by Mel Starr
Rakes and ropes are common enough about a castle marshalsea, so it was not long before the page appeared, rake over one shoulder and rope coiled over the other.
“Do you see yon piece of wood floating there in the moat?”
“Aye,” the lad replied.
“Tie the rope to the rake, then cast it out and draw the thing to the bank.”
The page set about this work, and at the third cast of the rake succeeded in bringing the object close enough to shore that, with me holding him by one hand, he was able to lean over the moat and lift the thing from the water. He handed the rounded block to me gingerly, coated as it was with some of the foul stuff found floating in a moat. Some castles of the older sort are surrounded by moats containing filth from the garderobes, which drain into them. The garderobes of Bampton Castle are not so constructed, for which I was much relieved as I examined the circular wooden object I held before me.
It was actually not round, more a rounded oblong, and had once, I think, been square, or nearly so. Someone had carved edges away with a blade so that what once had been a cube was now pear-like in shape and of near the same size. Where the stem of a pear would be I saw a hole, about half the size of my little fingernail in diameter. Was this indentation accidental to the object’s purpose, or was it significant to the intended use?
Along one side of the object I saw a line of smaller holes, four in number, as if some man had driven a row of tacks into the thing, then removed them.
I carried yet in my pouch the bodkin used, so I believed, to slay Sir Henry whilst he slept. I drew it from my pouch and attempted to fit the blunt end into the hole in the carved ball. It fit quite well, and I was able to push the thin iron rod deep into the wood. Was this coincidence, or did I now hold in my hand the completed weapon with which one man slew another?
If this was the weapon used to murder Sir Henry, it seemed possible to me that each part, the bodkin and the wooden brace, had first some other use, and was modified to do evil. If I could discover their original service I might find who had turned them to murder.
I had already tried to uncover the origin of the bodkin, with no success. Perhaps I would have better luck with the wooden knob.
Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger had likely retired to the solar after dinner, and I might there have sought their opinion of the object I had taken from the fetid water of the moat. I decided not to disturb them when I had only more questions, but no answers. Perhaps I should have done so. I might have learned its original purpose sooner.
The day had turned gloomy and as I stood before the drawbridge a light mist began to fall. The page had coiled his damp rope and awaited further instruction. I sent him back to his work at the marshalsea and turned to Mill Street and my home. I had become weary of my quest for a murderer, and I knew from experience that an hour or two with my Kate and Bessie would improve my ill humor.
The sun which had warmed the morning ride with Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger was now hidden behind low clouds. The mist which drove me from the castle moat soon became a gentle rain. I did not hesitate at Shill Brook to gaze into the water, but hastened to Galen House. The bell atop the tower of St Beornwald’s Church rang for nones as I approached my door.
Rain had brought a chill to the afternoon, so I was pleased to be able to draw a bench beside the fire and steam myself dry while Kate stirred the pease pottage which would be our supper. No pork flavored the bland meal, for ’twas a fast day. I drew the pear-shaped lump of wood from my pouch, told my spouse where I had found it, and gave her my opinion of its purpose.
Kate took the thing delicately in her fingertips, as if it was yet bloody from use, and examined it in silence.
“The bodkin was fixed to this hole?” she asked, pointing to the cavity drilled into the end of the knob.
“Aye, so I believe. If not to this piece of wood, then to another very much like it.”
“Why not throw the bodkin and wood into the moat together?” Kate asked.
“I have asked myself the same question. When the murderer thrust the iron into Sir Henry’s ear the bodkin would have been forced against the wood and deep into the knob, but when the felon attempted to draw the point from Sir Henry’s skull it was likely loosened from the wooden base. The bodkin was not fixed to the wood, so when the point entered Sir Henry’s ear it was caught there and remained when the murderer tried to pull it free.”
“If so, how did the felon free it from Sir Henry’s ear?” Kate asked.
“’Twas not held so fast as it would have been had it been driven through another place in the skull. There is an opening in the bone within the ear, and a man’s skull is weaker there.”
“Oh,” Kate said with a wrinkled lip. “A woman’s also, I presume?”
“Aye. For all of our differences, for which much thanks to God, we are much alike.”
Kate looked to the floor, where Bessie played with a wooden spoon, and spoke again. “Our differences will become plain soon. Bessie will have a sister or brother come Candlemas.”
“I have guessed as much,” I admitted.
Kate seemed disappointed. Her brow furrowed. “How so?” she asked.
“You take little or nothing to break your fast,” I said. “And last Friday I heard you retching in the toft when I departed for the castle.”
“Oh… I thought to surprise you with the news. You are pleased?”
“Indeed so.”
“I had forgot,” Kate continued, “that you are a bailiff and ’tis your business to bring hidden things to light.”
“’Tis a gloomy business, and one I sometimes wish to abandon.”
Kate was startled into silence for a time. “What would we do, if you did so?” she finally said.
“Return to Oxford. I have some reputation there as a competent surgeon. If enough folk do themselves harm I might keep the wolf from our door. And we would have the rent from your dowry house.”
“I have grown fond of Galen House,” Kate said, “and Bampton, also. Could you not find enough custom here?”
“I think not. If I surrender my post as Lord Gilbert’s bailiff but remain in Bampton I fear we will soon be paupers.”
“Perhaps your melancholy will pass.”
“If I discover who did murder in Bampton Castle my spirits will improve, I think, but each day which passes seems to take me farther from a resolution, not nearer.”
“I find,” Kate said, “that on such a dreary day my mood is often as low as the clouds. Perhaps the sun will appear tomorrow and improve your humor.”
“I wish it may be so.”
We sat in silence for a time, then Kate returned to the subject of the knob and bodkin.
“You think the felon wished you or Sir Roger to find evidence of a squire’s guilt, so kept the bodkin to serve the purpose, but cast away the wooden part of the tool?”
“Aye. But why not leave both parts where they might be found? It may be that the knob points more to the murderer than the bodkin does, and that is why the felon cast it away. If I can discover where it came from I may be on the trail of the murderer.”
In truth my disposition began to recover at that moment, for Bessie had tired of counting her toes and toddled to my knee, begging to be held. I approved her request and spent the next hour jabbering with my daughter, escaping all thoughts of murder, and enjoying the warmth of the fire. Did I really wish to give up my post and my place in Bampton because of the vexation I felt at not yet discovering who had slain Sir Henry? By the time Kate ladled our supper into bowls and set them upon our table I was ready to return to the search for a murderer. Perhaps it is a duty of children, although they know it not, to cheer their parents with the simplicity of a childlike joy and trust.
I brought a bucket of water from the well, and after Kate washed our bowls, nursed Bessie, and took her to bed, we sat together on the bench enjoying what warmth remained upon the hearth. The rain had ceased, but drops lingered upon the glass of our windows, and the cloudy evening grew
dark early.
“When I think that I have sorted out the trail of evidence leading to Sir Henry’s murder,” I complained, “some new event or clue comes to muddle the business.”
“And I know you well,” Kate said. “You wish things to be orderly, tied up in neat bundles.”
“Aye, but life is oft a muddle. I get my bundles knotted and tidy and someone comes by and cuts the cord and all is in disarray again.”
“Perhaps such folk are the Lord Christ’s tool to keep us from thinking too highly of our accomplishments. We need to see our plans and the things we have achieved laid waste so as to keep us humble.”
“If so, the Lord Christ has achieved His purpose. I am no nearer discovering Sir Henry’s murderer than when I was first summoned to the castle last Wednesday. Each day I fail to find the felon serves to increase my humility and thereby improve my standing before the Lord Christ.”
Kate’s brow furrowed. “Does failure then bring us closer to God than success? Does the Lord Christ not wish you to prevail over a felon?”
I thought upon her words for some time before I replied. “The Lord Christ wishes men to attain success, I think, so long as their desires accord with His will. But if a man reaches his goal and is convinced his own competence is responsible for the achievement, he will not likely seek the Lord Christ in humility, nor share with Him other men’s praise.”
“So failure is better for the soul than success?” Kate asked.
“Depends upon the soul,” I replied. “If a man blunders at all he does, will he not soon lose heart? How then can he achieve any success, for himself or anyone else?”
“So then ’tis best for a man to sometimes succeed, and sometimes fail?”
“Aye. For life in this world success is necessary, but for assurance of life with the Lord Christ in heaven, some failure, and the abasement it brings, is perhaps needful. There are few prideful men in heaven, I think.”
“Is the Lord Christ teaching you humility and preparing your soul for heaven because you have not yet discovered a felon?”
“Mayhap it is too soon to say. But I must learn to be content, after I have done my best, whether I succeed in some matter or fail. I must do my work, without allowing it to disturb the peace of my soul. The Lord Christ commands that we serve others, but I must not forget Him whilst I do so.”
“You have come near to that?” Kate asked.
“Aye, but you and Bessie have reminded me of my duty.”
“Duty to the Lord Christ or duty to men?”
“Is there a difference? I am thinking that a responsibility to one is a responsibility to both.”
“It is your duty to God, then, to find who has slain Sir Henry… and a duty to Sir Henry, also, though he is not here to appreciate your effort?”
“Aye, as you say. And a duty to the Lady Margery and Lady Anne as well.”
“Unless one was a party to the murder,” Kate said.
“Even then, for if the sin goes undiscovered the guilty may never seek forgiveness of the Lord Christ, and imperil their soul because of my malfeasance.”
“You will save the felon by discovering who ’tis and sending him to the gallows?”
“Aye. Strange as it may seem, the felon who goes undiscovered may be in greater peril than the one who is found out, if not in this world, then surely in the next. The man whose sin is revealed, and who faces the noose, has time and a strong goad to acknowledge his felony before the Lord Christ and seek His pardon, but he whose offense remains hidden may never appeal to the Lord Christ for His grace.”
The embers upon the hearth had burned down to a faint glow, as eventually did our discourse. Kate and I sat silently upon the bench as darkness came upon the town, and only reluctantly did I break the spell and suggest we seek our bed.
Tuesday dawned as bleak as Monday eve, so cloudy and grey that even Kate’s rooster seemed uncertain of the time and produced but a half-hearted call to proclaim the new day. He need not have troubled himself. I awoke when Bessie announced that she wished to break her fast, and although Kate must deal with the demand, my thoughts kept me from renewing slumber even though there was but a hint of dawn in the eastern sky.
I lay warm under the blanket and considered the events of the past six days while Kate placed Bessie back in her bed and departed our bedchamber. I listened to Kate begin the day, and tried to order my thoughts so as to find some pattern in events which would point to a murderer. I was not successful, and Bessie began to stir again in her cot, so I climbed from my bed, dressed myself, and carried Bessie to the stairs.
The morning Angelus Bell had rung some time past, but I was in no hurry to begin the day. I lingered over my morning loaf and ale, considering and then discarding one measure for discovering a felon after another. I could not decide how I would proceed this day, when a thumping upon Galen House door took the matter from my hands.
’Twas John Chamberlain who again found me with my mouth full of maslin loaf. I saw in his eyes that some great matter troubled him and soon discovered my conjecture true.
“’Tis Sir John,” he said. “His page took him a loaf and ale this morning to break his fast and found him dead. All bloody he is, too. His wound opened in the night. Lord Gilbert would have you come. Nothing to be done for the man, but you should see what has happened.”
I suspected immediately that murder had been done again in Bampton Castle, for the wound across Sir John’s ribs which I had stitched closed Sunday afternoon was not likely to reopen, nor was it deep enough to cause a man to bleed to death if it did so. I kept my thoughts to myself, downed the last of my ale, gathered a pouch of instruments should I find that some were needed, and followed John into the mud of Church View Street. Rain had begun to fall again.
Somber faces greeted me in the castle hall. Sir John may have had a temper – what knight does not? – but from the leaden expressions I saw upon the faces of members of Sir Henry’s household, I believe the knight was esteemed.
I followed the chamberlain through the hall to the passage which led to Sir John’s chamber. Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger greeted me at the chamber door and I saw immediately that at least a part of what John had said at Galen House door was true.
Sir John lay upon a mattress, soaked in blood from neck to knees. He had slept only in braes, and the linen was also sodden with gore.
“The wound you closed burst open in the night,” Lord Gilbert said. There was an accusation in his voice.
I did not immediately reply, but walked to the dead man and bent to examine the wound. The light was poor, but I could see no other wound than the one I had closed, and it was true that the cut I had stitched was now open, a half-dozen or more stitches ruptured.
I looked about the chamber and saw drops of blood upon the flags and even a few scattered low on the wall beside the bed.
“You think he was in pain in the night,” Lord Gilbert asked, “and thrashed about, undoing your work?”
“Nay,” I replied. “He was stabbed.”
“What? Who would do so? William? Surely it was but the thread you used which broke. Perhaps he twisted wrongly in his sleep.”
“Six or more stitches have been cut through, not broken.”
I searched in my pouch and brought from it the spool of silken thread I had used two days past to close Sir John’s laceration. From the spool I cut a length as long as my arm, gave it to Lord Gilbert, and invited him to break it. He wrapped it about his hands and yanked against the silk. The thread did not yield, but Lord Gilbert did. His mouth tightened in pain as the silk cut into his hands and he quickly relaxed his grip.
“Not easily broken,” he said with a grimace.
“You could pull against one end, and Sir Roger against the other, and the silk would likely not break. No man could toss upon his bed and break the silk, as you see. It was cut. Some man put a dagger into Sir John in the same place he was slashed, hoping all would believe he had died of the first wound, not of a second.”
Lord Gilbert looked from his tender hands to the floor and wall. “Why is blood so scattered about?”
“Fought for his life,” Sir Roger said. “Whoso did this thought that in his wounded condition ’twould be child’s play to drive a blade into him.”
“Sir Roger speaks true,” I said. “When I saw him yesterday he was mending well. William’s slash had weakened him but little.”
“Then whoso did this murder will be splashed with Sir John’s blood, eh?” Lord Gilbert said.
“Likely, though the felon will probably discard his apparel rather than send it to be laundered,” I said.
There would be no keeping this death or its cause hidden. Lady Margery, Lady Anne, Sir Geoffrey, Robert de Cobham, Walter, and several other valets and grooms to both Sir Henry and Lord Gilbert crowded the passageway outside the chamber door. Squire William was absent, which, given his falling out with Sir John two days past, caused Sir Roger to assume guilt.
“I told you,” he said to me, “that we should have seized that squire when we found the bodkin and bloody cloth in his chamber. We will do so now.”
Squire Robert heard the sheriff, as did all who clogged the passageway outside the chamber. “William did not do this murder,” Robert said.
“Oh?” Sir Roger replied. “Why do you say so?”
“William’s nose vexes him much. He could not sleep. I heard him tossing and groaning upon his bed and could find no rest myself, so I arose and lighted a cresset and sat with William all the night.”
“All the night? ’Til dawn?”
“Aye.”
“What did you speak of?”
“What young men commonly talk about… glory in battle and fair maids and such.”
“Where is William now?” Sir Roger demanded.
“In our chamber, resting, his eyes all black and his nose purple. I heard the fuss and came to see what it was about.”
“Come,” Sir Roger said to Lord Gilbert and me, “we’ll take this fellow back to his chamber and seek a bloody cotehardie. I’ll wager both came here to slay Sir John. One held him down and the other delivered the thrust.”