Ashes to Ashes

by Mel Starr

  “Ah, Lord Gilbert has made much the same rule for his forests.”

  I had wondered how, if a beast had been hidden in the wood, the animal could go undiscovered for many weeks. Now I knew. I had seen Sir John return from hawking with his sons. I thought the knight an eager huntsman, strict in preserving game, and therefore likely known for enforcing heavy fines against those who might interfere with his sport. A man might hide a horse in such a place with little fear that it would be discovered by some villein gathering fallen limbs or pannaging his pig.

  Although I would need my instruments to deal properly with Sir John’s canker, there was something to be done for him this day before I left his chamber. I told him to call for a servant, and have the fellow bring two egg whites, wine, and linen torn into strips. This Sir John did, and half an hour later a page set before me a bowl with the egg whites within, a cup of wine, and the linen strips.

  I told Sir John to turn onto his belly – not an easy task, considering the size of his paunch – then folded one of the linen strips into a patch. I dipped this into the wine and cleaned blood and pus from the sore, then with a clean bit of linen I spread the egg white upon the wound as a poultice.

  It is my practice, following the teaching of Henri de Mondeville, to leave wounds open, not covered with salves and bandages. But in Sir John’s situation I thought it best to wrap his head with linen strips so that the egg white would work to draw contamination from the canker and not be swept away by movement of his head upon the pillow. When I was done the top half of Sir John’s head was swathed in white.

  I bid Sir John “Good day,” told him that I would return on the morrow with my instruments to better deal with his ailment, then departed his chamber. There was nothing more to learn from the man regarding either the death of Randle Mainwaring or the disappearance of Walter Smith and Simon Hode. Perhaps he knew no more of these matters, or, more likely, what more he knew he would not tell to me. And what he knew of Bertran Muth and Henry Thryng, if anything, he would not divulge, either.

  The page showed us to the door and to reach it we passed through Sir John’s hall. Grooms and valets were preparing his table for dinner, and before his place I saw a roast of pork. No squab.

  It then occurred to me that an hour past I had seen, from a distance, a man leave the dovecote. His hands had been empty. I was near enough to see that. Why would a man enter, then leave the dovecote empty-handed?

  Twice birds had noisily fled the safety of the dovecote when Arthur and I sat upon a bench beside the building to interrogate Sir John’s servants. Why would doves desert the place when they were safe inside and the only threat they might perceive came from without?

  I turned from the palfreys and walked across the field to the dovecote. The door was sturdy and secured with an iron lock as large as my hand, as I expected it would be. Gentlemen who own such structures prefer to keep them secure so as to preserve the fowl for their own table rather than provide meat for light-fingered villeins.

  Arthur and Uctred saw me walk from our tethered beasts and followed. I put a finger to my lips to silence any question they might have, and quietly approached the dovecote door. A few birds came and departed the place, as would be a normal order of things at midday.

  I stood silently at the dovecote door, then lightly tapped my fingernails upon the planks. I wished to make enough noise that anyone inside the dovecote would hear, but not so much that the birds would be startled and abandon the place in a flutter of wings because of the loudness of my rapping.

  I waited at the door for some response to my gentle knock. When nothing immediately happened I lifted my hand to tap the wood again. Before my fingernails could contact the door I heard the fluttering of hundreds of agitated wings and saw above me a cloud of doves escaping their shelter in a torrent of feathers.

  Neither Arthur nor Uctred have any responsibility for Lord Gilbert’s doves, but they know enough of the creatures’ behavior to understand that the response to my light taps upon the dovecote door was not proportional to the threat. A man who knows what he is about may quietly, slowly, enter a dovecote and take squabs for his lord’s dinner without causing fright or flight.

  “What was all that about, then?” Uctred said when the last of the birds had fled the dovecote.

  “Return to Sir John,” I said, “and request the key to open this door. If he refuses, tell him I will send you to Bampton this day to fetch Lord Gilbert while I remain here before the dovecote door. And his sore will go untreated. Arthur will remain with me. Hurry.”

  Uctred hastened to the manor house as rapidly as his short, stumpy legs could carry him.

  “You reckon somebody’s in there?” Arthur said.

  “Mayhap. Something caused the doves to take flight and I didn’t strike the door hard enough to do so, I think. Do you remember when we sat upon the bench and questioned Sir John’s servants just there? Twice birds fled the place. I gave it no thought at the time, but I don’t remember that we made enough fuss to cause all that mad fluttering.”

  “What did so, then?”

  “What if someone is inside the dovecote, bound and gagged, able to hear folk outside, but unable to call for help? Perhaps all they may do is thrash about, hoping somehow that the sound of a struggle against their bonds might be heard outside the stone wall of the dovecote.”

  “Ah,” Arthur said. “We heard nothing, but the doves was frightened an’ fled the place. An’ with all the flutter of wings, if there was anyone inside tryin’ to be heard, we’d hear only the doves.”

  “Just so.” Then, turning to the door, I said in a loud voice, “’Tis Hugh de Singleton. Walter, Simon, if you are there, we will have you out soon.”

  Arthur and I fell silent to hear any response, but there was none. At least none that could be heard through limestone walls nearly as thick as my forearm is long and a heavy oaken door.

  The wait for Uctred’s return was long enough that I began to consider attacking the door with some tool from the nearby stables. But eventually he appeared, accompanied by a groom in whose hand I saw a key.

  “Couldn’t find the key,” Uctred said by way of explanation for his tardy return. He rolled his eyes to indicate disbelief. The location of the key had been known an hour or so earlier. Why it should be difficult to locate now seemed odd.

  Arthur and I stood aside to allow the groom access to the lock. He fitted the key and attempted to turn it, but was unsuccessful.

  “Been havin’ trouble with this lock,” he said.

  “Strange,” I replied. “I saw a man leave the dovecote an hour or so past. The key must have worked well then, unless there is another key to this lock. Is there?”

  “Nay. Key works sometimes, an’ sometimes don’t.”

  “Too bad. We shall have to break down the door, then. You are sure that this is the proper key?”

  “Geoffrey gave it to me. I don’t have much to do with the dovecote,” the groom said.

  “So you would not recognize the proper key, or know if this is it? How then do you know that the lock is sometimes difficult to open?”

  “That’s what Geoffrey said when ’e give it to me.”

  “Return to him and tell him to provide the correct key. If he will not, go then to the barns and return here with an axe. And be sure to tell Geoffrey that those are my instructions. Make haste. Uctred, accompany him.”

  Uctred and Sir John’s groom touched forelocks and walked swiftly back to the manor house. I thought it likely that Geoffrey would provide another key rather than see the dovecote door battered down, as he would know that I was determined to enter the place and so, with Lord Gilbert’s authority, could not be kept from seeing what was beyond the door.

  What I believe to be likely is not always so. Uctred and the groom reappeared with Geoffrey and four others following. A key was in the groom’s hand, as before, and as he came close it seemed to me that it was the same key he had before tried in the lock. Of course, one key looks much lik
e another.

  “Why do you trouble us to enter the dovecote?” Geoffrey said when he drew near.

  “Why do you wish to keep me from it?” I replied.

  “You will annoy the doves.”

  “I think you are more annoyed than the doves. Is that the proper key?” I said, and pointed to the key in the groom’s hand.

  “Edwin has told you that the key often fails to open this lock.”

  “Aye, he did so. ’Tis no wonder, as it is surely the wrong key.”

  The youth bristled at this and I saw his companions sidle close behind and about him. I glanced down at that moment and saw that one of these wore a patched shoe. The sole had become detached from the upper part of the shoe and some time not long past the tear had been crudely sewn together. I recognized the repair. The last time I had seen it, I had an intimate view as the foot within the shoe directed a blow to my head. The stitches in my cheek began to itch.

  The groom with the mended shoe saw my eyes travel to his foot, then rise to his face. This did not seem to cause the man any worry. Rather, I thought a smirk flashed briefly across his face.

  “Why would I try a key for this lock which will not serve?” Geoffrey said.

  “Why, indeed? There can be but one answer. There is something, perhaps someone, within which you do not wish me to see. But I will open this door, either with the proper key or with an axe. You choose. Send your servants for one or the other.”

  “No man will hack through my father’s dovecote door with an axe,” Geoffrey said.

  “The key, then.”

  “Are you so dull that you cannot understand?” Geoffrey said. “There is no other key.”

  There is a rule amongst soldiers that a commander must not divide his forces. For a moment I considered sending Arthur or Uctred to investigate Sir John’s barns for an axe or some other sturdy tool which could be used to smash through the dovecote door. But then it came to me that we were three facing six, which were unfavorable odds already. Two opposed to six would be much the worse, even though Arthur is worth two in a brawl. What, then, to do to end this impasse?

  Chapter 17

  Alvescot is but two miles from Kencott. Gerard, Lord Gilbert’s aged verderer, lives there with his sons and I knew that he would surely have more than one axe. I turned from the dovecote and, feigning disgust, stalked away from Geoffrey and his grooms. Arthur and Uctred, puzzled, followed. When we were far enough from Geoffrey that a whispered conversation could not be heard, I instructed Arthur to go back to the dovecote to see that no man opened the door until Uctred and I returned. We would make haste to Alvescot, I told him, and would be back anon. I mounted my palfrey, motioned to Uctred to do likewise, and spurred my beast away from Geoffrey, the manor house, and Kencott.

  When we had passed from the village I explained our departure. We spurred our palfreys to a trot and soon arrived at Gerard’s door. We found the man limping about his yard, directing two laborers in the sawing of a timber into planks.

  “Axes?” he said. “Aye, got as many as you’d want.”

  One axe would have been enough to demolish the dovecote door, but if two men with axes upon their shoulders and resolute scowls upon their faces stood near whilst a third man attacked the door, Geoffrey or any of his grooms who came running to the sound of splintering wood might be persuaded not to interfere with the work.

  Armed with three axes – and Gerard had kept them sharp – we returned to Kencott and tied the palfreys to Sir John’s hitching rail. Arthur stood alone before the dovecote, arms folded, looking formidable. None of Sir John’s household seemed to pay him any notice. That would change with the first blow upon the door.

  While Arthur and Uctred stood watch, frowning blackly in case any man should offer resistance, I delivered a blow at the door near to where the hasp was bolted. Instantly the feathered inhabitants fled the dovecote in a tumult of beating wings. But the door held fast. I swung again, and two of the bolts tore free. As I gathered myself for a third swing of the axe I saw from the corner of my eye a hurrying figure approach. The man did not appear from the manor house, but rather came from the road, beyond our palfreys. I did not wait for the fellow, but with all of my strength delivered another stroke against the door and was rewarded by seeing the door bang open.

  I turned to face the approaching figure and saw ’twas the Kencott reeve. The man was not pleased. His face was red and distorted with rage. Arthur also watched him come near and raised his axe in what even the dullest man could see was a threat to life and limb. This did not improve the reeve’s scowl but did slow his approach considerably.

  Meanwhile three men tumbled from the manor house. None of these had axes, but it seemed likely they could find some quickly.

  Battling Sir John’s servants was not the reason I broke down the dovecote door. What, or who, might be inside was my purpose. I motioned to Arthur and Uctred to follow me into the dim interior of the dovecote, then told them to take position at the door so to deny entry to any who would follow.

  There is little light inside a dovecote – only that which penetrates the place through the holes created to allow the birds entry and egress. But there was enough light to see two trussed, gagged, blindfolded figures upon the filthy straw. I laid my axe aside, drew my dagger, and hastened to the bound figures. I immediately stumbled into a pile of pigeon droppings which had not been cleared. The stink was profound. I regained my feet and began hacking at the cords which restrained the two, the smaller one first.

  ’Twas Walter Smith, and the other was Simon Hode.

  I dimly heard the clamor of angry voices as I cut the fetters, gags, and blindfolds which had shackled Simon and Walter, then assisted them to their feet. They were unsteady, and unsure, I think, of what was happening. I was somewhat confused myself. I had found Walter and Simon, but what I was now to do about it was a new puzzle.

  With Arthur and Uctred at the door, axes ready to cleave the skull of any man who would attempt to enter the dovecote, we were temporarily safe. On the other hand, the dovecote had been a prison for two but could now become a gaol for five. The dovecote, like many things in life, might prove to be easier to get into than out of.

  I wanted to know who had imprisoned Walter and the clerk in the dovecote, and why. This I could reasonably guess but wished to be certain. But other matters forced themselves into my thoughts; namely, how to leave the dovecote without requiring more stitches.

  Arthur and Uctred stood on either side of the door with axes poised to strike. I walked between them and saw the reeve standing just outside the dovecote door. He had assumed a crouch, as if considering whether or not he could force an entry between two upraised axes. He saw me, gradually stood erect, and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Go seek Geoffrey, or Sir John. Tell them I have questions for them.”

  “Sir John is abed,” Jaket said. “Ill.”

  “So he is, but it will be best for his health if he comes here. Geoffrey also.”

  “Do you threaten Sir John? You have broken down his dovecote door. I am newly made bailiff here, and ’tis my duty to see justice done.”

  “Oh? Then why were Walter Smith and Simon Hode held in this stinking place? Such incarceration does not seem just to me.”

  “They disobeyed Sir John.”

  “How so? Was it that they spoke to me of secret matters? Lord Gilbert will be interested to know that his command was disobeyed.”

  “If he ever learns of it,” the new Kencott bailiff said with a smirk.

  “How do you intend to prevent it? Will you wall us in here? Folk in Bampton know we are in Kencott. When we do not appear this night Lord Gilbert will be told and by midday tomorrow he and a dozen or so knights and grooms will arrive here seeking us.”

  The fellow seemed lost for words, and stepped back. Apparently the thought of facing a company of well-armed and unhappy knights was distasteful. Perhaps the alternative was also.

  I spoke again. “Sir John was told to g
ive me all aid in my investigation into the murder of Randle Mainwaring.”

  “The felon was caught, and hanged.”

  “A man died upon a gallows here in Kencott, I know, but ’twas not the man who murdered Randle Mainwaring.

  “Sir John, I think, will not want to run afoul of one of the great barons of the realm. If you persist in blocking our departure Lord Gilbert will blame Sir John. What, then, do you imagine Sir John’s view of your actions will be? My guess is that since you will have brought Lord Gilbert’s wrath upon Sir John, Kencott will soon have another new bailiff. Now, are you ready to bring Geoffrey or Sir John here?”

  I saw Jaket turn and speak to one of the others who had been drawn to the sound of splintering wood. The fellow turned and walked to the manor house. I spoke no more, nor did the reeve made bailiff. We awaited Sir John or, failing his appearance, his son.

  ’Twas the son who soon trotted across the field. Geoffrey slowed his pace when he neared the dovecote and I saw him exchange a knowing glance with his father’s new bailiff. What is it that these two know? I wondered.

  “You did not seek a missing lad or clerk very thoroughly,” I said.

  Geoffrey shrugged. “Who could know they would hide in such a place?”

  “They tied and gagged and blindfolded themselves?”

  “That is how you found them?”

  The young man’s voice seemed genuinely incredulous. He was either an accomplished player or was surprised. My guess, given the wordless exchange with Jaket, was the former.

  “You are in violation of Lord Gilbert’s command that I be given all aid in seeking Randle Mainwaring’s murderer. Do not tell me that the felon has already paid for his crime. We both know ’tis not so. You are in danger of Lord Gilbert’s wrath already. How much more of his choler will you tempt?”

  I saw the youth grow pale and again look to Jaket.

  “I am to return to Kencott tomorrow with instruments and salves to deal with your father’s injured head. If the wound is not dealt with it may fester and bring him to an early grave.”