen and hanging from a flap of skin. His beard was stiff with caked blood. Only one tooth was found on our kitchen floor, but it seemed to me that three or four at least were missing. Mapes’ lower jaw hung open. I thought perhaps it might be broken. My father-in-law had delivered a cruel blow for a man so frail he looked near death but a fortnight ago.

  Walter lay on a straw pallet and watched me as I examined his injuries. He did not speak, and I wondered if he could. Perhaps his tongue was also damaged. His lips were so swollen, and so much blood caked his mouth, that I could not tell if it was so. I wondered how a cup of ale with hemp seeds could pass those ruined lips.

  I would need better light to see the work I must do to repair the man’s wounds, so I told Mapes’ two oldest lads to take their table out to the toft and then help their father out to lie upon it. They did so, but had to go slowly, Walter creeping along painfully, unable to suppress a groan as his ribs protested the move.

  “You fell upon rocks in Shill Brook, Father Thomas said.”

  Mapes nodded, then grimaced. Pain is nature’s way of telling a man he should desist from whatever is causing his discomfort. But speech, given the condition of the man’s mouth, could hardly have brought him less torment than nodding.

  “You lie,” I said. “Last night you entered Galen House intent upon some felony. My father-in-law was alert to your entry and did this wounding with a poker from our hearth.”

  I thought Mapes about to shake his head, so continued, “Nay, do not deny it! We found one of your teeth upon the floor near the window you used for entry.

  “What did you expect to gain from this felony? Do you not know that Galen House was plundered five days past? Much of value I owned has been already taken.”

  I waited for an answer, thought I would receive none, but then through mangled lips Mapes spoke. I could scarcely make out his words.

  “Din’t ’ant yer goods,” he mumbled.

  “If you do not wish to
pass what remains of your life with a ruined face you will tell me why you came in the night to my house. I can patch you together, but I will not do so unless I find truth in you.”

  Mapes looked away, as if considering the bargain I had offered. He apparently found it acceptable.

  “’In’t inten’ ’heft,” he said.

  “Theft? You didn’t intend theft?”

  “Aye.”

  “What, then? Why make preparation in the day, loosening the nails from the boards I placed over the broken window, if you did not intend to steal from me?”

  “’Ad a clum wi’ ’e. ’As gonna ’eat you ’ith it.”

  “Clum? Eat? Ah, the staff I found in my toft… a club. You came to Galen House with a club to… beat – to beat me?”

  “Aye.”

  “Whatever for? What cause did I give you?”

  “’Old ’olk I s’ole Alain’s goo’s. ’In’t.”

  “You would enter my house and lay a club aside my skull because you believe I told others that you are guilty of hamsoken? Not so. ’Tis others who have said so to me. Will you take a club to all those who think ill of you?”

  I did not expect an answer to this question and received none. I wished to stitch up the man’s wounds and see no more of him. If he had done hamsoken at Alain Gower’s house I would leave the proof to the vicars of St. Beornwald’s Church, whose business it was.

  To the man’s wife I said, “Bring me a cup of ale.”

  The woman disappeared into her hovel and returned with a wooden cup. One sniff told me that the ale had gone off, but freshness was not its purpose. I produced the crushed hemp seeds, poured them into the cup, stirred the mixture, then explained to Walter, his wife, and eldest son what I was about. The cup I gave to the woman, told the son to lift Walter upright, and watched as Walter groaned his way to a sitting position.