by Mel Starr
“Why would some other need to know of their connivance?”
“The message, slid under the sheriff’s door.”
“Oh, aye. Neither Lady Anne nor the squire would have done it were they guilty… or if they did, they would have named the other squire.”
“And I do not know of a certainty that the bloodstains on the linen cloth came to be there at Sir Henry’s death, or if the bodkin in the base of the lampstand was a murder weapon. ’Tis all conjecture, because we were directed to search the squires’ chamber.”
“How then will you find the truth of the matter?”
“It would be well if the Lord Christ would come to me in a dream and tell me how the felony was done and who did it, but that is unlikely.”
“How, then?”
“There is not yet enough information for anything but supposition. I must learn more of Sir Henry and his life, as well as his death. Then my speculation will be less flimsy, and I may discard unworthy theories until but one remains.”
“And then you will know who murdered Sir Henry?”
“Aye. When the impossible and the unlikely are all discarded, the felon will appear.”
“Well,” Kate said while munching thoughtfully upon the remains of her maslin loaf, “I think you can discard already thoughts of Lady Anne in collusion with her squire.”
“Why so? Not that I believe you to be mistaken. I have my own doubts, but I would hear yours.”
“The lass would not be so foolish as to return stolen silver in a cloth which could be identified with another used at the slaying of her father.”
“I agree. But perhaps she is weak-minded.”
“Have you seen sign of this?”
“Nay.”
“She does not behave oddly at table, or scratch herself when and where she itches, or speak foolishness out of turn?”
“Nay,” I replied.
“Then you must assume Lady Anne wise enough that she would not offer evidence of her guilt so carelessly.”
“I agree, but I have no other direction for suspicion.”
“Women can be as wrathful as men,” Kate said.
“I suppose, although their temper does not usually result in the use of daggers and swords, or bodkins, either, I think. I am confused. Do you now say that Lady Anne might have slain her father in a fit of anger?”
“Nay. A resentful woman will seek to destroy her enemy with her wiles rather than blades. Being the weaker sex, she must use her wits for lack of brawn.”
“So if Lady Anne is not stupid, you say she may be shrewd… enough so to devise ways to throw me and Sir Roger off her trail? But what I have learned points to her. How can that be shrewd?”
“There is another woman involved,” Kate said. “Do Lady Margery and Lady Anne seem friendly?”
“Ah, I see your point. They cast no daggers with their eyes when at Lord Gilbert’s table, but Lady Anne is Sir Henry’s heir by his first wife, Lady Goscelyna. If Lady Anne went to the scaffold for her father’s murder Lady Margery would not have to share the estate, such as it is.”
“Such as it is? What do you mean?”
“Sir Henry went to his grave in debt. His valet is unsure if his possessions are of greater worth than his debts.”
“So he was not likely slain for an inheritance.”
“Nay. Lady Margery and Lady Anne would know there would be little profit to balance against the risk of discovery. A wife who slays her husband is considered guilty of treason against him, and likewise a daughter, I believe.”
Kate shuddered. “They would be hanged, drawn and quartered?”
“That is a punishment reserved for men… but hanged, surely.”
“But the valet said that Lady Margery was displeased with Sir Henry?”
“He did.”
“And now she is free to wed some other. Perhaps you will not solve this murder until she takes another husband.”
“And that fellow will be the felon?”
“Or the reason for Lady Margery’s felony.”
Kate and I awoke next morn to the ringing of the Angelus Bell. Before I wed I was accustomed to seeking the church early on Sunday for Matins, but now that Kate and I have a babe we do not enter St Beornwald’s Church until time for mass. May the Lord Christ forgive my sloth.
After mass, and a dinner of porre of peas, I left Kate and Bessie and sought the castle. I wished to speak more with Walter Mayn, and found him just leaving the hall after his dinner.
I greeted him pleasantly, but the valet seemed reluctant to speak to me. Perhaps he feared that I had another unpleasant duty to assign to him. He was not far wrong.
“Have you spoken since yesterday to Lady Margery’s maids?” I asked.
“Nay.”
“Make a point of doing so today.”
“To what purpose?”
“Tell them that you believe the sheriff is about to seize Sir Henry’s murderer.”
“If they ask why I think so, what am I to say? Is it indeed so?”
“There are those more likely guilty than others, but if any ask of you how you know this, tell them only that Master Hugh has told you he has found grounds to accuse the felon. If you tell what I ask to Lady Margery’s maids, gossip will soon send the rumor to every corner of the castle.”
“That is all you wish of me?”
“Aye. For now. Set folk’s tongues to wagging and we will see where it leads.”
I suspected that Walter’s gossip would envelop the castle before nightfall, and so it did, but other complications also encompassed Bampton Castle that day.
King Edward requires that all men practice with the longbow of a Sunday afternoon, and as bailiff to Lord Gilbert it is my duty to see that the charge is carried out. I had assigned Arthur to setting up the butts in the meadow before the castle, and after I told Walter what I required of him I wandered back through the gatehouse to watch the practice and oversee the competition.
Lord Gilbert provides four silver pennies each week as prizes for those who show the greatest skill with the bow, and when he is in residence at Bampton Castle delights in personally awarding the coins to those who prevail over their fellows.
Three of the coins went to Bampton men, tenants of Lord Gilbert, but one coin went to Sir Geoffrey Godswein, Sir Henry’s knight. This was an oddity, as only the commons train to the longbow. Knights begin martial training with a sword when first they become pages, and then squires. How, I wondered, did a knight find such skill?
I was not alone in my curiosity, for as Sir Geoffrey let fly his arrows I saw others in the crowd of spectators whisper behind their hands. ’Twas nearly an admission of being baseborn that a knight would do this. I saw Lady Margery react with distaste when Sir Geoffrey seized a bow and took a place at the mark, and she scowled when he accepted Lord Gilbert’s penny and bowed to his host.
Walter had stood with others in Sir Henry’s service to watch the competition, and when the contest was done I sought him.
“None of Sir Henry’s yeomen or grooms or valets went to the mark today,” I said to him as we passed the gatehouse.
“Sir Henry was not one to set his men to archery as is Lord Gilbert.”
“Too poor to afford even a few pennies as prizes?” I ventured.
“Aye,” the valet smiled, “too poor to hand out even farthings.”
“What of Sir Geoffrey? How did a knight come by such skill?”
“Wasn’t always a knight, nor high-born, either.”
“How was it that he was elevated?”
“Was a yeoman in Sir Henry’s band at Poitiers. Just a lad, but keen to go to war. Went over with ’is father, who took sick an’ died before the battle.”
“Did he do some service for Sir Henry?”
Walter shrugged. “Guess so. He don’t speak much of it, nor did Sir Henry.”
“Do others of Sir Henry’s retainers know of Sir Geoffrey’s past? Does Lady Margery know?”
“S’pose so. Sir Geoffrey’s
rank is known to most as has been in Sir Henry’s service, an’ Lady Margery ain’t always been a lady.”
“Oh? Her father is not a gentleman?”
“Nay. Wealthy, though. A cordwainer of Coventry.”
“If Sir Geoffrey did not speak of his origins,” I said, “why take a bow and enter Lord Gilbert’s competition and so make plain his family?”
“Pride, I’d say. Sir Geoffrey don’t like to be bested at anything. Sees a man doing a thing that he can do better, he’d not resist showin’ off.”
“Even if to do so would lift eyebrows?”
“Even so,” Walter shrugged again. “Mayhap that’s why ’e did somethin’ what made ’im worthy of bein’ knighted. Don’t always think things through before he acts.”
The valet may speak true, I thought. How many men would do heroic things if they first considered the risk of the deed which brought them glory? Perhaps this is why young men make the best warriors. They have less experience of the consequences of bold acts. Did the man who murdered Sir Henry think carefully of the possible result of such a rash act?
I bid Walter “Good day,” and set off for the solar, where I hoped to find Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger.
I did so. The two men and Lady Petronilla, having just arrived from awarding the archery prizes, were quenching their thirst with cups of wine. Both men had fought at Poitiers, I knew, when the French king had been seized and held for ransom. I thought one or both might have a tale to tell of Sir Henry or Sir Geoffrey. I asked, and the sheriff and my employer peered at each other thoughtfully for some time. Some silent exchange passed between them, then Sir Roger finally spoke.
“We were much inferior in numbers to the French, so Prince Edward placed us upon a hill. The slope was a vineyard, and the archers he placed hidden amongst the vines. We men at arms were at the crest of the hill, dismounted, ready to repulse the French from whatever direction they might come.”
“’Twas a perilous time,” Lord Gilbert added. “Had the French king any wit he would have come at us from the flanks. His numbers were such he could have divided his army and enveloped us.”
“But he rather chose to send his knights through the vines,” Sir Roger said, “up a narrow path which wound through the vineyard. I could scarce believe a king would be so foolish.”
“Our archers, hidden in the vines, waited ’til the French knights were nearly upon them,” Lord Gilbert continued. “At such close range their arrows could not miss, and flew with such force that a knight’s armor was of no more use to him than parchment.
“Some English knights became resentful that the battle might be won by archers before knights could seek glory or captives for ransom. An arrow does not take prisoners, but slays the man it strikes.”
I began to envision what might have happened. “Sir Henry was one of these?” I asked.
“Aye,” Sir Roger said, with a rueful grin, “as were Lord Gilbert and I.”
“Sir Henry had but a small retinue, but when he leaped over the dry moat we had dug at the crest of the hill his squires followed, all eager for glory before it escaped them.”
“Sir Henry was the first knight to attack?”
“Aye. When he set out for the grapevines we all followed, our blood being up and all unwilling to lose a chance for honor and to seize hostages.”
Lord Gilbert hesitated, then continued. “Not all of the French knights were dead or even badly wounded. No sooner had I got amongst the vines than I came upon a knight who had hid himself in the grapevines so as to avoid the arrows which had destroyed so many of his fellows. We fell upon each other with swords, but neither could deliver a telling blow for the vines which entangled us.
“While I was thus engaged another French knight, all in black armor and with a white plume upon his helm, came up behind me and delivered a blow which dropped me to my knees.”
“I was too far away to see,” Sir Roger said, “lost amongst the vines and dealing with my own foe, else I would have come to Lord Gilbert’s aid. But Sir Henry was fighting nearby, and saw him fall. Sir Henry left the knight he was battling and with a yeoman came to Lord Gilbert’s relief.”
“The knight that came upon me was a powerful man,” Lord Gilbert said. “He laid such a blow across my helm, I saw all the stars and planets. Sir Henry had the courage of two men, but the size of a lad. He was overmatched against two. ’Twas then that Sir Geoffrey – not yet Sir, only a yeoman then – notched an arrow and from no more than four paces away put shafts through the French armor and dispatched both. ’Twas unfortunate. Dead men pay no ransom.”
“Aye,” Sir Roger agreed. “And Sir Henry needed funds even then.”
“When I regained my wits the battle was nearly done,” Lord Gilbert said. “King Jean was taken, along with many French knights who survived the slaughter. Prince Edward saw me being assisted back to our lines, as I was yet unsteady upon my feet. He asked my state, and Sir Henry, whose arm I leaned upon, told him all. The prince asked for Geoffrey Godswein and when the fellow was presented to him, he knighted him then and there.”
“Along with a Welsh archer who had done him good service that day,” the sheriff added.
“So you see, I owed much to Sir Henry, who came to my aid, and to Sir Geoffrey, whose arrows may have saved us both.”
“You were pleased to award him a penny for his skills this day,” I said.
“Aye,” Lord Gilbert agreed. “He has had coins from me before.”
“Did he ask for it?” I asked.
“Nay. Said a knighthood was pay enough for what he’d done, but Sir Henry presented him with a few shillings – all he could afford, I think – and I gave the fellow two marks.”
“Sir Henry gave Sir Geoffrey a few shillings,” I thought aloud. “Did Sir Geoffrey think that enough for his service, or was he resentful that he received no more?”
“Ah,” Lord Gilbert said. “I see your point. The fellow seemed pleased with what he was given, then and now. And part of his reward was to enter Sir Henry’s service. He’s been under Bampton Castle roof for nearly a month, and if he’s wrathful about what he was awarded twelve years past, he hides it well.”
“We seek a man who wished Sir Henry dead,” the sheriff said. “I think Sir Henry was worth more to Sir Geoffrey alive than dead. Whom now will he serve? Will Lady Margery keep him in her retinue?”
“Walter, the valet, has told me that Sir Henry and Lady Margery quarreled.”
“Ha… what marriage does not have occasional dispute?” Lord Gilbert laughed. “The man who does not sometimes displease his wife has probably not enough spine to say ‘boo’ to a goose. And the woman who will not inform her husband when she is annoyed has not yet, I think, been born.”
“If two people can live together without occasional cross words,” Sir Roger said, “it shows a lack of spirit admirable only in sheep. Did the valet say what they argued about?”
“Money. Lady Margery said she’d not have wed Sir Henry had she known his circumstances. Said there were others she might have wed, and could do so yet, if she were free of him.”
“Not whilst Sir Henry lived,” Lord Gilbert said thoughtfully.
“Walter has overheard Lady Margery’s maids. They speak of her interest in some knights, he knows not who. They spoke of more than one.”
“Sir Henry was a cuckold?”
“Lady Margery’s maids did not say. Perhaps they do not know of a certainty.”
“A lady’s maidservants know all there is to know of her business,” Lord Gilbert said. “It might be well to speak to one.”
“Lady Margery might not permit it,” I said.
“She would if Lady Petronilla asked. I’ve heard my wife speak of one of Lady Margery’s maids as having great skill with needle and thread. What if Lady Petronilla should ask for the woman to be sent to her chamber tomorrow, to mend some garment?”
“Lady Margery would smell a rat. Lady Petronilla has servants as skilled as any who wait upon Lady Margery, sure
ly.”
“Hmmm… aye, probably so. You do not wish to speak privily to one of Lady Margery’s maids, then?”
“Aye, I do. ’Tis a worthy thought. But how might it be arranged?”
“I’ll arrest one of ’em,” Sir Roger said.
“On what charge?” Lord Gilbert asked.
“Your silver was stolen, was it not? We know of it, and Walter, and the Lady Anne, Humphrey and Andrew also, but who else? I’ll send a sergeant to Lady Margery and have ’im seize one of her servants. What are their names? Which do you think most pliant?”
“Lady Petronilla would know who serves Lady Margery.” Lord Gilbert turned to his wife, who had, to this time, had no part of our conversation, but had listened intently. I believe there were events of the Battle of Poitiers she knew not of ’til that day.
“The youngest of Lady Margery’s maids is Isobel Guesclin. She might speak more readily than some, though I would be sorry to see her frightened in such a way. She is a shy, sweet young lass.”
“I’ll have my sergeant say only that she was seen near the screens passage the day the silver went missing, and Master Hugh wishes to ask if she saw any man lurking about the place.”
“She may deny being near the pantry,” Lord Gilbert said. “My sergeant will say that’s as may be, but he is to obey me an’ take her to Master Hugh an’ she can tell all to him.”
I could think of no reason to dismiss this subterfuge, other than the fright the maid Isobel might feel. And that would be brief.
“Tell your sergeant to bring the woman to the chamber off the hall. I will await her there.”
“Do be kind, Master Hugh,” Lady Petronilla said.
“You may trust my discretion.”
The chamber I spoke of was my own when I first came to Bampton to serve Lord Gilbert as his bailiff and surgeon to the town. A table, bench, and chair remained in the room. I moved the table and chair aside and placed the bench in the middle of the room, where slanting beams from the evening sun would illuminate whoever sat upon it.
Sir Roger’s sergeant, the pale lass beside him, appeared but a moment after I had completed rearranging the chamber. Evidently neither the maid nor Lady Margery made serious objection to the young woman being drawn away to be questioned.