Unhallowed Ground

by Mel Starr

  I had asked myself the same question since speaking with Geoffrey Homersly. I had no good answer.

  “Many men had cause to wish him harm, but when I seek to assign the death to one or another I find reason to exonerate rather than blame.”

  “Is that what you seek?”

  “What I seek?”

  “Aye. Do you seek guilt of some men, as Geoffrey Homersly, but innocence of others? What a man seeks, I think, he will often find.”

  “I cannot tell,” I admitted. “There are men who, are they guilty of murder, I would rather not know of it, and others, did they slay Thomas atte Bridge, I would have little distress for their penalty.”

  “Such are my thoughts,” Kate admitted.

  “I have no strategy whereby I might find a murderer,” I sighed. “I intend to set myself to rebuilding Galen House, which thing I can do, and dismiss the death of Thomas atte Bridge. The matter has vexed me long enough. Mayhap, in time, some new clue will appear, or some guilty man will let his tongue slip.”

  “If that does not happen,” Kate asked, “will you be content to leave the matter unresolved?”

  “I do not know of all the mischief Thomas atte Bridge did in his life. What I do know is vile enough. Perhaps his death was justice for some evil he did, and if I found who took his life, and hallmote or the King’s Eyre send the man to the scaffold, that would be the greater injustice.”

  “Do you say this because you believe it so, or to salve your pride that you have not found what you sought?”

  “I do not know,” I replied. “I do know that my wound has been stitched long enough.” I arose from my place at table, brought forth scissors and tweezers from my instruments chest, doffed cotehardie and kirtle, and set my arm before Kate. She snipped the sutures with as much skill as she had employed creating them, and I thought then she might make a fine assistant. Mayhap I should instruct her in some rudimentary surgical practice so if some man injures himself while I am distant she might offer aid until I return.

  I woke early next day, before the Angelus Bell or the poulterer’s rooster could summon other castle folk from their beds. I had dreamt of beams and bricks and rooftops, and was eager to spend Sir Simon Trillowe’s purse on a new Galen House.

  I sought first Peter Carpenter. He walked with me to the pile of cold ashes which had been Galen House, and I explained to him what I wished him to build. I would have a house somewhat larger than Galen House had been, of posts and beams. The spaces between timbers on the ground floor I would have filled with bricks, in the new style. For the upper floor, wattle and daub, whitewashed, would suit. I would have two windows, of glass, in each room, and Warin Mason I would have build another chimney to match the one which yet stood sentinel over the acrid stink of what once was my home.

  “And for the roof,” I concluded, “I will have tile.”

  “No more will a man set thatch alight and burn your house, eh?” Peter agreed.

  “Nay. Does some felon seek my life in future, he will need to devise some new way.”

  Peter told me he would assemble workmen and set to work with his horse and cart hauling away the debris this very day, as he had few other obligations before him. I next called upon Warin Mason and found him hoeing weeds from cabbages in his toft. I told him of the brickwork I wished him to do, and the fellow seemed pleased to leave the hoe to wife and children and set his hand to masonry.

  No tilers reside in Bampton. I thought Warin might know of such a man in some greater town. He did, and promised to send for the fellow.

  I took dinner in the castle and while we ate I told Kate of my plans. She seemed much pleased at the new house I described. Glass windows particularly caused her cheeks to glow and her eyes to sparkle. I entertained a brief worry that my plans might be beyond Sir Simon’s contribution, but I could not disappoint Kate after making much of her forthcoming residence.

  Late in the day I sought a groom of the marshalsea, ordered Bruce made ready, and set off for Alvescot. I found Gerard limping about his wood yard, where were stored beams and poles cut from Lord Gilbert’s forest.

  “You’ll want elm for the beams what’ll be upon the ground,” Gerard said when I told him of my plans. “Oak an’ beech’ll do well for the others. Tiles is heavier than thatch, so for rafters you’ll need stout poles. I got enough, I think, dryin’ in the shed there.”

  I left the verderer with the understanding that Peter Carpenter would soon call upon him with a list of the timbers needed. Gerard assured me that the wood yard held all Peter would need, and a few glances about the place in the fading evening light told me he spoke true.

  Bruce had carried me near to Bampton when I saw, a great way ahead of me, a figure standing in darkening shadows beside the road. As I approached I saw that a man was flinging something about at Cow-Leys Corner. The fellow glanced up from his work, saw me while I was yet far off, and immediately fled. Bruce lumbered up to the place where the man had been busy and I reined him to a halt, curious about what I had seen. From atop the horse my eyes discerned nothing of interest, but surely there must be something here, I thought, else why the fellow’s actions and hasty departure when he discovered he was seen?

  I dismounted and searched among the foliage at the verge. The place, I noted, was where Thomas atte Bridge had been buried near two months past. And then I found what had been cast about the grave.

  Entrails lay scattered there, near to the wall which enclosed Lord Gilbert’s meadow. I could not identify the beast from which the guts had been torn, but surmised a goat had perished so the ritual I had observed from a distance could take place. Many believe that spirits will not rise in the dark of night to vex the living if the entrails of a goat be strewn about the burial place.

  Was there some man of Bampton who feared the ghost of Thomas atte Bridge? Why else undertake to keep his spirit below the sod? Who might so fear a ghost? The murderer? I mounted Bruce and prodded him into motion with a conviction I had seen a thing which might lead me to a felon.

  I dismounted at the castle gatehouse and sought Wilfred the porter. He appeared at the sound of Bruce’s great hooves against the cobbles, somewhat surprised at my halt at that place.

  “Have you seen a man approach Mill Street from Cow-Leys Corner?” I asked. “He was in haste,” I added.

  Wilfred scratched his balding pate and peered beyond me into the dusk. “Seen folk about, but none as was in a hurry,” he replied.

  “Were any of these traveling alone? Did you note where they went?”

  Wilfred chewed his lip in thought before he replied. “Two was alone. They went on past the castle. That’s the last I seen of ’em. Mill Street can’t be seen from the gatehouse once folk near Shill Brook,” he explained.

  Nor can an observer at the castle gatehouse observe those who might turn away from Mill Street to enter the Weald. I began to think I might guess who it was I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner. The fellow had waited ’til near dark, the better to complete his errand unseen, yet early enough that John the beadle would not yet be about the streets of Bampton to enforce curfew. And if the man entered the Weald John would not see him, for the beadle’s duty lay only in Bampton. The vicars of the Church of St Beornwald, as representatives of the Bishop of Exeter, have responsibility for enforcing curfew in the Weald, a thing which neither they nor any other men trouble themselves to do.

  I sent Bruce to the marshalsea with the porter’s assistant, advised Wilfred that I might return late, and set off for the Weald. Behind me I heard Wilfred cranking down the portcullis.

  If it was Edmund Smith I saw scattering entrails about Thomas atte Bridge’s grave, I wondered where he might have found a goat. Wealthier tenants of Lord Gilbert and the bishop possess a few sheep, and some own goats. I did not think Emma in such company, and before the smith wed her he owned nothing but a few hens.

  I walked in the dark to the end of the path and Arnulf Mannyng’s house. A faint gleam through the skins of his windows told that the family
had not yet sought their beds. No man wishes to hear pounding upon his door at such a time, but I was impatient to learn the reason for what I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner.

  I rapped upon Mannyng’s door and shouted my name to ease the fellow’s mind about who his late visitor might be. A moment later I heard him raise the bar and lift the latch.

  I did not seek Arnulf Mannyng because I thought him the man I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner. Rather, I thought he might know who in the Weald possessed goats.

  I apologized for disturbing the peace of his evening, then asked about goats. Mannyng stared at me for a moment, then invited me into his cottage and shut the door behind me.

  “Why do you ask of goats?” he said. A cresset upon his table provided enough light that I could see a puzzled expression upon his face.

  I did not wish for Arnulf, or any other man, to know yet what I had seen along the road. “Have any in the Weald who own goats seen one go missing?” I asked next.

  “Strange you ask,” Mannyng replied. “We began shearing the wethers today. I keep six goats with the sheep, but this day I found but five. No sign of the other. Thought it’d run off, or got took by some wild hound.”

  “It was killed, I think.”

  “A hound?”

  “Nay, a man.”

  “Who?” Mannyng asked indignantly.

  “I am yet uncertain.”

  “But you have suspicion?”

  “Aye.”

  I bid Arnulf good eve, and walked north in the dark toward Mill Street until I stood in the path before the hut of Edmund and Emma.

  I was about to put my knuckles to the door, then reconsidered. I am no coward, but neither am I a fool. No man knew where I had gone this night, or to what purpose. Was Edmund the man I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner, and he took amiss my interest in his business there, he might employ those muscular arms to silence me. Edmund has the heart of a cur in the body of a bull.

  I have heard it said that the man who fears God need fear no man. That may be so, but I did wish to live to become a father. I set off silently for Mill Street.

  Next morn, after Kate and I broke our fast, I sought Arthur, and with him to help draw explanation from Edmund, walked again to the Weald. Emma answered my knock and told me that Edmund was at work this day at his forge. Arthur and I retraced our steps to Mill Street, crossed Shill Brook, and found Edmund pumping his bellows over new-lit coals.

  The day promised warmth, and already sweat stood upon Edmund’s brow and lip from his effort at the bellows. He glanced up at our approach, then resumed pumping, as if to say without words that his work was more important than any matter concerning me. Arthur recognized the slight and scowled at the smith’s back.

  A smith cannot pump air to his coals forever. He must eventually set about his work. Edmund’s hammer lay upon a table, aside his anvil. I walked to it and picked it up. He would answer my questions before I returned the hammer to him, else he would accomplish no business this day.

  Edmund saw me lift the hammer but continued at his bellows for some time, until the blaze was white with heat and even Arthur and I felt beads of sweat upon our brows. The smith finally ceased his pumping, folded his smoky, sweaty arms across his chest and glared at me. We had disagreed about his conduct in the past, so I did not expect a cheerful welcome, but the scowl now leveled at me bespoke more than a year-old dispute. So I thought.

  “What have you done with Arnulf’s goat? You needed only the entrails to cast on Thomas atte Bridge’s grave.”

  Edmund blanched. His face went from red with heat and exertion to white in a heartbeat. His words denied my accusation, but his visage said otherwise.

  “Goat? Whose?” he protested. “I’ve no man’s goat.”

  “You discarded the flesh after cutting free the entrails? A terrible waste.”

  “Don’t know what you speak of,” he protested, seeming to gather his wits.

  “Perhaps we should inspect your house, to see if there be some carcass there upon a spit. Mayhap Emma will remember if you left her last eve for a time, just before curfew.”

  “You got no bailiwick in the Weald,” Edmund spluttered.

  “True, but you are a tenant of Lord Gilbert, and I saw you last eve casting the entrails of some beast – a goat, I think – over Thomas atte Bridge’s grave, which lies upon Lord Gilbert’s land at Cow-Leys Corner. I suspect the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church will not take offense if I do their work and find a thief and murderer in the Weald.”

  My words were not entirely true. I had seen a man at Cow-Leys Corner. This may have been Edmund, or mayhap not. I thought to show the smith confidence that I knew him to be the man and see what was his response.

  “I’m no murderer,” Edmund protested, and cast his eyes about as if seeking some unremembered place in his forge where he might hide. There was no escape, for Arthur and I blocked the entrance. Arthur does better at obstructing a door than do I, but together the smith would not get past us. And I yet held his hammer.

  “No murderer? But a thief. If one, why not the other?”

  Edmund’s shoulder slumped, and he leaned against his anvil as if likely to topple over without its support.

  “He torments me, does Thomas.”

  “Thomas atte Bridge?” I replied. I was confused. Atte Bridge was two months dead. How could he vex another?

  “Aye,” the smith mumbled. “Comes in the night, when all others be sleepin’, an’ wakes me.”

  “Why? What does he wish? To trouble the man who took his life from him?”

  “Nay. I’m no murderer. ’E was plowin’ Emma’s furrow before ’e died. When I was to wed Emma she told me of it. Thomas was dead an’ gone then, and naught but Maud to protest did I seize the land what Thomas took.”

  “Maud protested?”

  “Aye. To me an’ Emma. Not to the vicars, ’cause she knew I was right an’ the land Thomas was takin’ was Emma’s.”

  “Maud and Emma had words about this?”

  “Aye, but not after we was wed. Didn’t argue with ’er, just took back what was Emma’s.”

  “And now Thomas afflicts you in the night?”

  “Aye. Tells me I’ll soon join ’im do I not give over them furrows ’e took from Emma.”

  “You cast the guts of Arnulf Mannyng’s goat upon his grave.”

  “Aye,” Edmund reluctantly agreed. “’Eard tell that’ll keep spirits in their grave.”

  “Did it? Last night did Thomas afflict you again?”

  The smith brightened. “Nay. Worked well, as folk do say.”

  “Thomas did not rise from his grave to trouble you because you took his life?”

  Edmund blanched again. “Nay. Never murdered no man.”

  I believed him, and did I not I had no way to prove otherwise. But I would see justice done in the matter of Arnulf Mannyng’s goat.

  “You will pay Arnulf a shilling for his goat.”

  “A shilling?” Edmund complained. “Was worth no more than ten pence.”

  “A thief cannot bid the value of his plunder. A shilling, and you will pay the debt before hallmote or I will have you up on charges. Then you will pay a fine to Lord Gilbert as well.”

  The smith’s shoulders dropped again in submission. I had made no friend here, nor had I discovered a murderer, as I thought I might. Edmund Smith had been no friend before this day, so I was forfeit nothing, and whoso hung Thomas atte Bridge at Cow-Leys Corner was no more unknown to me than when the day began. I had discovered the theft of a goat, so I could boast of some small achievement.

  Next day was Sunday. Kate was pleased to see, as we walked to the church past the site of Galen House, that Peter Carpenter had seen to clearing the place of burnt timbers and ash, and Gerard had supplied the first cart-load of elm timbers with which Peter and his crew might begin raising a new house. All that remained at the site was some blackened earth and my new brick chimney.

  There was much work for me in the next days. I must see to the shea
ring of Lord Gilbert’s sheep and the sale of the wool, and it was time for the last plowing of Lord Gilbert’s fallow fields. Villeins who owed week-work I set to these tasks. This did not please them, as they had their own labors to complete, but such is the way of the world and my work. I must persuade folk to do things they would wish to avoid, whether this be laboring upon their lord’s demesne or suffering me to repair their injuries and wounds. Both oft require pain from those to whom I must direct my toil.

  At least once each day I made time to observe Peter Carpenter’s progress. On Tuesday he brought another load of timbers from Alvescot, and late in the week two carts loaded with bricks came from the kiln at Witney. Two more cart-loads, Peter said, and Warin would have enough to build a second chimney and fill the spaces between the timbers he was raising.

  I watched the carpenter wield his mallet and chisel to cut a tenon and rubbed my arm where Sir Simon had pierced me. To think that I had once considered that Peter might have delivered the blow with a chisel. There is no more amicable man in Bampton, I thought.

  He spoke fondly of his daughter’s child. Jane’s babe, he said, was strong. He was placed with the cooper’s wife, who had a babe of her own to nurse. Peter seemed not to wish to speak more of the child, which I understood, considering how the infant had come to be. The part of the babe that was Jane would be loved; the part that was Thomas atte Bridge would be despised. It would have been easier, I think, for Peter and his wife to have accepted a lass. I hoped, for the sake of the child, that as he grew he would resemble his mother in character rather than his father.

  By St Botolf’s Day Peter had erected scaffolds and with his assistants and apprentice was at work raising posts and beams for the upper story of the new Galen House. Beneath the poles and planks of the scaffolding Warin was at work with mortar and trowel, filling in the walls with layers of red-brown bricks. I found myself drawn to Church View Street several times each day, to monitor progress and watch as craftsmen put together a fine house from wood and clay.

  Chapter 15