by Mel Starr
Valets at the privy chamber door recognized me and knew my purpose before I could speak.
“Prince Edward is in conversation with Sir Robert Hardwicke and Archbishop Whittlesay,” one of the valets said.
“I will return another time,” I replied.
“Nay,” the valet said. “We have been given instructions that when you return you are to be announced.”
Here was more evidence of the regard Prince Edward felt for Sir Giles Cheyne. The prince was so eager for news of the search for Sir Giles’s slayer that he would interrupt discourse with the archbishop to learn of my progress, or lack of it.
The valet opened one of the doors, apologized to the prince, and told him of my presence in the great chamber. I heard, “Send him in,” and the valet turned to me, held an arm to the open door, and bade me enter.
I had never before seen Sir Robert Hardwicke or the archbishop, nor they me. I bowed to the prince, then the archbishop, and lastly to the knight. I am learning the priorities of gentlefolk and the court.
The two men who sat before Prince Edward were a contrast to each other. Sir Robert was a hale fellow with ruddy cheeks, his frame nearly as sturdy as Arthur’s. The archbishop was frail, his skin as fragile as ancient parchment, the cords of his neck standing out from a lack of flesh. His hands, folded in his lap, were bony, and purple veins were prominent upon them.
The knight gazed at me curiously, the archbishop with displeasure. Both, I suspect, wondered why a man of my rank – which I suppose neither knew of a certainty, but assumed to be beneath them – was allowed to insert himself into their parley with Prince Edward.
The prince did little to illuminate them. “Ah, Master Hugh. Have you news?” Then, to the knight and prelate he said, “Master Hugh is in my service, seeking a felon. I must speak privily to him. I will see you shortly, at supper.”
And with these words he dismissed his companions, watched as they bowed their way from the privy chamber, then bid me take the knight’s chair.
The windows of the privy chamber were closed against the rain and chill, but no foul odor permeated the room this day. Perhaps, I thought, the physics I had suggested were reducing the prince’s repulsive wind. I did not wish to be obvious as I sniffed the air for an offensive scent, but perhaps Prince Edward has become accustomed to folk testing the atmosphere when they enter his presence.
“The herbs you suggested,” he began, “have been effective. Folk no longer seek to escape my presence. Of course, Dr. Blackwater claims ’tis due to his diet of boiled roosters.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “the physician may rightly claim a part of the success.”
“We shall see. I have told Blackwater and my cook I will now consume the same fare as others who dine at my table. I will not see upon my trencher one more boiled rooster. If my malady continues to improve we will know ’twas your herbs which have eased my affliction. If the illness returns as before, well, then I shall return to gnawing upon boiled roosters.
“Now, to the matter of Sir Giles. What have you learned this day?”
“Many things, but most important is that Arnaud Tonge is dead. He was buried this day in the Hornsey churchyard.”
“Did you slay him? Did the man put up a fight when you found him?”
I explained to the prince the events of the day. He listened with chin resting upon a fist, occasionally breaking into my report with a question.
“Some man knew he carried a heavy purse, then,” Prince Edward said to summarize my account, “and slew him for the coins. You agree?”
I did not immediately reply.
“You do not agree?”
“The ale wife said Arnaud appeared to her to be waiting for someone. Who? And when he paid for his ale his purse held few coins. He would not have risked the scaffold for so little gain, I think.”
“What is your theory, then, if he was not slain for his money? Did he hide his gains away, so that men would not see his fat purse and slay him for its contents?”
“I thought much upon this while we rode back to London. Mayhap Arnaud awaited some man in Hornsey for the completion of his payment. ’Tis possible he was given but a portion of his due, and was promised the remainder when the deed was done and Sir Giles lay dead.”
“Ah,” Prince Edward exclaimed. “I see your drift. Whoso hired him to poison Sir Giles’s wine had him slain. This would solve two problems for the man who wished Sir Giles dead. He would not need to complete payment, and Arnaud being dead could not tell who had employed him, even if my serjeants relieved him of his fingernails.”
“Aye, just so.”
“So the man who paid to have Sir Giles slain has succeeded and will escape the consequences of his felony?” This was said as a question, but I believe the prince was resigned to the failure of my warrant.
“Perhaps not,” I replied.
“What? You have suspicions?”
“I am Lord Gilbert Talbot’s bailiff. Bailiffs always have suspicions. If they do not, they will soon lose their post.”
“Tell me of your suspicions. Can you name a man?”
“Nay. Not yet. But I can tell you I do not suspect some man of Hornsey. No man of the village would slay him for the few coins in his purse.”
“If you can name no man you believe guilty, what is the foundation for your suspicion?”
“I know there are men, some under your roof, who despised Sir Giles. Any of them could have seen Arnaud at his assigned tasks at dinner, keeping wine cups filled. One of these men is perhaps guilty of the felony. And I am troubled about Arnaud’s death.”
“How so?”
“He was upon the road in Hornsey, sometime after darkness fell, standing before the manor house. What was he doing there at such a time? And where had he spent the previous night? The village has no inn.
“The lord of Hornsey manor said he heard no man cry out in the night, nor did any of his servants. Would a man allow himself to be attacked and a blade shoved between his ribs yet not shout for aid, or fight against his assailant and create a tumult?”
“I take your point,” Prince Edward agreed. “Who is lord of Hornsey?”
“Sir Thomas Jocelyn.”
“I don’t know the man. Heard his name. His father was at Poitiers. Sir Thomas was too young, I think. So what do you intend, if you are unwilling to allow Arnaud’s death to end this business?”
“I will return to Hornsey. There are other houses along the road, tenants of the manor. Some are decayed and empty, but I saw several which are occupied. Perhaps some villager heard what Sir Thomas did not. Or claims he did not.”
“Even so,” the prince said skeptically, “how would that help you discover who hired my valet to slay Sir Giles?”
“I cannot say. But unless I ask, ’tis certain I will learn nothing. If I do ask, mayhap the same will be so. But mayhap not.”
Chapter 10
The road next day was yet muddy, but the rain had ceased and the sky had become bright blue. I took with me to Hornsey only Arthur, seeing no need for extra men in case a felon might contest his arrest. Arnaud Tonge was dead. Who would there be in Hornsey to apprehend? His slayer? If, against my judgment, I found such a man there, his seizure would be a matter for Sir Thomas and his bailiff.
The Aldersgate was busy that morning with folk entering and leaving the city. Most entering, few leaving, which is likely why I noticed four well-garbed gentlemen upon noble steeds who passed through the gate fifty or so paces behind Arthur and me. One of these wore a bright blue cotehardie, which was the more noticeable because his companions were less flamboyantly dressed.
The sloppy road had begun to dry beneath the weak October sun when we entered Hornsey. Father Patrick and his clerk were leaving the church porch as we rode past after mass and I saw his mouth open in surprise. He did not likely expect to see me again and surely wondered why I had returned to his parish. I saw no reason to stop and enlighten him, but I did wave a greeting. His conversation the previous day h
ad told me that he was chary of speaking that which might be construed as critical of Sir Thomas, and if that was so he might also be eager to do or say that which would please the lord of Hornsey.
Sir Thomas had heard no sound of a man slain before his house in the night. I was suspicious of this claim and consequently skeptical of what the knight might think or do regarding other matters. Matters of which the priest might tell him.
An occupied house, in decent repair, was located about twenty paces from the place in the road where yesterday I had seen the twin grooves stop and the dark stain in the dirt. A stain now washed away after the rain.
There was no rail to tie our palfreys to before the house. Few tenants entertain guests who arrive at their door mounted, so I charged Arthur with attending the palfreys while I rapped upon the tenant’s door.
No one answered. I knocked upon it a second time. I was certain that someone was within, for the smoke of a fire curled from the vent at the peak of the roof. Likely the wife had set a kettle of pottage to her fire for the family dinner. Would she leave it for some other duty? Perhaps.
I was ready to pound upon the door a third time when it suddenly opened, its hinges squeaking. This tenant was prosperous enough that his door was suspended from iron hinges rather than the leather poorer folk used.
A man stood in the open door. Behind him, in the dim, smoky interior of the house, I saw a woman. She was wringing her hands upon her apron, which seemed an odd reaction to an uninvited guest. I do not usually cause folk distress. Unless they know me to be seeking from them intelligence they would prefer not to disclose. It seems a part of my office that I must often speak to folk who would rather avoid the conversation.
The man at the open door did not speak. He looked me up and down, his eyes rested upon Prince Edward’s badge, and his expression, which had been a scowl, softened. I believe he did not know then who I served but that it was some great man. He did soon. I told him.
“What does Prince Edward’s constable want w’me?” the man said.
“A few nights past a man was slain on the road close by your house,” I began.
“Heard talk of it,” the fellow replied.
“That’s all? You heard nothing in the night? No sounds of struggle or mayhem?”
“Nay.”
“Is it likely,” I said, “that a man would feel a blade slipped between his ribs and into his heart and yet not cry out?”
The tenant pursed his lips and shrugged. “Mayhap ’e did, but not so loud as to rouse me or me wife from sleep. A man can ’ear a noise in the night an’ think it naught but a dream.”
“You have children?” I asked. I was convinced that something was not as it should be. Perhaps a child might speak more truthfully, although why this man would not I could not guess. I represented trouble at his door, which perhaps he wished to avoid. So I thought.
“Three,” he said.
“How old are they?”
I saw puzzlement in the man’s face, but he would not deny this information to Prince Edward’s man. “Oldest is ten years. Youngest but a babe.”
“I wish to speak to the oldest. Lass or lad?”
“A lass. But why –”
“Bring her to me. Immediately.”
I saw the woman turn and speak a name into the murky interior of the house. The structure had but two windows and even upon a bright day was gloomy within. A moment later a lass appeared wearing a ragged cotehardie which had likely belonged to her mother before being cut down for her.
The child looked from her parents to me with apprehension. I surmised she had heard my words, and was old enough to understand that she was about to be questioned regarding some evil which had come to her village. The lass saw my badge, understood that it represented the great man I served, and curtsied. Her training had not been lacking.
“Do you sleep in the loft?” I asked the girl, and looked above her head.
“Aye. Me an’ me sister.”
“Three nights past,” I said softly, “think back – were you awakened in the night? Did you hear the sounds men make when they fight?”
The lass looked to her mother, then her father, as if seeking permission to answer. The father, not noticing my glance in his direction, shook his head. The movement was slight, nearly imperceptible. But bailiffs are paid to perceive that which others may miss, else they do not long keep their post. The child had heard something in the night, the father knew it, and had likely heard the same conflict himself. Why would he not admit this? Or allow his daughter to tell of it? The child did not reply.
“I am here for Prince Edward,” I reminded the tenant. “He will be displeased with you when he learns that you have spoken false to me.”
“The prince ain’t ’ere, is ’e?” the man said. “Just you.”
“Indeed he is not. But his reach is long. Do you not fear this?”
“I fear some things an’ some men. Them what is close by, but not men far away.”
Fear. Here was why neither the man nor his wife would speak, nor permit the child to do so. Who in Hornsey would such a man fear with a dread so great he would risk angering Prince Edward’s constable? There was but one man in the village likely to have such power over this tenant: his lord, Sir Thomas Jocelyn.
I had not been asked to enter the dwelling. Our conversation had taken place over the threshold. I turned to Arthur, told him to wait for my return, then invited myself into the house. The man did not resist. He and his wife backed away, I followed, and closed the door behind me.
“How long after you heard the noise of a man slain in the night did Sir Thomas come to you?”
Whether or not Sir Thomas, or one of his servants, had approached this tenant in the night or early next morning I did not know. But I was certain that the man had been warned to swear, if asked, that he had heard nothing which awakened him. I could devise no reason for such instruction, but just because I did not understand why the fellow had been told to keep silent did not mean that some man did not have reason to demand he hold his tongue.
The tenant glanced to his wife, seeking reassurance. He found little. The woman’s eyes watered and she went to twisting her apron again. If the man did not fear a duke’s wrath, his wife evidently did. The lass peered open-mouthed at one parent, then the other.
“Sir Thomas never come ’ere,” the tenant said.
“A groom then, or perhaps his bailiff. Someone told you to keep silent. Who? I will have the information from you, or I will place you under arrest and take you to Prince Edward. If you will not speak to me, you will tell what you know to the prince. His serjeants have mastered methods to make men speak of what they would rather not.”
The man unconsciously shrank from me as he considered the procedures which might be used to loosen his tongue. I dislike threatening honest men, and but for his instructions to deceive, the fellow was likely as honest as most. Fear had caused him to lie. A greater fear might bring truth from him.
The tenant’s shoulders dropped. “’Twas Henry what told us we must hold our tongues.”
“Who is Henry?”
“Sir Thomas’s bailiff.”
“When did he command this? The same night the man was slain?”
“Aye.”
“Did he supply a reason for requiring your silence?”
“Said as some fellow had tried to enter Sir Thomas’s house in the night. Sir Thomas ’eard ’im an’ drove ’im away. Called for Henry an’ some grooms, an’ they sought the man what tried to do hamsoken. Found ’im hidin’ behind Sir Thomas’s barn, so Henry did say. Took to ’is ’eels, but John is fleet.”
“John?”
“John Dessex, Sir Thomas’s squire.”
“So this squire chased a man, caught him, and dispatched him in the road before your house. Is that how it was?”
“Guess so,” the man shrugged.
“And you heard this conflict? What was said? Men seeking to harm one another, or to escape harm, are not generally sile
nt when they come to blows.”
“Asleep, wasn’t I? I got woke up, but all I ’eard was men shoutin’ at one another. Couldn’t tell what they was sayin’.”
“I ’eard,” the lass said. She sensed that her father was in some difficulty and thought to reduce his trouble by answering questions when he could not. Or would not. “One man said, ‘Here’s what’s owed you.’ An’ then there was the sound of a man ’owlin’ like ’e was ’urt. But not for long. All was quiet in just a moment.”
I turned to the lass’s father. “You heard none of these words? Only the wounded man crying out?”
“Aye. ’Twas ’is yelp what woke me.”
“The man found slain was pierced in the heart,” I said. “Does it not seem strange that if he was chased and caught he was not stabbed in the back?”
There was little more to learn from this tenant. A man was slain before his door, he admitted, but did he know why? ’Twas not likely. Only what he was told. If I continued to threaten him with a meeting with Prince Edward’s serjeants he might conjure some false explanation to satisfy me – faulty explanation which could lead me astray rather than to a felon who did murder and another who employed a murderer.
If the grandest house in a village belongs to the lord, the second best house will likely be the habitation of the bailiff. This is so in Bampton, where Galen House is rivaled only by Father Thomas’s vicarage. The house in Hornsey which fitted this description was adjacent to the priest’s house. I bade the reluctant tenant “Good day,” collected Arthur and our palfreys, and together we led the beasts the short way to what I assumed was the bailiff’s dwelling. It was.