by Mel Starr
The scholar raised his eyes to mine. “God speaks to me in this passage. Does He not to you?”
“Aye. Iniquity, trouble, plundering, violence, strife, contention…such is the world. My position requires me to deal with these ills. Does God supply a remedy for the prophet? Has he a word from God?”
“He does, though not what a man might expect.” Master John turned a page and squinted at the script through narrowed eyes. “Ah…here…‘Behold the proud, his soul is not upright in him; but the just shall live by his faith.’”
“Is this the antidote to evils? That a just man live by his faith?” My bewilderment was evident in my voice.
“Ah, Hugh, do you not see? All these evils perplexed the world then as they do now. How can a just man fight them? Can a man reform the world?”
“Unlikely, what I’ve seen of it.”
“True. Yet a man must do battle against wrong when and where he can, if God grants him courage for the struggle, as He has you, I think.”
“But I will not win that fight, will I? See all those of the past who fought valiantly against wickedness, but evil yet grips the world and shows no sign of letting go.”
“It does,” Wyclif agreed, “and will until God sends His Son to return.”
“What, then? Must a man strive and yet know he will face defeat in the end?”
“What is defeat? When a man comes to his grave, having done all he can to serve God and man, will he not inherit an eternal place with God? Is that not victory?”
“Aye,” I agreed, “but long delayed.”
“Well,” Wyclif laughed, “most men hope ’twill be long delayed.”
“So until that final victory a virtuous man must live in an earthly struggle he will surely lose?”
“Not so, Hugh. Do not be so melancholy. ‘The just shall live by faith.’ The apostle Paul says much the same thing in his letter to the Ephesians. Though the devil and his minions do their worst, the just man will live because of his faith.”
“Even should one of satan’s minions slay him?”
“Even so. His faith will grant him life on earth, and in the world to come.”
“What of a man’s deeds?”
“The prophets all speak of righteous living. ’Tis expected of a man.”
“Will a man then live also by his deeds?”
“Perhaps,” Wyclif mused. “But actions seldom bring a man to faith.”
“Whereas faith will spur a man to act,” I completed his thought.
“Aye.”
“’Tis my faith in you has brought me to your door,” I added. “I have faith you will provide me a place to sleep this night, as you did two days past.”
“Your faith will be rewarded. Have you supped?”
“No. I thought to seek an inn before I retire.”
“The streets are dark. Best I send you to the kitchen. The cook will have something for you.”
He did, and a loaf for my breakfast, as well.
I slept well, and in the morning retrieved Bruce from the stable behind the Stag and Hounds. I had set out for Bampton when a thought caused me to pull on the reins and turn the old horse toward Holywell Street. I should visit my patient before I depart. This duty was made more satisfying with the knowledge that the stationer’s daughter might be present. She was, and greeted me when I entered the shop. Her father was not at hand.
“I have come to see your father before I return to Bampton,” I announced. I looked about the empty shop, worried that the man was suffering ill effects from the surgery. “Is he yet in his bed this morning?”
The girl laughed. “Nay. Come and see.”
I followed her through the door to the workroom, and from there could see through the open door into the toft. The stationer was there, plying a spade.
“He awoke this morning and decided ’twas not too late to plant vegetables. He has been at the work for an hour already.”
The stationer saw us standing in the door and ceased his labor. He brushed a lock of his thinning hair from his sweating forehead, leaned on the spade, and grinned at me. “I thought I would never sow a garden again.”
“The wound does not trouble you?” I asked. I was startled to see him so employed less than a day after I had sliced into his ribs.
“’Tis a bit sore, and I was stiff when I rose from my bed. But this,” he looked about him at the earth he had turned, “has worked out much of the ache.”
Caxton must have seen the surprise in my eyes and mistook it for concern. His countenance fell, and he added, “Have I done wrong, to engage in this work so soon?”
The stationer had stripped off his cotehardie and worked in his kirtle. I looked to his back to see if the linen was stained but no discharge from the wound was evident on the fabric.
“If there is little pain I think you do well. But you must not exert yourself so that the stitches tear. As I said yesterday, I will return in a fortnight to remove the sutures. Even after that there is some danger that the wound may reopen.”
“So I should lay down my shovel, then?”
“No. But do the work with care. Do not strain to lift a heavy clod.”
“I will heed your advice. You finished the work and departed yesterday before I thought to pay you. What is your fee?”
“I thought we had a bargain,” I smiled.
“Ah,” Caxton laughed. “parchment and ink for surgery. Do you write much? This back of mine may cost me dear.”
“I am well supplied. But when I return to remove the stitches I may have need of another gathering.”
“You shall have it, and gladly.”
Kate stood silent between us as the conversation unfolded, but now she spoke. “If you fix a day for your return to deal with the stitches I will prepare a meal for you.”
I thought of the day, and the stationer’s healing, and made reply. “Your father is not a young man. His wound will take longer to mend. Perhaps a fortnight is too little time. Let us say the Wednesday after Corpus Christi? The wound will have six more days to knit.”
Caxton looked from me to his daughter during this exchange. There was a somber smile on his face, as if he witnessed a thing which caused him both pleasure and distress.
The day set for removal of the stitches was agreeable, so we then parted; I to mount Bruce and set him for Bampton, Caxton to return to his spade, and Kate to her work in the shop.
Oxford began the day under mixed clouds and sun, but as I crossed the Castle Mill Stream Bridge the clouds thickened and lowered. I rode through a gloomy countryside, which did nothing to lift my spirit. By the time I saw the spire of St Beornwald’s Church poking above the trees my soul was in deep melancholy.
I thought to analyze why this was so, for there seemed little reason for my funk. I had completed a successful surgery, I had made the acquaintance of a beautiful young woman, I inhabited the castle of a lord, in a town where I held the respect of many. Why, then, did my mood lie as low as the clouds drifting above the church spire?
It was for some of these same reasons. I had met a winsome lass, but would not see her again for many days. And in Bampton I must resume the search for a murderer. Would I yet be respected should I fail? Many might wish me no success, for Henry atte Bridge had few friends. Perhaps the town would admire me more should I fail.
And if Henry atte Bridge slew Alan the Beadle, why did he do so? Leaving Bampton had meant leaving this puzzle also. But now it was approaching, with the town.
I am distressed to admit that no solution to any of these riddles occurred to me in the following days. ’Twas a Friday that I rode from Oxford home to Bampton. I busied myself about Lord Gilbert’s work on Saturday, and called for hot water in the evening to bathe and prepare myself for Whitsunday.
Chapter 12
Many who approached St Beornwald’s Church on Sunday morning wore red — if they owned a garment of that color — in honor of the day. I do not possess garb of red and so could not play the peacock.
As
customary, few attended matins, but the village filled the church for the mass. Sunday dawned as cloudy and cool as the previous day had ended, though it was the first day of June. But during the service, when Father Simon kissed the pax-board and sent it to the congregation, a flash of sunlight illuminated the church’s south windows. By the time Father Thomas shared the holy loaf the sun flooded the church with brilliant light much as the gospel of our Lord must have filled the Holy City on that day men preached His salvation to all, each in his own tongue.
The appearance of the sun raised my spirits. Why should this be so? Nothing about me or my situation was changed. But a June day should be washed in sunlight. When ’tis cloudy in February men are not disposed to complain for they expect it so. But June? If the sun shines not in June when may a man expect it to do so?
All who left the church that day must have been affected as I was, for there was a joyful babble of voices as villagers dispersed through the churchyard and lych gate. It is well the sun could lift their mood, for it is unlikely their dinner this day would do so. Most families have by June long since consumed the provisions they laid by in the autumn. And the next harvest was yet some months to come.
I could not forebear to halt on the bridge and watch the waters of Shill Brook pass under my feet. Dinner at the castle was an hour away, the sun was warm on my back, and the splashing of the stream over the mill dam was like music.
While I leaned upon a bridge timber the miller and his wife approached. The calm which had submerged my soul like a stone in the brook vanished. My eyes went to the stiffened linen on his arm and the sling which supported it. That vision brought with it a flood of memories. Memories of Holy Week, and the unholy events of those days. From those thoughts my mind had to travel but a short way to fasten upon my unmet obligations.
The miller and his wife greeted me, unaware of the effect their presence had upon my mood. “When will you remove this?” the miller asked, lifting his arm to me as he spoke.
“’Tis near time enough…You have no aches to distress you?”
“Nay,” Andrew smiled. “Not these many weeks. ’Twas hurtful at first, mind you, but no longer. Itches, though.”
I counted back the weeks. “Thursday will be eight weeks…long enough, I think.”
The miller sighed with satisfaction. His wife also appeared pleased. No doubt she had seen her labors increase because of he husband’s affliction.
The stout couple bid me good day and moved on up the bank toward the mill and their cottage. I turned back to the stream, but as I did so I heard rapid footsteps on the planks behind me. The sound intruded upon my thoughts because most who crossed the bridge that day did so with leisurely pace. I peered over my shoulder to see who it was who walked with such hasty determination. ’Twas Emma, widow of Henry atte Bridge, who thumped her way across the boards. If she saw or recognized me she gave no sign.
The woman marched across the bridge and to my astonishment turned from the road to follow the miller and his wife up the muddy path which led along the brook to the mill. I wondered what business she could have at the mill on Sunday, but my curiosity gradually faded under the calming influence of the stream’s bubbling flow.
I soon pulled myself from the bridge. How would it look for Lord Gilbert’s chief officer in Bampton to spend his time gazing vaguely into Shill Brook?
I was but a few steps along Mill Street from the bridge when the sound of angry voices reached my ears. I could not distinguish the words, but a male and a female were alternating in a shouting match and it was surely a wrathful exchange. I paused and looked toward the mill, for the tumult came from the open cottage door.
As I stared at the cottage I saw the miller’s wife peer from the door, as if to see if any had heard the altercation. Her eyes fastened upon me and she quickly withdrew. An instant later the house became silent. Shrill voices were no more. The excitement now past, I continued to the castle and my dinner.
The gatehouse of Bampton Castle faces west. The town is to the east of the castle, and Mill Street passes along the south curtain wall. I had completed the passage along the south wall and turned north to the gatehouse when I glanced one last time toward the mill. It was well I did.
I saw Emma atte Bridge stalk from the mill, cross Mill Street, and disappear down the lane to the Weald and her hut. Over a shoulder she had slung a sack. She had not entered the mill with any sack. Why she should leave with one, on a day the mill wheel did not turn, I could not guess. Such behavior did seem odd. I thought on it as I passed through the gatehouse on my way to dinner.
The meal drove further contemplation of Emma atte Bridge and her sack from my thoughts. The event did not return to mind until Thursday, when I set out for the mill to remove Andrew’s cast.
The week after Whitsunday is peculiar, of course, divided as it is between solemnity and frivolity. Wednesday, Friday and Saturday are Ember Days, when men are to spend the hours in fasting and prayer, contemplating the health of their soul. But Monday, Tuesday and Thursday are days of frolic and feasting. Lord Gilbert would have no work done this week.
The sluice gate was not open on Thursday, nor did the mill wheel turn, for the miller meant to enjoy a day free from labor, with his arm newly freed from the embrace of stiffened linen. The door of the miller’s cottage was open to the June sun. Andrew sat on a bench just inside his door, enjoying the warmth, and saw me approach. He stood as I walked up the path from Mill Street.
“If you will draw that bench out, we may enjoy the sun and I will have good light to see my work,” I said by way of greeting.
The miller grunted and with his good arm pulled on the bench until it bounced over the threshold and wobbled on the uneven ground before the cottage door. Andrew adjusted it until it was stable while I unslung my pouch from a shoulder and drew from it a set of tongs with which to nip off chunks of the plaster until the miller’s arm was free.
We sat facing each other at opposite ends of the bench and I set to work. The image of Emma stalking from the mill with her sack had been in my mind since I approached the place, so I spoke of it.
“You had words with Emma atte Bridge on Whitsunday.”
Andrew made no reply, but stared at his arm, as if his concentration was essential to the work. I decided to make a reply easier for him.
“From my experience with her, ’tis no great difficulty to begin a dispute with Emma.”
The miller smiled thinly. “Aye. She can be quarrelsome.”
“As was Henry,” I replied. “I wonder, did two like souls find each other, or did the one make the other so?”
“What difference?” Andrew grimaced.
“Aye,” I agreed. “We who live with such must deal with the effect, regardless the cause.”
The miller made no reply, but watched warily as my tongs chewed through the remainder of his plaster. I was near finished with the work and so could wait no longer for the miller to explain his dispute with the widow atte Bridge. I had given him opportunity to defend himself and belittle Emma, but he refused the offer.
“I saw her leave the mill with a sack.”
Still the miller made no reply, but continued to study his arm as the tongs bit through the last of the stiffened linen. When the last of the plaster fell away Andrew flexed his arm, then looked at me and smiled.
“Good as ever?” I asked.
“Aye, so ’tis.”
“The sack Emma carried…’twas meal she was owed?”
The miller’s smile faded. “She thought so.”
“It was not so?”
“Nay,” he said with some vehemence. “Claimed Henry’d brought barley to be ground and had not received ’is return.”
“’Tis an odd time of year to bring barley to the mill.”
“Aye,” Andrew hesitated, as if he would say more, but thought better of it.
“Did Henry do so…bring barley to the mill? Or was she mistaken?”
“She, uh, was mistaken.”
“
I wonder that Henry would tell her so. Surely she would learn it was not so, did he yet live.”
“Aye…but he does not.”
“So ’twas your word ’gainst that of a dead man?”
“Aye. An’ ’tis not well to speak ill of the dead.”
“Even one like Henry atte Bridge?”
“’Specially ’Enry. Spirits lurk about to do evil to them as speak ill of the dead.”
“So you gave up the meal to preserve peace with Emma?”
“I did. From my own store I gave her a peck.”
“And she was satisfied?”
“Aye.”
From the town, across Shill Brook, we heard the sound of pipes, drums, and laughter. Dancers were forming in the marketplace. Moments later the miller’s wife and son appeared in the door, peering first at me, then across the brook to the east and the town. They wished to be off to join the merriment. So did I.
I trailed the miller and his family up Bridge Street. Most of the town was already gathered in the marketplace, either to join the dancing or encourage participants.
I am not given to noisy exhibitions, so my cheering was less exuberant than most. Nevertheless, I cheer better than I dance, so my weak exhortation must suffice. Were I to dance the assembly would collapse in mirth at what might appear to be a disjointed scarecrow suddenly granted life.
I stood at the rear of the mob of onlookers, able to see over the crowd, as my height is greater than most. I saw young Will Shillside cavorting gracefully amongst the dancers. Just opposite my place I watched Alice atte Bridge squeeze to the front of the throng. Her eyes fastened upon young Shillside and sparkled with pleasure at the exhibition. Well, yes, I suppose I was too far away to see sparkling eyes, but from her countenance it is fair to say her eyes must have twinkled at least a little.
I leaned back against the house which stands where Bell Lane joins the Broad Street, content to observe rather than join those who cavorted in the street. I was surprised to see Edmund the smith press through the throng and join the dancers. I had thought him a stolid, humorless sort, but he pranced with abandon, and gracefully, also. I was amazed that a man of his bulk could move so pleasingly.