by Mel Starr
“The man responsible for Thomas atte Bridge’s death is the one who seeks to burn me in my bed, so I believe.”
“Oh,” the vicar replied thoughtfully. “The fellow must think you close on his trail, then?”
“He is mistaken. I could select ten men at random upon Bampton’s streets and find eight Thomas atte Bridge had wronged.”
“Aye,” Father Thomas chuckled wryly. “And the other two would have suffered at his brother Henry’s hand.”
“Do you know Sir Reynald Homersly, of Cote Manor?”
“Aye.”
“He is another Thomas atte Bridge wronged.”
“At Cote? How so?”
“Three years past he hired Henry and Thomas to plow. Said they worked but a few days, then sought their pay and came no more. Complained of no time to labor upon their own strips in the Weald. Next day a calf was gone from Sir Reynald’s barn.”
“Sir Reynald believes Thomas and Henry made off with it?”
“He does. Could prove nothing.”
“How does the Lady Amecia? She was sorely grieved when plague took their youngest lad five years past. ’Tis well Sir Reynald’s older lad is well.”
“She seemed well enough. Sir Reynald has an older son?”
“Aye. Can’t recall the lad’s name. I remember he was sent off to be squire to some knight of Oxfordshire and learn the arts of a gentleman. Near old enough now to be knighted, I’d think.”
“His father will find use for him when he returns to Cote.”
“Unless he attaches himself to the retinue of some great lord. Some would prefer to be a small fish in a great sea, like London, than a large fish in a pond like Cote.”
Father Thomas spoke true. Nobles are fond of exhibiting their power with the number of knights in their train. Cote would offer a young knight little compared to life serving a powerful gentleman. Perhaps Sir Reynald’s son had made his choice, and that was why he was not spoken of when I visited Cote.
I enjoined Father Thomas again to keep ears alert for any who spoke gleefully of Thomas atte Bridge’s death and turned to leave the vicarage when he called out to me: “’Twas the sheriff… Sir John Trillowe.”
“Who?”
“Sir Reynald’s lad. I remember now. He is squire to Sir John. As Sir John was dismissed from that post, he’ll need fewer retainers. Likely the lad will return to Cote when his service to Sir John is ended.”
I agreed, and considered this information while I returned to the castle. My path took me past Galen House, now dark, its shutters closed, its chimney cold. If I walked past the house each day its condition would, I thought, inspire me to greater labor to find the man who slew Thomas atte Bridge.
After dinner at the castle, which, according to Arthur, was much improved now that Lord Gilbert’s bailiff once again took meals in the hall, I spent the afternoon seeing to business of the manor. Some obligations cannot be set too far aside, even to seek a murderer.
I lay abed that night considering where I might seek truth. That I must redouble my efforts if I wished to return to Galen House was sure. But would my toil bring success? A man may spend much of his life seeking truth, yet not find it unless he search for it where it may be found. No hunter’s effort will find a stag in the castle marshalsea; no tenant’s labor will harvest oats in a field planted to barley. To find the truth of Thomas atte Bridge’s death I must seek it where it may be found, else all my struggle will be in vain.
This was not a reassuring thought to propel a man to restful slumber.
Next morn I awakened to the distant sound of the Angelus Bell from the tower of the Church of St Beornwald. The tolling of the bell did not cease, however, but continued; a slow, mournful repetition. Someone was near death, and the passing bell warned all to pray for the soul of him who was departing this life.
I did not take time to break my fast, but dressed hurriedly and with a word to Kate of my intention left the castle to seek news of who it was dying in Bampton. None of Lord Gilbert’s tenants or villeins had been ill, that I knew of, but several are aged, and death may come to any man, no matter his years.
I found Father Ralph and his clerk on Church View Street. He was returning to his vicarage, he told me, having been called to the Weald to shrive Philip Mannyng. Mannyng was the bishop’s tenant, so I had no duty in the matter, no heriot to set, but I thought it appropriate to visit the Weald and express sympathy to those who mourned.
I found Philip’s family crowded into the house when I arrived. Amabil was silent. She had mourned her husband for many days as he lay fading from life in his bed, so had few tears remaining, I think. Arnulf also was silent, but his thoughts were transparent. He strode about the room, fists balled at his side, and when he noticed my arrival spared but a brief nod to me before he resumed his pacing. His brow was deeply furrowed, and his lips drawn tight against his teeth.
Was Arnulf angry regarding his father’s death? Or was his stalking and unwelcoming scowl but the way of a man in sorrow? I did not know Arnulf well enough to interpret his moods. It seemed to me he viewed my presence with distaste, but why? I had nothing to do with his father’s injuries or his death, and had provided soothing herbs to help the old man in his pain. Was the son bitter that I now sought one who had murdered the man who injured the father? Was Arnulf that man? His expression said this might be so.
Words at such a time are often insufficient. And many words are no more suited to the moment than few. To speak the appropriate words and no more is a skill. Some folk believe that by speaking many words a few in the bundle might be found to suit the occasion. I am not such a one. I expressed condolence to Amabil and Arnulf with few words. Amabil replied with thanks, but Arnulf simply nodded and continued his pacing. This was not convenient for him or others, for the house was small and crowded with family and neighbors. Arnulf seemed not to notice, and the mourners made way for him as he traversed the room.
I bid Amabil good day – an affectation of custom, for surely it would not be – and left the house. The day had dawned cloudy, and now rain began to fall as I returned to the castle.
Rain continued throughout the day and night, so when mourners began the procession from Philip Mannyng’s house in the Weald to St Beornwald’s Church the streets were deep in mud. Arnulf Mannyng was one of four men who carried Philip upon his bier at the head of the procession, immediately behind the three vicars of St Beornwald’s Church. All who walked behind the corpse seemed clear-eyed and walked without lurching. The wake must have been a quiet and solemn affair.
I had another motive beside honoring a good man on his last journey to the churchyard. I wished to see the prints Arnulf Mannyng’s shoes might make in the mud of street or churchyard. Too many mourners followed the corpse to see what marks Arnulf’s shoes made in the street. His footprints were obliterated by those who came behind.
I moved to stand close to Arnulf when he and his companions set down their burden in the lych gate. But again the press of other folk made it impossible to see what mark his shoe made in the mud.
At the churchyard, after the funeral mass, I found a place behind Arnulf and so was able to examine his footprints in dirt freshly excavated from his father’s grave. His heels made no deep impression, and I saw no groove across the sole. It was as I thought when I saw him a few days past upon his beast. He was not accustomed to riding a horse, and his equipage for doing so was crude and seldom used. Unless Arnulf possessed other shoes or boots, he had not been in my toft. Most men of his rank own but one pair of shoes, and if they have another it is likely they will be rough, wooden-soled and made for work in the fields. I did not know whether I should be pleased at the discovery or not.
Hubert Shillside, John Kellet, and Arnulf Mannyng I had absolved of Thomas atte Bridge’s death, although I was prepared to be mistaken should I learn some new thing which might lay murder at the feet of one of these, especially some new thing of John Kellet. Peter Carpenter, Walter Forester, and Edmund Smith remained of th
ose I knew to have reason to desire vengeance against Thomas atte Bridge. Would any of these attempt to stop my inquiry by burning Kate and me in our bed? Did they wear shoes meant for a knight? Would Peter burn a house so near his own the flames might spread and consume him as well? Did he possess a dagger? Or would he be so enraged that he would pierce me with a chisel?
I could not answer “aye” to any of these questions. I sought truth in the wrong place. It was not to be found in Bampton, I decided, but in Cote. Sir Reynald could not seek to silence me, but he had a son who might. Sir Reynald might have provoked this son to revenge against Thomas atte Bridge and to my destruction. Why he would do so I could not tell. Would a man fan the coals of a grudge into flame after three years? Would even a hot-headed youth kill to avenge a stolen calf? Would he seek to end my search for him when I had given no sign that I suspected the knight? Indeed, when the first attack came against Galen House, I knew nothing of the man.
Next day the rain had ceased. The sky was bright blue and dotted with clouds scudding west to east in a brisk wind. It was a good day to travel. I told Arthur and Uctred they would accompany me to Cote again that day, and to make ready to set out after dinner.
Sun and wind had dried the roads, so we arrived dry-shod at Cote. As we entered what remained of the plague-stricken village I saw a cotter hoeing weeds from his patch of leeks and onions. I halted, cleared my throat to warn the fellow of my approach, for his back was to the road, then entered his toft. He stood erect, leaning upon his hoe, and stared suspiciously at me as I drew near. Strangers entering isolated villages often bring such a response.
I smiled to put the fellow at ease. This seemed a failure. His expression did not change, and he seemed to grip the hoe the tighter.
“Good day. We come from Bampton. Can you tell me if Sir Reynald’s older son is yet in Cote, or has he returned to Oxford?”
“Geoffrey?”
“Aye, Geoffrey.” Now I had a name, which before I had not.
“Ain’t seen ’im in years.”
“I heard he had returned from Oxford for a time.” This was a lie. May the Lord Christ forgive me.
The cotter scratched himself, smiled wryly, then replied, “Nay. Not been seen in Cote since before my Matty perished.”
“Matty?”
“Me wife. Took ill two winters past. Young Geoffrey went off to Oxford summer afore that. Three years it’d be now, near.”
“And he’s not returned?”
“Did once, I heard. I din’t see ’im, but word gets out. Sir Reynald wanted ’im to return to Cote when ’e was knighted. Geoffrey had other plans. Manor house servants said as there was hard words. Geoffrey ain’t been seen in Cote since, far as I know.”
“You are sure of this?”
“Aye. Was ’e to return, the village would know of it.”
“He was sent off to Oxford to serve as squire to the sheriff, was he not?”
“Aye, but sheriff had little use for more retainers, so ’twas said, so Geoffrey become squire to sheriff’s son.”
“Sir Simon?”
“Uh, aye. Believe that was ’is name.”
I thanked the fellow for his conversation and returned to the road. Arthur and Uctred had remained there, but the toft was humble and so close were they to the cotter, they had no difficulty hearing the words exchanged.
“That squire what you patched up back before Christmas, after him and Sir Simon was sliced up on the Canditch… suppose that was Sir Reynald’s lad?” Arthur asked.
I did so suppose, and had the same thought which Arthur voiced. If Sir Reynald and his son had a falling out near three years past, and the youth had not been seen in Cote since, it was not likely the lad would strike down another who had wronged his father, nor would he know of my pursuit of the man who did. And if he did not slay Thomas atte Bridge, he had no cause to stop my search for the felon who did so. Geoffrey Homersly did not try to burn Galen House.
I saw no reason to approach the manor house at Cote to confront Sir Reynald concerning his son. The man endured enough sorrow, I thought, without my adding to it. I turned to the west, my face warmed by the slanting sun, and Arthur and Uctred fell in silently behind. I was left with but two men Thomas atte Bridge had wronged who might have done him to death: Walter Forester and Edmund Smith.
Walter worked regularly with sharp tools, and might have plunged one of them through my arm. And Walter, with his father and brother, would use horses to draw carts full of timbers and firewood from Lord Gilbert’s forest. Would he occasionally ride upon a beast, so as to put cross-grooves in the soles of his shoes from stirrups? That seemed improbable.
I had searched for truth in Bampton and found none. I searched for it in Cote and found none. Or rather, the truth I discovered brought no solution or satisfaction. Perhaps the truth I sought might be found in Alvescot. I resolved to visit there again next day.
All men seem more imposing when astride a horse, even if the beast be a humble palfrey. Bruce is aged, to be sure, but he was once Lord Gilbert’s finest dexter. I chose to travel to Alvescot upon the old horse, so left word with the marshalsea that I would require him on Monday at the third hour.
Chapter 12
King Edward requires that all the commons be proficient with the longbow, and Lord Gilbert has placed upon me the responsibility for seeing that his tenants and villeins are not found wanting should war with France resume. Perhaps I should write “when war with France resumes.”
On the Wednesday before Corpus Christi I had tacked a notice to the church door that the following Sunday there would be archery practice and a competition.
So the day after my abortive journey to Cote, after the mass and a convenient interval for dinner, families began to gather at the castle forecourt. I assigned two grooms to bring the butts from the castle storeroom, had in my pouch six silver pennies for the competition, and required of the castle butler a cask of fresh ale to quench the thirst of the competitors.
The day was yet windy, so archers were sorely tried when they attempted to place their shafts in the target from much beyond sixty paces. Much good-natured banter was provoked by arrows gone astray in the breeze. By the twelfth hour the ale was gone, the pennies awarded, the butts returned to the storeroom, and my mind – freed for a time from thoughts of murder and flames – returned to ways I might root out a felon.
I felt no need to require Arthur or Uctred to accompany me when I mounted Bruce on Monday morn and set out for Alvescot. Walter, was he guilty of Thomas atte Bridge’s death, would cause no tumult before his father and brother.
The warm sun and brisk breeze had in three days so dried the roads that Bruce raised dust rather than clods of mud as he plodded his way toward Cow-Leys Corner. I reined the old horse to a stop at the oak where Thomas atte Bridge had dangled near six weeks past, and studied the tree. The halt puzzled Bruce. He stamped a great hoof, impatient to be on his way.
What did I expect to learn from Walter Forester? If I asked him plainly had he to do with Thomas atte Bridge’s death, he would surely deny it. He might be speaking truth, or he might speak falsely. How might I know? What could I ask of him that might lead to the fellow incriminating himself? I had proof of nothing, only suspicions. The King’s Eyre does not deal with suspicion but with fact. I had none. If Walter would not confess to the felony, I could offer no sure evidence of his guilt.
I had no reason to wish Walter guilty for, unlike John Kellet, the man had done me no harm. If John Kellet did not do the murder, nor Geoffrey Homersly, nor Walter Forester, I was left to sort out a felon among friends.
There was also Edmund Smith, but if he did harm to Thomas atte Bridge he had felt no haste to work his vengeance. And if he was guilty I had no more evidence than for Walter Forester. Six weeks I had contended with my ignorance. Ignorance seemed triumphant.
I turned Bruce and set him plodding back toward Bampton and the castle. Wilfred the porter was doubtless surprised to see me return so soon after departing,
but a good porter pays little regard to the coming and going of his betters. That they wish to come or go must be enough for him.
Kate, however, required explanation.
“You are going to lay aside the pursuit of a murderer, then?” she asked when I explained my sudden return.
“Unless some new information, some new gossip or rumor, comes to my ear, I know not what more to do.”
Kate did not respond, which was a clear sign she had no better idea than I as to what I might next do. If she has such notions she is not hesitant to speak them for my benefit.
Sleep did not come that night. In the past, when I was a bachelor bailiff for Lord Gilbert, residing in the castle, if I experienced a wakeful night I would prowl the castle parapet, considering the issue which robbed me of sleep. It was near midnight when I crept from my bed this night to walk again upon the parapet. I tried to quit our bed without disturbing Kate, but I believe she slept uneasy as well, for she sat up and asked, when she understood I was drawing on my chauces, what I was about.
I told her, hoping she would not volunteer to accompany me. She was soon to become a mother, and must have rest, and I wished to consider my failure alone. Bad enough to be ineffectual, but to be so in the eyes of one’s beloved is doubly distressing. I was relieved when she murmured a drowsy response and drew the bedclothes up to her neck.
Wilfred and his assistant were snoring in their chamber in the gatehouse. I heard them in duet through the door which Wilfred leaves open in all but the harshest weather so he may be more easily awakened in the night should need arise to open the gate and lift the portcullis. I thought for a moment to wake the porter and tell him what I was about, so that should he leave his bed and find some shadow atop the castle wall he would not raise an alarm and disturb the sleep of others. But the rumbles and snorts from his chamber convinced me that discovery from that quarter was unlikely. I passed by the door and mounted the steps to the parapet.