Rest Not in Peace (The Chronicles of Hugh De Singleton, Surgeon #6)

by Mel Starr

  To have done so might have risked the fabric – if it was discovered, or used to incriminate some other, such as William – being identified as from Sir Henry’s household. There was risk, of course, in stealing goods from Bampton Castle’s pantry, but perhaps the hazard seemed less.

  “They,” I had said to myself. Walter had said he acted alone, but my inclination was to think otherwise. Lady Margery had accused me and the lettuce-seed potion of causing Sir Henry’s death. Was this because she genuinely believed me guilty of malfeasance, or because she wished to turn suspicion from Walter, and thereby from herself? A lady cannot be accused of having a part in her husband’s murder on the suspicion of a mere bailiff. If Lady Margery connived in Sir Henry’s death I would need more than conjecture to accuse her.

  Chivalry is for gentlemen, not the commons, but although I questioned Walter sharply through the hatch in his cell door, he would say no word which might imply Lady Margery’s complicity in his deed. Eventually he moved away from the door to the invisible corner of his cell and I once again heard him sit heavily in the moldy rushes. I could get no other word from him. Either the Lady Margery had nothing to do with her husband’s death, or Walter would protect her from the penalty of her deed. If ’twas the last, doing so would cost him nothing. A man cannot hang twice.

  I did not hesitate at the bridge over Shill Brook as I walked to my home. Perhaps I feared some new complicating revelation which contemplating the stream might bring to my thoughts.

  Bessie heard the door of Galen House swing open, lifted herself to hands and feet, then gained enough balance that she could totter to me. A wide smile creased her face.

  I noted how her hair, now growing in more thickly, was becoming like Kate’s in color. I pray her nose will be like Kate’s as well, rather than like mine.

  Kate had been in the toft, but came through the rear door to see me lift Bessie, and so joined in the embrace.

  My wife stood back, gazed upon me and Bessie, then spoke. “You have had good success this day, eh?”

  I have never been able to conceal my thoughts and sentiments from Kate. Not that I’ve ever had much reason or need to do so. Perhaps the ability to construe a husband’s thoughts is a gift from the Lord Christ. To men God has given muscles and strength. To women, to make up for the lack, He has given discernment. What, then, of Lady Margery and Lady Anne? Mayhap my speculation was foolishness.

  Kate set before me a simple supper of porre of peas and maslin loaf, but I ate little, partly because I had dined well at the castle a few hours earlier, and partly because Kate could not resist questioning me of the day’s events and the conclusion of the matter of the deaths of Sir Henry Burley and Sir John Peverel.

  “The valet will hang?” Kate said when I had done.

  “No doubt. Arthur and I will take him to Sir Roger on the morrow. I will be called to testify before the King’s Eyre when it next meets.”

  “And your words will doom the man.”

  “Aye. ’Tis a sorry business I am called to do, but Walter could have avoided this end.”

  “Likely he could see no other way to find justice for his cousin,” Kate said.

  “Probably. We must pray that his soul be mended and some priest in Oxford will absolve him of his sins so he may see heaven’s gates open to receive him.”

  “May it be so,” Kate said softly.

  Kate nursed Bessie until she fell to sleep, then took her to her cradle. While she did so I drew a bench to the toft and awaited her return. While in our sleeping chamber on the upper floor of Galen House Kate had undone her hair, so when she joined me in the toft it fell below her shoulders as it had done when first I saw her at her father’s stationer’s shop in Oxford.

  The setting sun cast long shadows across the toft, and caused Kate’s hair to glisten, the color of an oak leaf in autumn. We sat upon the bench, bathed in the warmth of the setting sun, until the shadows brought a chill to the toft and drove us to our bed.

  I broke my fast next morn with a loaf and cheese. ’Tis a long way to Oxford. I found Bruce and two other horses saddled and waiting when I arrived at the castle. Arthur awaited me, and I told him to bring Walter to the marshalsea and when he was mounted upon his beast to bind his hands to the pommel. While Arthur completed this task I sought Lord Gilbert and found him entering his chapel. His face was somber.

  “I am off to Oxford with Walter,” I said.

  “Arthur accompanies you?”

  “Aye. We’ll return tomorrow. What of Lady Margery?”

  “She will leave this day. Her grooms are harnessing runcies to her cart as we speak. She will join me to hear prayers for Lady Petronilla, break her fast, and then set off.”

  “Lady Petronilla has not recovered?”

  “Nay. She grows worse. Her flesh is hot, and her head aches so badly she cannot bear light, but will have her windows covered. And upon her leg is a purple bruise the size of my hand, as if she’d kicked a chair leg.”

  These symptoms brought me disquiet, but I did not voice my worry to Lord Gilbert, whose anxiety for his lady was great enough already.

  “Have you a potion which can ease her pain?” he continued.

  “Aye. I will ask John Chamberlain to accompany me when I set out for Oxford. We will pass by Galen House and I will prepare a potion. He can return with it.”

  Arthur and Walter were mounted and ready when John and I approached the marshalsea. The chamberlain walked behind to Galen House, where I bid him enter with me. Kate was surprised at my reappearance. I had told her that I would seek lodging with her father this night, and return on the morrow. I briefly explained my return while I went to my chest and drew from it two potent physics: the crushed seeds and root of hemp, and the ground root of monk’s hood.

  Monk’s hood is a powerful poison, but if used in small amounts can relieve pain and reduce fever. If too much of the stuff is consumed the pain and fever will end forever. It is a dangerous plant, and must be employed only when a sufferer is in great peril. I had not seen Lady Petronilla in her distress, but the symptoms Lord Gilbert described brought me much apprehension. If her illness was what I suspected, the monk’s hood would create no more danger than she already endured, and might ease the agony which would soon come to her.

  I measured out the hemp and monk’s hood carefully and placed the herbs into separate vials. To John I gave instructions on how much of these palliatives might be safely given to Lady Petronilla, then kissed my Kate a second farewell and mounted Bruce for the journey to Oxford.

  We were not yet to Cote when Arthur mentioned again that Cicily was feeling unwell, and he was worried that whatever illness had befallen Lady Petronilla might have come nigh her. I did not wish to cause the fellow worry, so did not tell him of my suspicions regarding the Lady Petronilla, but this news made the journey even more burdensome.

  Tenants and villeins were busy at their labor as we passed. Men were at work digging and cleaning ditches, children and their mothers were busy cutting weeds from pea and bean fields, and in Cote the lord’s sheep were being sheared. Walter gazed intently at these scenes, as well he might, for he would not likely see such again.

  Sir Roger would not hear of me seeking lodging in any other place. Arthur was sent, after dinner, to the dormitory where Oxford Castle grooms and sergeants are quartered, and I was taken to a chamber in the sheriff’s private quarters. The King’s Eyre, Sir Roger said, would convene on St Benedict’s Day. I should think the judges will hear Walter’s case then, or surely next day. The day after that he will be taken to Green Ditch, a field north of Holywell Street, and there hang for his felonies.

  I made arrangements to return to give testimony at Walter’s trial, then walked to Holywell Street to visit my father-in-law. Some years past I had removed a splinter of wood from his back which had penetrated under his ribs when he fell from a ladder, and for this service he offered to supply me with ink and parchment when I wished to record incidents which enliven a bailiff’s otherwise
tedious existence. Had he known then of the frequency with which intriguing events would enter my life, he might have reconsidered the offer.

  Robert Caxton refused my coin. He said good news of another grandchild to be, and the health of the one which was, was payment enough. I returned to Bampton with a fresh pot of ink and four gatherings, upon which this account is written.

  Arthur and I entered Bampton next day in a soaking rain. I was much pleased to see the spire of the Church of St Beornwald appear through the downpour. I dismounted just inside the castle gatehouse, intending to leave Arthur with the returning of our beasts to the marshalsea. My intent was to return to Galen House, a warm fire, and dry clothes. But Wilfred appeared as we passed under the portcullis, with word that Lord Gilbert was anxious for me to attend him, and I was to be told this as soon as I returned from Oxford.

  I found my employer in the solar, having only then arrived from the hall and his dinner. I do not think he ate well. His face was ashen and he stumbled when he stood from his chair beside the fire when I entered the chamber.

  “Ah, Hugh, I am much pleased for your return. Come, stand here close by the fire to dry yourself. Lady Petronilla is in a wretched state.”

  “Did the potion I sent with John Chamberlain provide no relief?”

  “Don’t know,” he said. “She did not say… she cannot say.”

  “Cannot?”

  “She sleeps, and will not be awakened.”

  “You must send to Oxford for a physician to come at once,” I said.

  “You are as skilled as any physician. What is to be done?”

  “I am a surgeon. An illness such as has afflicted Lady Petronilla requires a physician.”

  “Cicily is likewise afflicted, I am told, and a scullery maid,” Lord Gilbert said, “and three of the bishop’s tenants in the Weald are ill with a similar malady. A surgeon will serve as well as a physician, I fear.” He sighed and sank to his chair.

  “Why so?”

  “Since you departed for Oxford Lady Petronilla’s neck has become swollen and lumpish.”

  “These lumps are purple?” I asked, hoping he might say “Nay.”

  “Aye. You feared this yesterday, did you not?”

  “Aye, I did,” I admitted.

  “You wished to spare me, I know, so I do not hold your silence against you. But you see why I have not sent to Oxford for a physician. To what use would it be for the man to come here?”

  I did not reply. We both knew the answer. Plague had returned and Lady Petronilla must, if she was in her right mind, prepare to meet the Lord Christ.

  “Has she been shriven?” I asked.

  “Nay. I waited for your return, to confirm my suspicion. Will you look upon Lady Petronilla and see if aught may be done for her?”

  I agreed to do so, and followed Lord Gilbert as he stood from his chair and passed through a door at the end of the solar which led to a corridor. I had not before seen this private space. A door opened to the right, but Lord Gilbert passed it and entered a chamber off the end of the corridor.

  Three windows, even though they were shrouded, illuminated Lady Petronilla’s chamber. Fine tapestries, which she had perhaps helped to embroider, hung from the walls. Her eyes would enjoy them no more.

  Two of Lady Petronilla’s ladies attended her, and stood when they heard us approach. One of these women seemed unsteady, and put a hand to her forehead as she rose to her feet. Before them m’lady lay silent in her bed. Lord Gilbert turned to me, nodded to his motionless wife, and said, “What say you, Hugh? Is there no hope?”

  Lady Petronilla’s attendants backed away when I approached the bed. The base of her neck was dark and swollen as if over-ripe plums were there beneath the skin. I had tended William of Garstang seven years past when plague wasted his body. I knew that similar purpled lumps would be found at other, more private places upon her body.

  “You must send for your chaplain,” I said.

  “Might she recover? I have heard that some afflicted with plague do so,” Lord Gilbert said.

  I shook my head. “I have heard of this also. I have never met such a one, but I trust those physicians who say it may be so. Perhaps one of a hundred may return to health, or fewer. I cannot say.”

  Lady Petronilla died three days hence. Hers was but the first death in Bampton when plague returned to England for the third time.

  Petronilla Gilbert did indeed die in the late spring of 1368. The cause of her death is unknown, but it is true that plague returned to England in 1368–69, so I have taken the liberty of making that the cause of her death.

  Bampton Castle was, in the fourteenth century, one of the largest castles in England in terms of the area surrounded by the curtain wall. Little remains of the castle but for the gatehouse and a small part of the curtain wall which form a part of Ham Court, a farmhouse in private hands.

  Many readers have asked about medieval remains and tourist facilities in the area. St Mary’s Church is little changed from the fourteenth century, when it was known as the Church of St Beornwald. Visitors to Bampton will enjoy staying at Wheelgate House, a B&B in the center of the town. Village scenes in the popular series Downton Abbey were filmed on Church View Street, and St Mary’s Church appears in several episodes.

  An extract from the seventh chronicle of

  Hugh de Singleton, surgeon

  My life would have been more tranquil in the days after Martinmas had I not seen the crows. But I am an inquisitive sort of man, and the noisy host caught my attention. It is said that curiosity killed the cat. It can prove hazardous for bailiffs, as well.

  I was on the road near Eynsham, on my way to Oxford. I did not travel muddy autumn roads for pleasure, although I thought some joy might follow, but to seek an addition to my library. In the autumn of 1368 I owned five books: Surgery, by Henri de Mondeville; Categories, by Aristotle; Sentences, by Peter Lombard; De Actibus Animae, by Master Wyclif; and a Gospel of St John which I had copied myself from a rented manuscript while a student at Balliol College.

  I sought a Bible, if I could find a fair copy for no more than thirty shillings. Such a volume at that price would not be lavishly illuminated, but I cared more for the words upon the page than some monk’s artistry. If no such Bible was to be had, I would be content with a New Testament, or even a folio of St Paul’s letters.

  When I told my Kate of my intentions she demanded that Arthur accompany me to Oxford. A man traveling alone with thirty shillings in his purse would invite brigands to interrupt his journey, if they knew or guessed what he carried. Or even if they did not. Arthur is a groom in the service of Lord Gilbert Talbot. A sturdy man, he weighs three stone more than me, and has proven useful in past dealings with miscreants. He does not turn away from a tussle – and who would do so, if they knew they could generally dispatch any foe? A felon who sought my coins would reconsider if he saw Arthur start for him with a cudgel in hand.

  I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon and bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot, on his manor at Bampton. I am the husband of Katherine, and father of Bessie, now nearly two years old, and, the Lord Christ merciful, will be father to a son, perhaps, shortly after Twelfth Night. Kate is well, so I have hope she will be delivered of our second child safely. Her father, Robert Caxton, is a stationer in Oxford, and ’twas to his shop I intended to go first. That was before I saw the crows.

  The road had passed through a wood, then entered fields cultivated by tenants of Eynsham Abbey. No men were at work this day, not where they could be seen. But within barns and kitchens men and women were at bloody labor, for Arthur and I travelled on Monday, the thirteenth day of November, the time when men slaughter those animals they will be unable to feed through the winter, so that the beasts will rather feed them.

  A dozen or more crows perched in the bare branches of a large oak, cawing and occasionally flapping from their places to circle down to the ground near the base of the tree. As some crows left the tree, others rose from the earth to alight in the naked
branches. This oak was at the very edge of a fallow field where a flock of the abbey’s sheep grazed, unconcerned about the raucous chorus above them. Sheep are not much concerned with anything, being dull creatures.

  I reined my palfrey to a stop and gazed at the noisy birds some hundred and more paces distant. Arthur had been speaking of the return of plague and the loss of his wife Cicily, but now he fell silent and turned in his saddle to follow my gaze.

  The man did not remain mute for long. “Carrion crows,” he said. “Somethin’ dead, I’d guess.”

  I thought the same, and said so. “Whatever it is,” I added, “must be large. A dead coney would not attract so many.”

  “Pig, maybe?” Arthur said. “Swineherds been settin’ their hogs to pannaging to fatten ’em up.”

  “Could be, but would a pig-man not seek a lost hog before crows could find it?”

  Arthur shrugged. I dismounted and led my beast to a convenient hawthorn which grew beside the road and proclaimed its presence with many red berries. I tied the palfrey there and set off across the fallow field toward the crows. Arthur came behind me.

  An old ewe raised her head, watched my approach suspiciously, then snorted and trotted away. The flock briefly hesitated, then followed.

  It was a grey, chilly day, but a watery sun had broken through the clouds. Whatever it was that the crows had found lay in the dappled shadow of the bare limbs of the oak, so I was nearly upon the thing before I recognized what the crows were feasting upon. And the corpse wore black, which aided the shadowy concealment.

  I was but a few paces from the body when the last of the crows, perhaps more courageous than his companions, lifted his wings and flapped to safety in the branches above.

  A man lay sprawled upon the fallen leaves, dressed in the black habit of a Benedictine. Whether he was old or young I could not tell, for the crows had peeled the flesh from his face nearly to the skull, after plucking out his eyes, which they love most of all. The monk’s nose and lips and cheeks were gone, and he grinned up at us while the crows protested our arrival from the branches above us.