by Mel Starr
“What then?”
“They who set upon us were not content to drive us off. Their blood was up, and all the grievances of the Statute of Laborers which they had borne for many years incited them. They sought to slay us.”
“The commons are resentful of the Statute of Laborers,” I agreed. “But you escaped?”
“Aye. Sir John was knocked about when a man caught him across the ear with a stave, but we fled safely enough.”
“Without Walter’s cousin.”
“Aye. Sir Henry would have sent us back for him, but ’twas no use. Arnald was sore wounded and died next day, so we heard.”
“Did William and Robert accompany you when you went to seize Arnald?”
“Aye, they did. ’Twas likely William who ran ’im through.”
“Who else of Sir Henry’s household knows of this?”
“Don’t know.”
“Did you speak of it to Lady Margery?”
“Nay.”
I began to see what Walter had done, and why he had done it. He wished Sir Henry dead for the penalties he had inflicted upon his father and the murder of his cousin, honest men seeking to better themselves. When I sent crushed lettuce seeds to aid Sir Henry’s sleep the valet had given his lord a larger measure than called for, probably hoping the dose would end Sir Henry’s life.
Some time in the night he had crept back to Sir Henry’s chamber to learn if the potion had done the work he intended. It had not. So Walter fell back upon an earlier scheme: the bodkin through Sir Henry’s ear. My sleeping draught was but a coincidence, and an aid to a murder Walter had likely already planned.
The valet trusted that his felony would not be discovered, but if it was, hoped that some other man might be assumed guilty. Thus the note under Sir Roger’s door. Perhaps Walter knew that it was William’s thrust which had mortally wounded his cousin, so hid the awl and bloody linen in his chamber in hope that William would be implicated in Sir Henry’s death. Mayhap Walter thought that Sir Geoffrey and the squires would be accused of plotting together against Sir Henry, for they had all been involved in the attempt to return Arnald to Sir Henry’s lands, and Walter would have wished calamity upon them all.
Sir John’s death was not planned, I thought, until the fight with William left him wounded and less able to defend himself. And as neither of the squires nor Sir Geoffrey had yet been accused of Sir Henry’s murder, Walter saw a way to slay Sir John and have the sheriff and King’s Eyre do away with William.
The stolen silver and portpain, I was convinced, had nothing to do with murder, but the coincidence of their theft at such a time had served to complicate matters and draw me down unproductive paths.
From a distance I heard the bell sound to call us to our dinner. I looked to Sir Geoffrey and nodded toward the chamber door, then led him to the corridor. He followed, and closed the heavy door behind him.
As this was a fast day, no meat, eggs, or cheese were served. The first remove was stewed herring, sole in cyve, and boiled plaice. For the second remove there was charlet of cod, and roasted salmon in spiced sauce. For the third remove the cook presented cyueles, crispels, mushroom tarts, and a fruit and salmon pie. For the subtlety there was pears in compost. It is sometimes difficult to enjoy such a meal when I know that my Kate is home in Galen House consuming a pease pottage with no pork to flavor the dish. Well, some discomfort must be accepted to do the work Lord Gilbert asks of me.
Walter’s place near the foot of a side table was vacant. Sir Geoffrey saw this also, and gave me a knowing glance as Lord Gilbert’s chaplain said a prayer for the meal and the valets served the first remove. Those who sat low at the tables received only some of the stewed herring with their stockfish and maslin loaves.
There was another empty chair at dinner this day. Lady Petronilla’s place was vacant. I am a surgeon, not a physician, but I thought it likely that Lord Gilbert would soon approach me regarding his wife’s indisposition.
I was eager for the meal to end, to learn if my ruse was successful. No one, of course, could leave the hall until Lord Gilbert indicated that the meal was done by rising from his place. This he did without lingering over the subtlety, perhaps concerned for his wife.
As soon as Lord Gilbert stood I glanced to Sir Geoffrey, nodded toward the stairs, and left my place at the head of a side table. On my way to the stairs I passed behind Arthur, tapped the groom upon his shoulder, and bid him accompany me. A bailiff almost never gets in trouble by having too much muscle to enforce his authority.
The three of us approached Sir Geoffrey’s chamber and found the door closed as when the knight and I had left it an hour and more past. I waited for Sir Geoffrey to enter his chamber, then followed and went straight to the chest.
We had approached the room in silence, so Arthur knew nothing of my plot or why he was brought to the place. He stood at the door, unwilling to enter a gentleman’s private space, and waited with a puzzled expression upon his broad face.
Sir Geoffrey stood aside and allowed me to lift the lid to his chest. Nothing there seemed amiss. All was as I had left it. The book of hours lay upon the two folded kirtles, in the same place it had been when I last saw it. At the other end of the chest was Sir Geoffrey’s fine cotehardie, also folded neatly, as it was before we took dinner. The knight saw these things also.
“All is as it was. No man has been in my chest, I think.”
“We will be sure,” I replied, and began lifting out garments, book, shoes, and boots. At the bottom of the chest, beneath Sir Geoffrey’s riding boots, was folded his extra pair of braes. This garment seemed rather bulky. I lifted it from the chest and as it unfolded another cloth fell from it which had not been in that place in the morning. A bloodstained kirtle had been wrapped in the braes.
Sir Geoffrey looked upon the garment silently as I lifted it from the depths of his chest, then finally spoke. “’Twas Walter, then.”
“Aye. This is surely his kirtle, placed here while we dined, to incriminate you. ’Tis of linen, as you might wear. I suspect it once belonged to Sir Henry, and Walter put it to his own use now that Sir Henry has no need of the garment. You return to the hall, or seek Lord Gilbert in the solar. Lady Petronilla is unwell, so he may be attending her in her apartments. I will take Arthur to confront Walter. You need have no part in the business. You may replace your goods in the chest. I will take this kirtle with me.”
I folded the stained garment and placed it inside my cotehardie, under my arm, where no man could see it, then turned from the chamber and bid Arthur follow. The fellow needed to know what we were about to do, so I stopped in the corridor to quickly explain what he had just seen.
He nodded understanding, then spoke. “Cicily ain’t herself, either. Heard you say Lady Petronilla’s unwell. I know you ain’t a physician, but mayhap you could call an’ see what ails ’er?”
I promised to do so, and we then descended to the lower level and sought the cramped chamber where Sir Henry’s valets and grooms had bedded for the last month. Walter expected me. He was seated on a bed, and stood quickly to his feet when I entered the room. He did not wait for me to speak, but blurted out his news.
“’Twas as you thought,” he said. “There is at the bottom of Sir Geoffrey’s chest a kirtle spotted with blood, wrapped in braes so as to not be found.”
“’Tis no longer there,” I said, and drew the garment from under my arm.
“Ah,” the valet said, “you have already discovered it. Have you seized Sir Geoffrey?”
“Nay. I have come to charge you with the murder of Sir John Peverel and see to it that you are taken to the dungeon.”
“What? Not so! I did but as you asked of me.”
“I did not ask you to place this kirtle in Sir Geoffrey’s chest.”
“I found it there, while all other castle folk were in the hall, at dinner.”
“Not so. I inspected Sir Geoffrey’s chest before dinner. This kirtle was not amongst his possessions then, but was an
hour later. Who else could have hid it there? All but you were in the hall.”
I reached out a hand and pulled Walter’s cap from his head. He had artfully coiled his liripipe so as to cover an ear. There was a small scabbed wound where his left earlobe should have been. I was sure that under the collar of his cotehardie I might find a scratch made by Sir John’s fingernail.
Walter attempted a brave front, but he was not skilled at deception. His jaw hung slack and his eyes darted about the chamber as if seeking some heretofore undiscovered means of escape.
“I am told that your father is a smith.”
Walter made no reply, but his mouth opened and closed as a trout drawn from Shill Brook and laid upon the bank.
“Was it he who made this bodkin?” I said, and drew the implement from my pouch. I would be pleased to no longer need to carry the thing about. One day the sharpened end of the tool had punched through the leather of my pouch and poked my wrist. I do not mind having upon my person blades and such with which I may help injured folk to mend, but this bodkin was used for an evil purpose and I would be glad to be rid of it.
“Did you tell him what use you had planned for it?”
“Nay,” he blurted. “Me father knew nothing of it. He bears no fault in this.”
“You had it in mind to slay Sir Henry before you came here, is this not so? Did you begin to plot before your cousin’s death, or was it not ’til after that the notion came to you?”
Walter sat heavily upon the bed. “Wanted only to better ’imself, did Arnald,” he said. “Sir Henry’d not reduce rents, him bein’ so bad off, an’ a Commissioner of Laborers as well, so Arnald took ’is wife an’ children to take up a yardland of Sir Jocelyn Parrott. Arnald not bein’ a villein, there was nothin’ Sir Henry could do to stop ’im goin’. Right bitter Sir Henry was, too.”
“He would not consider reduced rent to keep the man upon his lands?”
“Nay. An’ he knew well enough that’s why Arnald was goin’ off to Sir Jocelyn. No man would pile ’is goods on a cart in January an’ travel to a new place lest there was good reason.”
“How did Sir Henry learn what rent Arnald paid to Sir Jocelyn?”
“Don’t know. Sir Henry had spies, though. Paid folks a part of the fine if they’d tell ’im of them what was violating the Statute of Laborers.”
“I am told that Sir Henry came here to Bampton to escape a plot against him.”
“Aye,” Walter said through thin lips. “Some of the lads had too much ale an’ William overheard ’em makin’ plans. Was it not for ’im, Sir Henry’d have been dealt with right proper an’ I’d not have to…”
The valet fell silent for a moment, then spoke again. “Sheriff’ll hang me, won’t he?”
“Aye. You have confessed to me. And I have evidence now to convict you of Sir John’s murder even if you had kept silent. The King’s Eyre will have no sympathy for your excuse. The judges are men of property and endorse the Statute of Laborers. The court will require my witness, and I will tell what I have learned and what you have said. You must prepare yourself to meet the Lord Christ.”
Walter looked to his feet. “S’pose I always knew things might turn out this way. What would you ’ave done was your kin slain for seekin’ to better ’imself an’ care for ’is babes? An’ your father fined for chargin’ a decent price for ’is work?”
I did not reply. I feared my answer.
“I have heard of a Commissioner of Laborers who was discharged when King Edward was told of his malfeasance,” I said instead.
“Hah. He was probably not sendin’ the King ’is proper share. So long as the King gets ’is coin he’ll not much care what becomes of a tenant with but a yardland to ’is name.”
It would have been impolitic for me to agree with a felon’s assessment of his sovereign, so I bit my tongue and made no reply. I do not know much of the King but that he is advanced in years and not well and enjoys the company of a lady named Alice, but I suspect that Walter spoke true. This may be treasonous, but I write for my own remembrance. It is unlikely that the King or his officers will plumb the depths of my chest to seek the gatherings upon which I write of the death of Sir Henry Burley and Sir John Peverel.
I turned to Arthur. “Take Walter to the dungeon, then tell the marshalsea that I will need Bruce and two palfreys tomorrow morning. We will take Walter to Sir Roger… you will accompany me.”
Arthur did not seem much pleased about this new duty. Perhaps he thought of Cicily and her indisposition. But he tugged a forelock, reached out a meaty hand for Walter’s arm, and lifted the downcast fellow to his feet. I would be melancholy also if I saw in my future a dungeon, unsympathetic judges, and providing entertainment for the young scholars of Oxford as I did the sheriff’s dance.
I found Lord Gilbert and Sir Geoffrey in the solar. The knight had told my employer of how matters stood, for when I entered the chamber Lord Gilbert stood and congratulated me.
“I have sent Walter to the dungeon in Arthur’s care,” I said. “We will take him to Oxford tomorrow. He may await the King’s Eyre under Sir Roger’s authority.”
“Well done, Master Hugh. Well done. Sir Roger would have taken the squire to his dungeon to await the judges.”
“Or Sir Geoffrey,” I said. “Perhaps this business will influence the next Commissioner of Laborers appointed for Bedford to deal more wisely with the commons, and gentlemen, who run afoul of the statute. Walter will hang, but that will bring no satisfaction to Sir Henry Burley.”
I said this for the benefit of Sir Geoffrey, who, I was certain, hoped to move shortly into the office, and matrimonial place, of his deceased lord.
I departed the castle feeling oddly unsatisfied. It was while I paused upon the bridge over Shill Brook that the reason for this ennui came to me. What of the portpain? Most of the portpain had been in Lady Margery’s possession. Had she taken it from the pantry, or had Lady Anne? If Lady Margery stole the portpain, when and why did Walter come to have a part of it when he slew Sir Henry? And if Walter was the thief, how did most of the linen cloth come into Lady Margery’s possession? Gazing into Shill Brook provided no answers.
I turned from the calming stream and returned to the castle. Wilfred seemed surprised to see me return, but men in his position are not to question the coming and going of their betters. The porter tugged a forelock and turned from me as if uninterested in what I was about. Perhaps he really had no interest in my return.
Bampton Castle dungeon lies beneath the buttery, at the base of a narrow, dark, stone stairway. Moisture gathers there in the summer, and the place is clammy with mosses. ’Tis an unpleasant place to be, as is proper. If a man has behaved in some lamentable fashion it is appropriate that he find himself in uncomfortable circumstance, the better to consider the felony which brought him there.
Two timbers, hinged on one side and dropped into a niche in the stone on the other, fastened shut the door to Walter’s cell. There was, at the level of my collar, a small window in the door. I opened it and bent to peer into the cell. Walter was not visible, for the dungeon was illuminated by only a small, barred opening in the upper wall opposite the door.
Walter must have heard the small door open, for a moment later his face, apprehension in his eyes, appeared before me. This window was small, barely larger than the palm of my hand. Large enough to pass a loaf, a cup, or a small bowl of gruel through to the cell’s inhabitant, but no larger.
Only a portion of my face would have been visible to the valet, and that in shadow, so he did not know who peered at him through the small hatch. Perhaps he thought some groom was bringing him a loaf. He was soon disabused of this notion, if he’d entertained it. He recognized my voice when I spoke.
“The portpain,” I said. “Did you steal it from the pantry, or did Lady Margery?”
Walter stared at me for some time, looked away once, then, without speaking, disappeared from my view to a corner of his cell. I heard what sounded like a body sliding do
wn the stones of the wall, and a sigh as his haunches reached the filthy rushes.
“You,” I repeated, “or the Lady Margery, or some other? Lady Anne, perhaps?”
There was no reply.
“Why will you not answer? You can face no more severe penalty, so speak. If ’twas you took Lord Gilbert’s portpain, what did you think? That you could sell the linen in Bedford when you returned there?”
Walter still made no reply.
“It must be, then, that Lady Margery stole the portpain. If ’twas you,” I said, “you would have no reason to keep silent. But as you will die for your murders, you think to save Lady Margery, I think. Considerate of you, to protect the lady. Of course, the act will cost you little. But I wonder why she gave you a portion of the stolen linen. Did she know the use you intended for it? All know that Lady Margery was displeased with Sir Henry.”
I heard Walter stand and move through the rushes. A moment later his face appeared through the open hatch.
“Lady Margery found I’d taken the portpain an’ demanded it of me. Said she’d find some way to return what remained of it before ’twas known to be missing.”
“Why did you not say so?”
This explanation was unsatisfactory. Lady Margery had not been angry with Lady Anne for stealing Lord Gilbert’s silver, but rather had been cross with her stepdaughter for being found out. Why, then, would she demand that Walter return a stolen portpain, a thing of much less value than stolen silver? Because he was but a valet, and not high-born?
“So you gave her the portpain, but only after you had used a fragment to wipe away Sir Henry’s blood?”
“Aye,” he sighed, “as you say.”
“And did Lady Margery guess the use to which part of the portpain had been put?”
“Nay.”
My mind traveled back to the day Lady Margery had seen the felonious bodkin in my hand when she left the hall, and the startled expression upon her face. Reading faces is not my greatest skill. Perhaps I got it wrong. Perhaps ’twas fear I saw there. But of what could she have been fearful? Had she been in league with Walter? If some scrap of cloth had been needed to soak away Sir Henry’s blood, could they not have used some fragment brought from Bedford?