Deeds of Darkness

by Mel Starr

  Much of the ale dribbled down Walter’s chin and dropped from his bloody, unkempt whiskers. Perhaps half of the liquid passed his lips. That must suffice. I had no more crushed hemp seeds with me.

  My experience with such palliatives is that they take effect about an hour after being consumed. I told this to Walter and said that I would return in good time to deal with his injury. Whilst he waited I wished to have words with Father Thomas and return to Galen House for my razor. I could not mend the tears in Walter Mapes’ lips with his matted whiskers interfering with the work. I told the wife to set a kettle of water upon her hearth to warm it for use upon my return.

  Father Thomas’s clerk answered my rapping upon the vicarage door, and invited me to take a seat in the modest hall whilst he fetched his superior. The vicarage was a comfortable and well-supplied abode. Draperies, well-stitched, hung against an exterior wall of the hall, and a sideboard displayed a collection of cups, bowls, plates, and utensils. Most of these were pewter, but a few were of silver. I remember hearing Master Wycliffe say that a poor man should not be required to tithe if his village priest owned more of this world’s goods than he. Most priests would consider such talk heretical, I’m sure. Master Wycliffe spoke these words to poor scholars, who likely agreed with him. Now, a decade and more later, when some are priests and subdeacons, their opinions are likely modified.

  “Ah, Hugh, have you dealt with Walter Mapes’ hurts? He did terrible injury to himself, did he not? ’Twill teach him to indulge so.”

  “Nay on both counts,” I replied.

  Father Thomas peered at me beneath furrowed brows, then said, “Both counts?”

  “Aye. Both. I have not yet repaired his mangled lips. I gave him crushed hemp seeds in a cup of ale, to lessen his pain when I stitch him together, and am waiting for the herb to do its work. And Walter did not do injury to himself falling upon rocks in Shill Brook.”

  “Then what caused his wounds?”

  “Do you know of rocks in Shill Brook, anyplace, large enough that if a drunken man fell against them he would give himself such lacerations as Walter now has?”

  The priest pursed his lips, lowered his brows in thought, then spoke. “Few stones of any size in the brook. Most are but pebbles.”

  “Aye. His wounds came in the night. He spoke truly there, but ’twas my father-in-law who caused them.”

  I explained the source of Walter Mapes’ injury, and why the man had sought to enter Galen House.

  “Intended to beat you?”

  “He said so.”

  “Why would he accuse himself? I’ve never known that fellow to speak the truth if a lie would serve him better.”

  “A falsehood would not serve better today. I told him I would not mend his lips unless I first had the truth from him.”

  “Ah… and there is no other surgeon hereabouts to deal with his hurts if you will not.”

  “Just so.”

  “I wonder,” the priest said, pulling at his beard, “why Walter was so incensed that he would seek to do you harm? You are not the only man of Bampton and the Weald who thinks ill of him.”

  “Perhaps he intended to deal with other men at some later time. Or thought me an instigator of the most recent tales told of his felonies.”

  “Surely that would be Alain Gower.”

  “Aye, most likely. But Gower’s house has been entered in the night recently enough that he will be alert to such a thing occurring again. And Gower is a brawny fellow. If he discovered Mapes in his house in the night he could do the miscreant great harm, whereas I am a slender man. Mapes likely assessed I’d be easier to tackle.”

  Father Thomas was silent for a moment, then spoke. “What do you wish me to do about this?”

  “Walter is the bishop’s tenant, and you and Father Simon and Father Ralph are the bishop’s agents in the Weald. I wish you to make it clear to Mapes that he is not to be seen about Church View Street or near Galen House. I have not yet discovered who slew Hubert Shillside, nor who has taken goods from Galen House, and seeking the brigands will likely take me from Bampton again. If the fellow thinks I am away, he might seek to avenge himself and his reputation by attacking Kate or her father.”

  “Surely not,” the priest said. “Not after you mend his wounds.”

  “You have seen the best and worst of men,” I replied. “Would you trust a man like Walter to think himself obliged to me for my service to him?”

  The priest was again silent for some time. “Men like Walter,” he finally said, “see grievance over gratitude.”

  “Aye, as do many men, I think. And so I ask of you to make him understand that he must keep himself well away from Galen House.”

  “I will do so.”

  I hurried from the vicarage to Galen House, where I collected my razor and Kate’s cake of castile soap.

  “What are you about?” she said when she saw me on my way out with her soap.

  “I must shave Walter Mapes’ whiskers before I can stitch his mangled lips,” I replied.

  “Did he truly fall against rocks in Shill Brook?” Kate asked.

  “Nay. ’Twas he your father smote when he tried to enter Galen House in the night.”

  “Why did he do so? Did he not know we have already been robbed?”

  “He did, but did not seek our goods. Rather, he wished to punish me because he believes me responsible for telling folk that he did hamsoken against Alain Gower.”

  “Punish you? How would he do so?”

  I led Kate to our rear door, opened it, and pointed to the cudgel which lay yet in our toft where Walter had dropped it as he fled.

  “That was the weapon he intended to use against me, and perhaps you also.”

  Kate shuddered. “And now you will use my best soap to treat the villain?”

  “We are to do good to those who use us badly. The Lord Christ requires it of us.”

  Kate did not reply, but pursed her lips. This was reply enough. ’Tis not always convenient to do as the Lord Christ commands.

  Kate’s castile soap would not burn, as would the soap of ashes and lard his wife would make, when I washed Walter’s wounds and softened his whiskers. Why did I wish to spare the man from greater affliction? He would not have spared me.

  I was yet considering this thought when I arrived at Walter’s house. He was upon his table, as I had left him, and did not turn his head when his wife greeted me. I took this as a sign that the hemp seeds had done their work.

  Mapes’ wife disappeared into the house, and a moment later, without my asking, reappeared with a battered kettle. The water within was not hot, but warm, and would suffice.

  With water and soap I made a lather with which I cleansed caked blood from Mapes’ beard and softened the bristles. I then applied my razor to his upper and lower lips. All this time Walter lay unmoving, but when he saw me produce the razor his eyes widened. Perhaps he feared that my hand might prove unsteady so near to his neck. The thought did occur to me.

  Shaving the fellow was as arduous a task as stitching his lacerated lips, and took nearly as long. The hemp seeds had done their work, or the man was inured to pain, for he winced but twice as I pierced his torn lips with Kate’s needle and drew the flesh together with the flaxen thread. One of the tears took four stitches, the other needed five.

  The man’s nose was also askew, and must be dealt with or ’twould point to his sinister side for what remained of his life, which might be but few days if he continued to creep into other men’s houses in the dark of night. I told Walter that his lips were mended, and that he must brace himself for even greater pain whilst I straightened his crooked nose.

  His nose had only just begun to heal from the beating men had delivered him. Perhaps this is why it so easily bent when the poker won the battle of flesh against iron.

  “Blink your eyes,” I said, “if yo
u understand what I am about to do. This will cause you much pain, but ’twill be brief. Blink once if you wish me to proceed, blink twice if you prefer to escape pain and go to your grave with a crooked nose.”

  Walter blinked his eyes. Once. I watched carefully to see did he blink again. He did not.

  Straightening a broken nose is much like drawing a rotten tooth. The business is best done quickly. Slow and gentle will not alleviate suffering. I took Walter’s rather bulbous and purpled nose gently between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand, then with one movement I pulled hard and twisted the nose straight. I was finished before Mapes could cry out in pain. Which he did, and then swooned. I felt no remorse for being the cause of this torment.

  Walter’s senses returned to him, and I said, “Before I depart I will see what damage was done to your ribs. If one or two are cracked there is little I or any man can do to heal the breaks. Only time will do so.”

  The man’s kirtle was threadbare and bloodstained. I drew it up to his shoulders and saw a welt extending round from his dexter side to disappear under him as he lay upon the pallet. The mark was fiery red, but would soon be purple. I pushed a finger against the bruise where the discoloration crossed a rib. Mapes responded with a gasp.

  “’Tis sure one rib at least is broken,” I said. “There is nothing to be done for such a fracture but give the break time to mend. Six weeks will pass before it will be knit together. You must do no strenuous labor in that time, nor twist your body. If you do, pain will tell you to desist. Such pain is your friend. When it strikes it will deliver a message that, whatever it was you did, you must avoid doing it again. If broken ribs are moved and twisted overmuch they will not mend properly. Heed the pain when it tells you to halt whatever you were doing to make it hurt.

  “I am done here. I will return in a fortnight to remove the stitches from your lips.”

  I replaced needle, flaxen thread, razor, and soap in my pouch, then said, “You may bring four pence to Galen House in four days. I will examine you then, to see how the injury heals.”

  I left the toft followed only by silence. Neither wife nor sons spoke thanks for my effort on Walter’s behalf. And Walter also was mute, although he might be forgiven, as his sewn lips and stupefied brain likely worked together to render him heedless of good manners.

  At Galen House I found Kate and my father-in-law hard at work making ink. Last autumn Kate and I had prowled forests seeking oak apples. These we had collected in a basket and allowed to dry and harden. This day Kate and her father were at work crushing the galls to powder, then to mix it with copperas and gum arabic. I was pleased to see them at the business, as my supply of ink was depleted and I could foresee the account of Hubert Shillside’s death extending over many gatherings of parchment.

  Chapter 16

  In seeking thieves and murderers I had neglected manor business. After a dinner of capon mawmene and apple moyle I sought John Prudhomme and together we inspected work on Lord Gilbert’s demesne lands. All was well. Ditches were cleared of winter debris, fences were in good repair, plowing was completed and crops sown but for a field of peas to plant for a later harvest.

  Tenants were busy at their gardens, planting cabbages, onions, and leeks, and some, who possessed larger tofts, included crops they might sell: flax and hemp, woad and weld. My supply of crushed hemp seeds was low. When the hemp was mature I would find a ready supply.

  Late that Monday, past the ninth hour, I left the reeve to his own work and returned to Galen House. A surprise awaited me as I passed the path to the Weald. Walter Mapes’ oldest son was waiting where the path joined Mill Street, hidden behind some low foliage. He stepped from his concealed place when I was no more than five paces from him.

  The lad is a strapping youth, and his sudden appearance startled me. My first thought was of self-preservation. I feared he might be intent upon delivering the drubbing my father-in-law had prevented a few hours past. I am not so fleet of foot as before I was wed. Kate’s cookery has reduced my speed, but I was prepared to take to my heels and seek the castle forecourt and safety when the lad spoke.

  “I’m obliged to you for mending me father’s wounds. He’d not say so, but me mum sent me to tell you she’s beholden to you.”

  I relaxed at this announcement and thanked the lad for his kindness. I wondered why he had hid himself until I drew near to him. A glance into the Weald explained. His home was visible from where we stood, and from a window or open door his father could see us, should he rouse himself from his pallet and look to Mill Street.

  The youth saw me look toward the house and divined my thoughts. “Aye… hid myself so’s ’e’d not see me waitin’ ’ere for you. Saw you goin’ about with John an’ knew you’d pass by when you returned.”

  “You do not want your father to know of your gratitude?”

  In answer the lad stepped back toward the shrubbery so he was again hidden to anyone peering in our direction from his house.

  “Why do you conceal this conversation?” I asked.

  “He don’t beat me as ’e once did, ’cause last year I struck ’im when he did so. Bigger’n ’im now. But ’e’ll take it out on Mum does ’e see me speakin’ to you.”

  “How will he know what it is you have said?”

  “He won’t, ’cause I wish to say more’n ’e’d think.”

  “What is it that your father does not know that you are about to tell me?”

  The youth cast a wary eye toward the path to the Weald, then, satisfied that no man was near, spoke softly.

  “Father don’t like for folk to tell what they know of thievin’.”

  “Why so? Not even to deflect Alain Gower’s wrath?” I asked.

  “Poor folk got to live, ’e says, an’ so takin’ from the rich be no sin – but tellin’ a bailiff or constable or sheriff of a felony so the poor thief gets hung, that be a sin. So ’e says.”

  “Do you agree with your father?”

  The youth shrugged. “Sometimes, when me belly’s empty I think mayhap ’e speaks true.”

  “Alain Gower has plenty. Does your father believe that he was robbed justly?”

  “Aye. That’s why ’e’d not speak of them as did hamsoken.”

  “Your father did not break in and steal from Alain, but knows who did?”

  “Nay, ’e don’t know who did, but ’e won’t tell you or Father Thomas what ’e does know.”

  “Because he dislikes Alain for charging him at the bishop’s hallmote for stealing his furrow?”

  “Aye. Said if a man stole from Alain ’twould serve Alain right, him havin’ more’n we.”

  “If your father doesn’t know who entered Alain’s house in the night, what is it that he does know but will not speak of?”

  “We seen the men who did so.”

  “In the dark of night you and your father saw men enter Alain Gower’s house?”

  “Aye. Seen ’em leave, too.”

  “How many?”

  “Four.”

  “Why were you not abed at such an hour?”

  The lad did not reply, but rather looked about him as if seeking some hidden listener. He saw none, and spoke.

  “Now that cows is put to grass we goes out on moonless nights to milk them as may be left in pasture an’ not brought to barn. To make butter an’ cheese.”

  “You were about in the night, past curfew?”

  “Aye. Waited ’til Janyn was done with ’is rounds.” (Janyn was chosen beadle at hallmote last year.)

  “Four men, you say, entered Alain’s house?”

  “Nay. But three did so. One stayed out in the toft.”

  “A lookout, then, to warn others if men approached?”

  “Aye. S’pose so.”

  “’Twas dark, but what did you see of these men? Did you draw close to them? Did you hear them speak?”
>
  “Aye. When we saw them approach we knew they was likely about thievin’. Who else goes about in the night past curfew?”

  “Who, indeed?” I agreed.

  “Father put ’is finger to ’is lips an’ we followed, quiet like, to see where it was they was goin’. Went straight to Alain’s house.”

  “But ’twas too dark to see who it was you followed?”

  “Aye.”

  “Were the villains young or old? Could you see well enough to know?”

  “They walked like young men, easy like, not stiff. They didn’t wear beards. We could see that. When they stopped at Alain’s house we was no more’n ten paces from ’em.”

  “Close enough to hear them speak?” I asked.

  “Aye. They didn’t say much an’ whispered when they did. One of ’em, leader, I s’pose, told another to stay put in the toft an’ keep watch.”

  “What were his words? Were you close enough to hear all?”

  “He said, ‘Edmund, remain ’ere an’ watch the path. If you see or hear anything amiss call out a warnin’.’”

  “You are sure he said ‘Edmund’? Not Edward?”

  “Aye. Edmund. For sure. I ’eard ’im plain.”

  “How did the man speak? As you – or as a scholar might?”

  “A scholar, ’e was, by my judgment. Not of the commons, I think.”

  “I know ’twas dark, but could you see if the rogues wore scholars’ gowns of black, or did they garb themselves as we?”

  “Like you, I’d say. Too dark to see of a certain, but they wore no gowns. I could see that.”

  I thanked the lad for this information and bid him seek me if he remembered anything else of that night which might later occur to him. He agreed to do so. From my pouch I took a halfpenny and pressed it into his hand.

  I left the youth standing behind the foliage and was across the Shill Brook before I saw him peer warily toward his home, then set out on the path to the Weald, feigning nonchalance. In this he seemed to me convincing. Perhaps he had experience in prevarication so as to shield himself from his father’s blows.