by Mel Starr
“Indeed. A great prince seems always to need more servants. You heard him speak of my charge. If I find your assistance of value in discovering if Sir Giles was slain I will tell Prince Edward of your good service.”
I had no reason to think that the lad would not be forthcoming when I asked questions of him, but thought a bit of honey might sweeten his inclination. Indeed, I saw his downcast features lighten.
“Prince Edward has told me that Sir Giles was not an easy man to like,” I began.
“I see that you are a tactful man,” Randall replied. “He was easy to dislike, if that’s what you mean.”
“How about you? Did you find him easy to dislike?”
“I didn’t slay him.”
“Not what I asked.” I said no more, but awaited his next words.
“Didn’t much like him. But he dealt with me no worse than other knights with their squires, I think.”
“How so?”
“Required of me that I serve him at his foulest tasks. When the cesspit at Wiching Castle needed to be emptied he set me to work with two grooms and a page to do the work. Knights were once squires and were likely treated the same, so now they do as was done to them. Could’ve hired gongfermors to dig out the pit, but set us to it to save six pence.”
“Was that the worst you received at his hand?”
“Nay. I could wash away the stink of a cesspit. ’Twas his mocking. That was the most hurtful.”
“How so?”
“I am not a great swordsman. When he saw that I had little skill with a blade he no longer spent time trying to teach me. Rather, he would scorn my lack of ability, most often when in the company of others, especially maids.
“I am a competent horseman. But Sir Giles would never comment upon that before other folk.”
“Not before fair maids, eh?” I asked.
“Nay. Never then. When Amabil’s friends were about he could be especially rancorous.”
“Amabil?”
“His daughter. Sir Giles’s wife died just after I came to his service as a page… ten years past. Maud was not as he is.”
Randall’s eyes seemed to lose focus, as if he attempted to see into his past. “She was kind, was Maud. Not like Sir Giles and Amabil.”
“The daughter is much like the father?”
“Very much so. Folk say Sir Geoffrey will need to rule his house with a firm hand.”
“Who is Sir Geoffrey?”
“Sir Geoffrey Paget. He will wed Amabil in a fortnight. The banns have been read.”
“Prince Edward said that Sir Giles was also to marry.”
“Aye. Next month. Lady Juliana Pultney, widow of Sir Henry Pultney.”
“A prize catch, the prince said, with lands in two shires.”
“Aye. And a beautiful lady. Could have had her pick of other knights.”
“Your words and tone indicate surprise that she would have Sir Giles.”
Randall said nothing to this, perhaps yet feeling some loyalty to his deceased knight.
“What other suitors did the Lady Juliana have?” I asked.
“I know of but one. Sir Arthur de Lisle. For sure there were others.”
“Is Sir Arthur at Kennington?”
“Aye. He has a knight’s fee of Prince Edward and is oft at Kennington.”
“And is a disappointed suitor to Lady Juliana Pultney,” I added.
The squire was silent for a moment. “You think he might’ve slain Sir Giles?”
“Men have slain other men for a woman’s favor.”
“And her lands,” the lad added sagely.
“And her lands,” I agreed. “Sir Arthur would have dined at the high table, I think. Which was he?”
“Wore a pale green cotehardie and sat to the dexter side as you would have faced the high table.”
“The knight whose beard is nearly white?”
“Aye. The same. No older than Sir Giles, for all his beard makes him seem a grandfather.”
“So there was bad blood between Sir Giles and Sir Arthur?”
“They would not speak… nor would one doff his cap to the other.”
I wondered if Sir Arthur’s lands were prosperous. A knight who found his purse nearly as empty as his bed might consider murder in order to fill both.
“What do you know of Sir Arthur? Where are his lands?”
“Gloucestershire. He spends little time there, I think. Whenever Sir Giles came to Kennington Sir Arthur was likely to be here already.”
Would a knight abandon his own manor to dine at the prince’s table if his lands were prosperous? He might. But perhaps Sir Arthur was a knight who needed both a wife and funds. Lady Juliana could provide both.
“What other men did Sir Giles dislike, or disliked him?”
“Sir Humphrey Downey and Sir Giles did not get along. Just after I entered Sir Giles’s service King Edward authorized a tournament. Sir Giles and Sir Humphrey were paired against each other in a joust.”
“And Sir Giles prevailed?” I asked.
“Aye. ’Twas to be a ceremony, they were told. Each knight shattering a coronel-tipped lance or two against the other man’s shield.”
“The contest turned out differently?”
“Aye. Sir Giles unhorsed Sir Humphrey.”
I could imagine how it happened. The knight’s squires – Randall would not have been party to this, being at the time barely old enough to be a page – would have met beforehand and set the terms. Their masters would mount their dexters and pound toward each other, lances couched, and take careful aim at their opponent’s shield. After breaking a lance or two the knights, honor satisfied, would retire to the king’s pavilion and enjoy cups of wine and the praise of ladies.
But likely Sir Giles behaved treacherously, aiming his lance not at Sir Humphrey’s shield, where it would be deflected and perhaps fracture harmlessly, but at Sir Humphrey’s breastplate.
Would a knight slay another for such perfidy? Surely. The unhorsed knight would have injuries to both pride and body, and neither would be quick to mend. But would the affronted knight wait ten years to take his revenge?
“Did Sir Giles speak of this joust later, in your presence?” I asked.
“Aye, often. Liked to tell the tale. Would laugh about how he had deceived Sir Humphrey and pitched him to his rump.”
Word of such hilarity at his expense would most likely return to Sir Humphrey. He would take offense anew each time he heard of it. Knights do not take insults lightly. ’Tis a wonder a decade had passed with no response to the slight. At least no response that Randall knew of.
Once or twice during this conversation I glanced over my shoulder and saw Arthur following at a discreet distance – not close enough to hear all that was said, but near enough to be of assistance should he be needed. He told me later that he was concerned about two possible events. That the squire might take offense at my questions, being guilty of Sir Giles’s death, or that whoso had slain the knight might believe the squire would share evidence with me, and therefore seek to slay us both as we walked in the garden.
“Were these two Sir Giles’s only serious enemies?” I continued.
“Oh, nay. There were others.”
“Who?”
“Sir John Pedley hated Sir Giles fiercely. They’ve exchanged blows.”
“Recently?”
“Aye. In Prince Edward’s hall little more than a fortnight past.”
“What cause?”
“Same as always. Sir Giles charged Sir John with cowardice at Crécy.”
“As always? Sir Giles had made the charge before?”
“Aye.”
“The battle was more than twenty years past,” I said.
“The issue is yet fresh for Sir John.”
“Did Sir Giles raise the accusation often?”
“I’ve heard him speak of it several times. Liked to tell of how he and Prince Edward stood shoulder to shoulder at Crécy. The memory would bring thoughts of Sir John to hi
m and he would remark then upon Sir John’s flight.”
“Was Sir John assigned to the center, under the prince?”
“Aye.”
“And he fled when the issue was in doubt?”
“So Sir Giles has claimed. Sir John protests ’twas not so. Says he rode to the king’s position in reserve to seek help.”
“Sir John did leave the combat, then?”
“Aye. And he did return, with twenty or so men at arms.”
“No knights?”
“Nay. The king would not permit it. Sir John says when King Edward refused to release knights to Prince Edward’s aid he set off to rejoin the prince and found on the way a small band of pikemen awaiting orders to reinforce whichever part of the army might be hard pressed. He told them to follow him. Sir John claims this reinforcement was crucial to Prince Edward being able to hold the center firm.”
“But Sir Giles says otherwise?”
“Aye. Said the situation was well in hand when Sir John ran to the rear and mounted his beast.”
“One man’s word against another’s. Do most men,” I asked, “believe Sir Giles’s version of the event, or Sir John’s?”
“Hard to say. Sir John fought alongside the prince at Poitiers and I’ve heard no man speak ill of his valor on that field.”
“And Prince Edward,” I mused, “welcomes Sir John to Kennington.” I thought that if the prince considered Sir John to have fled the field at Crécy when the battle was in doubt the knight would not be welcome in Kennington’s hall.
“So there are three knights who will not mourn upon their pillows this night that Sir Giles’s corpse lies under a shroud in Prince Edward’s chapel. Is there a fourth, or more, who had cause to hate your master?”
“Hmmm. There are many, I think, who disliked Sir Giles. But hated him? Not enough to slay him and risk their own necks.”
“Who are those who disliked him? Perhaps name one or two who disliked him most.”
The squire rubbed his beardless chin for a moment. “Richard Rowell disliked Sir Giles and would have no more to do with him.”
“Sir Richard Rowell?”
“Nay. No knight. Rowell is a mercer. Keeps a shop on Gracechurch Street, near to St. Peter’s, Cornhill.”
“Why would a mercer be set against Sir Giles?”
“Owed Rowell for linen and silks he’d not paid for.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Don’t know of a certainty. A few months past I overheard hot words exchanged between Sir Giles and Rowell. Sir Giles wanted more silks and the mercer would send him none ’til he paid his debt for the goods Rowell had already provided.”
“Was the amount mentioned?”
“Aye. Mayhap near to twelve pounds, although I couldn’t hear plainly enough to swear to it.”
A man who cannot pay his mercer is likely to be indebted to grocers and glovers and butchers and other such folk. It was no wonder that he sought the hand of a rich widow, and became genial in her presence, if such was required to woo and win the lady.
But would a man slay another if in doing so he would lose all hope of recovering such a debt? Dead men pay no accounts, and good luck to a burgher who goes to court against a knight’s heirs.
Of course, the mercer had not been present in Kennington’s hall when Sir Giles died, but if the death was due to poisoned wine, as I thought likely, he would not need to be. A valet could have defiled the fatal draught, bribed to do so, and this exchange could have been accomplished just as easily by an absent London burgher as by some antagonistic knight present in the hall when Sir Giles entered into St. Peter’s presence.
“Are there others who come to mind who might be pleased that Sir Giles is no more?”
“None he had so vexed that they would slay him, I think,” Randall replied.
During our discussion we had circled the palace garden and now found ourselves back at the door which led into the hall.
“If another adversary occurs to you, I would hear of the man,” I said, and pushed the heavy oaken door open. The mist had become heavier, and I was pleased to return to the hall. Fires blazed upon the three hearths which heated the great hall, and knights and ladies who warmed themselves before them turned as one and fell silent as we entered. Few men can enter a room and terminate a conversation as well as he who is assigned to send some man to a scaffold.
Arthur had followed our circumnavigation of the garden, and when we entered the hall and I dismissed Randall he touched me upon the shoulder and whispered in my ear.
“You was followed,” he said.
“When? In the garden?”
Arthur nodded.
“By whom? Do you recognize him here?” I motioned to the knights and ladies who were gradually returning to the conversations my appearance had interrupted.
“Wasn’t a him. ’Twas a her.”
“Some woman followed me… us in the garden?”
“Aye. Kept herself hid. Made sure you never saw ’er. Stayed behind hedges. Not close enough to hear what you was sayin’, I think, ’cept mayhap once when she got one side of a hedge when you an’ that squire was close by on the other.”
“Is she present now in the hall?”
Arthur glanced over my shoulder, scanned the gentlefolk warming themselves near the hearths, and shook his head.
“What was her appearance?” I asked. “Young, or a matron?”
“Young. No lass, but not wed. I was close enough that I saw she’d no ring upon her finger. Not the finger what would tell folks she’d a husband. Black hair, not braided nor worn up, but loose.”
Here, in addition to the absence of a ring, was further evidence that the young woman was unwed. Did she follow because of an interest in Randall Patchett, or in me? I resolved to learn more of this maiden and her furtive presence in a wet garden.
Chapter 5
But first I wished to learn what I could of tainted wine, if indeed ’twas the wine which brought Sir Giles to rest upon a bier before the altar of Kennington Palace chapel.
While walking with Randall, a possible way of discovering if Sir Giles’s wine had been poisoned occurred to me. The garden wall is not high, and from a rise in the path I could see over it to a meadow where sheep grazed. Could a lamb be persuaded to drink from a pan of wine set before it?
The butler had done as Prince Edward required, and six ewers rested upon a table in the buttery. The butler had heard the prince’s command that I was to be given all cooperation in the investigation of Sir Giles’s death, and was eager to please.
“The sheep in the meadow beyond the garden wall – whose are they?” I asked him.
“Prince Edward’s. The meadow and forest beyond are all a part of Kennington Palace and devolve to the Duke of Cornwall,” the butler replied.
“Send a groom to find the reeve,” I said, “and require of him that he bring six lambs to the palace. Tell him to bring them to the gate in the garden wall, and make haste.”
The butler tugged his forelock and called to a lad who had just then emerged from the pantry. He relayed my instructions to the youth and the boy scurried off. The butler seemed puzzled.
I went to the table to inspect the ewers. Five of the six were about half full. One was nearly empty. I asked the butler which of the ewers the missing Arnaud had used to fill Sir Giles’s cup. I received a shrug in reply. This I expected.
The ewers were of a matching set, in silver, as would be expected of a royal house. A skilled silversmith had cunningly engraved St. George and the dragon on each, and the representations were so much alike ’twould be impossible to identify one ewer from another by the designs.
Arthur peered over one shoulder and the butler over the other as I sniffed at the contents of each ewer. I could detect no difference in the six ewers. I wished that Kate might be present. My wife has the nose of a lymer and can detect from a hundred paces an odor which would not offend my nostrils at an arm’s length. I have heard other men say the same of their wives
. I thought of the ladies in the hall and considered asking if one of them would consent to holding her nose above each ewer, seeking some off-putting scent, but quickly dismissed the thought as impolitic.
A small window illuminated the buttery. I held each ewer close to the glass to learn if the contents of one of them might be slightly different in color. I could discern no change from one ewer to another.
There was one test I would not make. I would not touch my tongue to the wine in any of the ewers seeking some bitter flavor. Perhaps had I allowed Dr. Blackwater to taste the wine which remained in Sir Giles’s cup I might now know if ’twas poisoned wine which took the knight’s life or the failure of his heart. But Blackwater might now also rest before the altar in Kennington’s chapel.
As I set the last ewer back upon the table, the youth sent to deliver my message to the reeve returned.
“Reeve says he’ll have six lambs at the garden gate betimes.”
I told the butler that I would need a shallow pan, and the six ewers brought to the garden gate. The puzzled expression returned to the man’s face, but he did not question my request. He told me that he would gather a few grooms and return anon. He did so.
Once again the gentlefolk gathered in the hall had cause to interrupt their conversation. I led a parade from the screens passage across the hall to the garden door. Behind me came Prince Edward’s butler carrying a copper pan. Behind him were three grooms, each carrying two silver ewers, and behind them Arthur. I bowed as I passed the knights and their ladies, and received open-mouthed stares in reply.
The garden grass was wet, but the misty rain had ceased. The reeve and three assistants appeared on the outer side of the gate as I approached from the garden side. I raised the latch and opened the gate to the reeve, his men, and six protesting lambs.
I soon learned that sheep have no interest in wine, not even the finest burgundy. I poured wine from a ewer into the copper pan and set it upon the grass before a lamb. The creature wriggled its nose and turned away. Stronger measures would be required.
I explained to the reeve what I intended. He grasped the lamb tight, and I pried open its mouth and poured wine into the protesting animal’s throat. Some of the wine dribbled over the lamb’s chin, but most was swallowed.