Ashes to Ashes

by Mel Starr

  “Ah… an’ the dung is in the midst,” Arthur said.

  “Just so. Some man made here a pen.”

  “Not a very good one. We entered without much trouble. If some beast was held here, it would not stay for long.”

  “Not as the enclosure is now.”

  “What do you mean?” Arthur said.

  “’Tis my belief that some man has been here and pulled down what was built. But he did not take time to scatter the limbs and boughs which he had collected to make a pen.”

  Arthur looked about, his eyes following the circle of discarded branches. “You think there’s enough fallen wood here to enclose a horse?”

  “Aye, just.”

  “Poor beast could move but a few paces in any direction. Wonder it didn’t leap over the walls of the pen. Couldn’t have been very high.”

  “Perhaps the pen was also tied. The boughs were likely interlaced from one tree to another so to stiffen the barrier in case the beast tried to push against it.”

  “How long was it ’ere, you suppose?”

  “From just before St. John’s Day to near Lammastide.”

  “That bailiff’s beast, then?”

  “Aye. And Walter Smith was assigned to take a bucket of oats here each morning to feed the animal, and also draw water from that brook.”

  “Sworn to secrecy, was ’e?”

  “Surely. For tuppence a week. And when he was seen in conversation with me, someone decided that he must be silenced.”

  “Like Henry Thryng an’ Bertran Muth?”

  “I pray not.”

  “Who would do so? Geoffrey deMeaux? The reeve?”

  “It has crossed my mind.”

  But why would Geoffrey or Jaket or Sir John, if it was one of them who instigated the series of murders and a disappearance, do such a thing? Might it have to do with the discovery which I and Simon Hode made in the depths of the chest of wills and documents stored in St. George’s Church? If so, how might this be proven and the felon brought to justice? And if Walter was silenced, but not slain, how might I discover where the lad was held and free him? Walter seemed the key to unlocking this mystery. He could tell me why he came each morning to this woodlot, and who it was had paid him to do so. That would not yet prove the man’s guilt as a murderer, but would be evidence. Evidence is not proof, but proof is impossible without evidence. We must find Walter. And not only to solve the mystery of a slain bailiff, but to save the lad’s life if his captors thought to silence him permanently. I worried that the closer I came to discovering the felon, the greater would be the risk to Walter’s life. If he yet lived.

  “Come,” I said. “I think we can learn little more here. The village seems to have given up the search for the smith’s lad, so perhaps the clerk will be at home. I’ve a question for him.”

  We departed the derelict enclosure, clambering through the overthrown foliage, but we did discover one new thing as we withdrew. I stumbled upon some hard, heavy thing covered with leaves and vines and broken twigs. I thought ’twas likely some rotting stump, but kicked at it and saw some wooden object appear. Here was a thing uncommon to a forest floor. I bent to clean debris from it.

  A plank trough, nearly as long as my arm, and a hand’s breadth deep, appeared as I swept the object clean of the stuff covering it. Arthur had gone ahead a few paces, but stopped and turned when, from the corner of his eye, he saw me kneel and inspect the ground.

  “Ah… reckon we know how the lad used the bucket, an’ why that footprint was by the stream. Why would it be left ’ere, I wonder?”

  “If we were patient we might build a hide nearby and await some man’s return to carry this back where it might be needed.”

  The trough was skillfully made, and with its nails was too valuable to be allowed to remain hidden in a wood. Some day it would surely be recovered. Some day. But Walter could not wait that long. We left the trough where it lay, returned to our palfreys, and retraced our route across the wheat stubble and meadow.

  “Where to now?” Arthur asked as we passed between the manor house and the reeve’s dwelling.

  Shadows were growing long, and after antagonizing Sir John, I did not wish to be upon the road with darkness near.

  “I will seek the clerk, then we will return to Bampton.”

  The clerk was not to be found. His housekeeper answered my knock upon the door with a worried crease between her eyes. Well might she be concerned, I thought, as I heard her tale.

  “Ah, ’tis you, what was seekin’ Simon. Have you found ’im? Ain’t home yet. Has the lad been found? I’m right worried for Simon. Been gone since last eve.”

  I would find no answer to my question from the clerk. The man had seemed to me one who spent more time listening than speaking, and so I had intended to ask him what he might have overheard from other seekers about Walter’s disappearance. Speculation might be folly, but if I could sift through a dozen opinions I might find one or two worth examining.

  I left the woman at her door with some platitude that the clerk would soon return, and that when he did so she was to tell him that I would seek him on the morrow. I had no expectation that when I returned I would find him. Not at his house. He had disappeared as completely as Walter Smith, and both likely had vanished because they had been seen in conversation with me.

  Arthur had remained in the road, minding our beasts, but close enough that he heard the conversation and saw the anxiety upon the housekeeper’s face.

  “When we return tomorrow we’ll have two to seek,” Arthur said. “Be helpful if they’re both hid in the same place.”

  “Aye, so long as it is not a common grave.”

  “We’re not havin’ much success with Sir John nor his lads,” Arthur said. “Will you tell Lord Gilbert? He might return an’ brace Sir John. Mayhap you’d get more cooperation if he did so.”

  I had considered this, but decided to save Lord Gilbert’s influence for such time as all other methods of inquiry had failed. I had already been so incompetent as to allow myself to be accosted and beaten upon the road. To call for more aid from my employer would be to say that I was impotent to discover a felon without assistance.

  I worried for the lives and health of Walter Smith and Simon Hode as Arthur and I rode through Alvescot on our way home to Bampton. The Lord Christ said that we are not to worry, but that command was regarding ourselves. I believe He would find worry for the welfare of others acceptable, so long as it is not concern alone, but accompanied by deeds.

  My head was on a swivel as we passed through the wood where I was attacked, and I thought I saw Arthur inspecting the foliage with more than just idle contemplation of the greenery. But we passed safely through the wood and I admit to some relief when I saw the spire of St. Beornwald’s Church come into view.

  I left Arthur at Bampton Castle gatehouse with instruction to be ready next morning at the second hour. The Angelus Bell rang as I walked from Bridge Street to Church View Street and came in sight of Galen House. Here was another reason to discover a felon as soon as possible. When I did so I would no longer need to leave my Kate and Bessie and Sybil each day. Indeed, I feared Sybil might forget me. She was abed most days before I arrived home and not yet awake when I departed.

  Kate had prepared a capon stewed in milk and honey, and cabbage with marrow. I was ravenous, so although she was eager to learn of the day, she held her tongue and allowed me to fill my belly. Then ’twas time to put Bessie abed, so the sun was gone and only a glow in the western sky illuminated our toft when finally I drew a bench from the kitchen to the toft and we sat wearily upon it.

  I told her of what Arthur and I had discovered, which did not take long, as ’twas little enough.

  “’Tis the lord of Kencott’s son who has done this, then,” Kate said, when I ended the report.

  “So I believe. Or perchance the reeve, but I have no proof.”

  “Which is why the lad and the clerk are not to be found. They might provide the proof.”


  “Aye. Arthur and I will return to Kencott tomorrow and continue to seek them. We do not know the village, nor its people, so I have little confidence of finding them, but I must do something. I cannot sit in the sun in my toft and wait for the Lord Christ to do justice.”

  “Will He not do so?” Kate asked.

  “Eventually. But I am impatient. Like most men, I think… and women, too. I wish for justice to be done yesterday.”

  “Patience is a virtue,” Kate said.

  “Aye, but so is a desire for justice, to see the innocent delivered and the guilty chastised.”

  “I only hope that doing justice will not gain you more bruises and wounds.”

  “There we think alike. But you would not wish to be wed to a coward, would you?”

  “Nay, I suppose not. But a valorous corpse is of no use to me or Bessie or Sybil.”

  “Events of the past weeks have taught me caution,” I said, and passed a finger over the stitches upon my cheek.

  “I am pleased. A man should learn from painful experiences.”

  “Aye,” I agreed. I thought it the wrong time to mention how I had antagonized Sir John and Geoffrey, which I had not told Kate when I had earlier reviewed the day’s events.

  Chapter 15

  When I arrived at the castle next morn two men and three beasts awaited me. Uctred, another of Lord Gilbert’s grooms, stood with Arthur in the castle yard.

  “Thought the way Sir John an’ Geoffrey looked at us yesterday, wouldn’t hurt to have Uctred along,” Arthur explained.

  Uctred is older than Arthur, and not so beefy, but there is strength in his sinewy body.

  Another dagger added to my own and Arthur’s could not be harmful. A man marching to battle will seldom find added companions unwelcome. Indeed, if a man has enough muscle at his side, it may be that he will have less need of it. Would I have been attacked along the road near Alvescot had Arthur and Uctred accompanied me? Men are not likely to begin a fray unless they are certain of its outcome. A wise man will not begin a fight he believes he might lose, and any man who takes a careful look at Arthur and Uctred will likely decide to avoid offending them.

  Sir John, his sons and minions surely knew that I would return this day, so when we passed through the wood I warned my companions to be alert. This proved unnecessary. We traveled the place unmolested. Why is it that evil seems to appear when one is least prepared for it, and when a man is vigilant misfortune passes him by?

  I intended to call at the clerk’s house first this day. Not that I expected to find him there, but I hoped to be surprised. The question I had for him might also be answered by his housekeeper if he was yet missing.

  He was, and the woman was frantic with worry.

  “Went to Sir John this morning, when Simon had not returned.”

  “What did Sir John say?”

  “Said as how he was ill, an’ not to trouble him about a grown man goin’ off. Insulting, ’e was.”

  All the while she spoke the woman twisted her hands before her. “You will seek Simon?”

  “I will,” I promised. “Perhaps you may assist us. Who is the oldest person in Kencott?”

  The woman likely wondered what age might have to do with her missing clerk, but she did not ask for an explanation. She drew her brows close together and her lips into a thin line, as if the exercise would bring some aged man or woman to mind. The effort was apparently successful.

  “Alyce Godswein,” she said.

  “Where can she be found?”

  “Lives with ’er son. Last house on the road to Broadwell.”

  “Do you know her age?”

  “Nay. Don’t know that she does. Remembers when Mortimer did away with the old king. Was already wed an’ a mother when she learned of it, so she says.”

  The woman was indeed aged. Edward II had been deposed sixty-two years earlier. I wondered if a crone so aged would remember answers to the questions I had for her.

  She did. I found Alyce sitting on a bench before her son’s house, shelling peas. The woman saw, or heard, as Arthur, Uctred, and I stopped before the toft and dismounted. She squinted in our direction and when I came near I saw that her eyes were white with cataracts. She turned her gaze aside, as folk so afflicted will sometimes do, the better to see through an unclouded part of her eye who it was who approached.

  I bid the woman “Good day,” and introduced myself, being careful to identify my position as Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. I saw her nose wrinkle in disgust, as if a breeze from a freshly manured field had come to her nostrils. This, I was sure, was a reflection of her opinion of bailiffs, not Lord Gilbert. In this she is like most other folk, who regard bailiffs only a little higher than brigands. This reputation is not entirely undeserved. I wondered about her dealings with Randle Mainwaring.

  “I am told that you are the oldest person in Kencott,” I said. The woman made no reply, but continued with her peas. I wondered if she heard, so spoke louder.

  “’Twas told me that you remember when Edward II was deposed.”

  “No need to shout, young man. Can’t see nor walk well, but I hear you fine.”

  “Sir John’s mother,” I said, “was a woman named Amice, I understand.”

  “Aye.”

  “And she inherited Kencott Manor from her father, Roger d’Oilly, having no brothers.”

  “That’s so.”

  “I have also heard that before she wed Sir John’s father she was wed to Sir Harold Mainwaring. Did the marriage have issue?”

  “Oh, aye… young Roger.”

  “Was he Randle Mainwaring’s father?”

  “Aye. A fine fellow, man an’ boy, was Roger. Not like Randle.”

  “Was there talk amongst the villagers when Sir John became heir to his mother’s estate rather than Roger?”

  “Oh, aye, some. But Father Philip told us ’twas all proper, according to Amice’s will.”

  “Did Sir John’s father yet live when Amice died?”

  “Aye. Sir Thomas lived on a few years. Died ’bout the same time as Roger.”

  “Randle would have been but a lad then?”

  “Aye. Ten years, mayhap eleven.”

  “Did Randle or his father ever speak to you or any others about a claim to the manor?”

  “Not to me. Who am I that such as him would say the like to me?”

  “To others, then?”

  The old woman was silent for a time, then answered. “’Tis known about Kencott that some matters are best forgot.”

  “But did Randle forget his claim?”

  “Some say he did, some say ‘Nay.’”

  Try as I might, I could learn no more from the woman. I asked a few more questions, but she answered all with but an “Aye” or “Nay” and I could not draw from her any more about the complicated title to Kencott Manor.

  Had Roger d’Oilly left his estate to a son when he died in 1309, the line of inheritance would be clear. But having no son, the manor fell to his daughter, Amice. When she wed Sir Harold Mainwaring, did lordship of the manor stay with Amice or pass to her husband? I had found no document in the chest in St. George’s Church to say. This was odd. Such an important matter should surely have been recorded. Perhaps it was, and was now missing.

  Would Thomas deMeaux have wed Amice if he had known that his heirs would have no part of Kencott Manor? He might, I suppose, depending upon his circumstances. Plague had not yet struck at the time, so land was dear and not easily come by. But as matters now stood, Amice d’Oilly’s first husband’s heir evidently had no claim to Kencott Manor.

  In the past fortnight I had developed an opinion of Randle Mainwaring as a peevish fellow. The same might be said of most bailiffs, dealing as we do with tenants and villeins who would cheat their lord on his rents and shirk work on his demesne. But perhaps Randle Mainwaring had another reason for his irascibility. I might be resentful also if I thought I had been defrauded of my rightful inheritance.

  In the Singleton family of Li
ttle Singleton Manor, such was not an issue. I am the youngest of four sons. My inheritance was a small stipend for my education and then, when that was exhausted, I was meant to make my own way in the world. I believe my father would approve of my course, were he yet alive to see it.

  Arthur and Uctred had remained with the beasts, in the road, but that was but five or six paces from where Alyce Godswein sat shelling her peas. They heard the conversation clearly.

  “If that bailiff was makin’ trouble over the inheritance of Kencott Manor,” Arthur said, “then ’tis no wonder he was found burnt to ashes in a St. John’s Day fire.”

  “With his skull dented as well,” I added.

  “Aye, that also.”

  It was time to speak to Kencott’s priest. Surely he knew by now that his clerk was missing, as well as Walter Smith, and must have some opinion of the matter. I put foot to stirrup and led the way back to the center of the village and the vicarage.

  I rapped upon the priest’s door and was here also greeted by a woman. Another housekeeper, I supposed. Well, Holy Writ says that it is not good for a man to live alone. I concur.

  “In the church,” the woman said in reply to my question, and pointed across the road. I led my palfrey to the lych gate and Arthur and Uctred did likewise. We tied the beasts there and had crossed the churchyard nearly to the porch when the priest appeared.

  Kendrick Dod looked as if he hadn’t slept for a week. Circles under his eyes were as large and dark as muddy cartwheels. He walked slowly, staring at the ground when he left the porch, so he did not see my approach until my feet came in view of his downcast eyes.

  The priest looked up, startled, and stopped in his tracks.

  “You,” he said. Such a word can be phrased in many ways: friendly, questioning, accusing. Dod’s tone conveyed the last.

  “Why must you continue to torment this place?” he said. “Three men are dead, and now Walter Smith and my clerk are missing.”

  “You sum up the matter well,” I replied. “I am here because three men are dead and a lad and your clerk are missing. You have no idea, I suppose, where Simon Hode might be?”