by Mel Starr
I was of two minds regarding Jaket and the slashed servant. A wounded arm will not usually take a man to the next world, so long as a competent surgeon is available to deal with the cut. But the wound was great enough that no time should be lost in dealing with it.
On the other hand, if I took time to stitch up a lacerated arm, Jaket might die before I could seek information from him. He was going to die. Only the moment was in doubt. Such may be said of all men.
I turned back to Sir John’s new bailiff and bent over him. The anger which I had seen in his eyes at the dovecote was gone. Fear was there now.
No blood issued from Jaket’s lips, so the sword thrust had not penetrated his lungs. And had the thrust pierced his heart, he would have been dead already. This observation gave me hope that he might live long enough to illuminate the obscure happenings in Kencott village.
“I have sent a man for Father Kendrick. Did you hear?” I said.
Jaket nodded.
“So you know that you will die soon?”
He nodded again.
“Father Kendrick will ask you seven questions. If you are to be properly shriven you must answer them truthfully.”
Jaket neither nodded nor spoke. He knew I spoke true.
“One of the questions is thusly: ‘If God grants that you live, will you confess your sins and amend the evil you have done?’ Will you answer, ‘Aye?’”
Jaket again nodded.
“But you will not live. You will have no time to make amends. Will you die with guilt upon your soul? Or will you tell what you know of Randle Mainwaring and Bertran Muth and Henry Thryng?”
“He knows nothing,” Geoffrey bellowed.
“We shall see,” I said.
“Do you wish this man silenced?” Lord Gilbert said to me while looking at Geoffrey deMeaux.
I nodded. Lord Gilbert turned to Sir Philip Dodwell, one of his visiting knights, and said, “If that fellow speaks another word, bind him.” Then he pointed to the road and said in a voice loud enough that Geoffrey would surely hear, “And then shove a handful of that horse dung into his mouth.”
Geoffrey would not interfere further, I thought.
“Did Geoffrey deMeaux slay Randle Mainwaring?” I asked the dying man.
“Nay,” he whispered.
This was not the reply I expected.
“Then who did so? Do not say ’twas Bertran Muth. I know better.”
“I did,” he said.
Another reply I did not expect.
“You? Why so? I know of the enfeoffment which has led to this conflict. What had that to do with you?”
Jaket opened his mouth to speak but no word came forth. His eyes rolled back in his head, he shuddered, then lay still. Dead. Had the man indeed slain Randle Mainwaring? Why? Or did he, knowing death was near, seek to protect Geoffrey deMeaux?
I looked up from the dead man and my eyes fell upon a mended shoe. It was upon the foot of one of Sir John’s grooms who had been unmarred in the fight. ’Twas the man who had delivered the kick which opened my cheek. Perhaps, I thought, he knew of secret matters in Kencott and could be persuaded to speak of what he knew. Being threatened with justice at the hands of the King’s Eyre for attacking Lord Gilbert’s bailiff might loosen the fellow’s tongue.
It did. I stood. All those about me were silent, crossing themselves in the presence of death.
Chapter 18
The man who had lacerated my face stood opposite Jaket’s fallen form. I stepped around the corpse and approached the fellow. In similar situations in the past I have found it profitable to approach such miscreants closely, and did so this day. I was some taller than the man, and so looked down upon him from little more than a hand’s breadth from his forehead. He had a clear view of Kate’s excellent stitchery.
“What is your name?” I barked.
“Uh, Elkin,” he stammered.
“You are in much trouble, Elkin. You have attacked a great lord, and before that you and some others set upon me upon this very road. My cheek will forever bear the mark of that shoe.”
I looked down and pointed to Elkin’s feet. Others followed my gaze and the man shuffled back as if he might somehow escape the regard of so many hostile men. The mended shoe was peculiar enough that all who looked upon it knew that I could not have mistaken it for some other.
“Upon whose command have you done these felonies?” I asked.
The man did not reply, but looked about him as if measuring the distance to the wood and considering if he might run and hide himself there.
“Master Hugh asked you a question,” Lord Gilbert said. My employer had dismounted and followed me to confront Elkin, and I heard his growling voice from just beyond my shoulder.
“’Twas Jaket required me… us, to aid him.”
“You helped him slay Randle Mainwaring?” I asked.
“Nay, he did so. But he demanded that John an’ me help ’im take Randle to Bampton.”
“If Jaket truly murdered Randle, why not bury him in some forsaken place in a wood?” I said. “Why take the corpse to Bampton?”
“Jaket said if Randle was consumed in the St. John’s Day blaze, ’e couldn’t rise when the Lord Christ returns. An’ he’d be consumed so no man would know ’e was dead.”
“Jaket hated Randle so much that he wished to prevent him rising from the grave when the Lord Christ returns?”
“Aye, he did so.”
“Why?”
“All men disliked Randle. ’E was a bailiff.”
Elkin did not explain. Likely he thought identifying Randle as a bailiff was enough reason for the man to be hated.
“But what had Randle done to antagonize Jaket so? Why did he want him dead?”
“’Cause Sir John an’ Geoffrey did.”
“Silence, you oaf,” Geoffrey roared. The youth’s face was purple with rage.
Sir Philip bent to the road and with a gloved hand picked up a yet-warm dropping from one of our beasts. Geoffrey raised his hands and backed away, but two other of Lord Gilbert’s knights moved to stop him. Each seized an arm, held the youth fast, and Sir Philip stepped resolutely toward the cringing lad.
“Nay,” Geoffrey cried.
Sir Philip looked to Lord Gilbert. My employer can grin and appear stern at the same time. Perhaps this is a talent which only powerful men possess. I’ve known few others who can do so.
“Not yet,” Lord Gilbert said. “But keep you ready. If his mouth opens again, fill it.”
Geoffrey looked to the wad of manure in Sir Philip’s hand and tightened his lips.
This diversion now concluded, I turned back to Elkin.
“Why did Sir John and Geoffrey want their bailiff dead?”
I thought I knew the answer to that question, but too many times in the past I have assumed that which was not so.
“He contested their right to the manor of Kencott.”
“Because of the enfeoffment?” I asked.
The groom gave me a startled glance, as if he thought knowledge of Kencott Manor’s past was better hidden than it was.
“Aye,” he finally said.
“Had he brought suit? Or had he threatened to do so?” I asked.
“Tried.”
“Tried? What do you mean?”
“Don’t know for sure.”
“Then what do you know which is unsure?”
Elkin looked toward Geoffrey as if seeking guidance. I followed his eyes to see if the young man shook his head or nodded or gave any other sign which might influence the groom. Geoffrey glanced from Elkin to the fistful of manure Sir Philip held before him and remained impassive.
“Folk do say,” the groom began, “that Randle bribed a clerk of Chancery Court to hear ’is claim to the manor. The clerk told Sir John of what Randle was about, an’ Sir John bribed ’im to dismiss Randle’s suit.”
“So that was the end of it?” I said.
“Nay. Randle saved ’is coin an’ bettered Sir John’s bribe.”
“Aye. Clerk wanted more coin to set Randle’s suit aside.”
“And Sir John paid?”
“Nay. Said ’e was not going to allow some corrupt clerk to plunder ’is purse.”
“So Randle’s suit was to be heard in Chancery?”
“Dunno,” Elkin shrugged. “Guess so.”
“How did you learn of this? Did Sir John share this with you and other of his servants?”
“Nay, never spoke of it to the likes of me.”
“Then how is it you know of the matter?”
“Like I told you, don’t know for sure if ’tis all so.”
“But how did you learn of what you have just told me, true or not?”
“Sir John’s valet.”
“A friend of yours?”
“Aye.”
“What is his name?”
“Henry Cadogan.”
A knight’s valet knows much of his lord’s business. I thought Elkin likely spoke true, and Randle Mainwaring was surely angry at being swindled of his inheritance. Angry enough to bring suit to recover what he believed was rightfully his. A clerk at Chancery Court could not be bribed with but a few pence, or even a few shillings. The bailiff of a small manor like Kencott would find it difficult to accumulate enough funds to sway a clerk at Chancery. And even Sir John would find matching Randle’s bribe with one of his own a costly business. Death would be less dear. Unless, of course, some meddling bailiff from a nearby manor interfered.
“What of Bertran Muth?” I asked. “He was deemed guilty of Jaket’s felony.”
“Stole the horse,” Elkin replied.
“Randle’s beast, hid in the wood?”
“How’d you know that?” Elkin said.
“Never mind. Why do you say Bertran stole the horse of a murdered man?”
“Jaket didn’t know what to do with it, but thought to sell the beast when folk ’ad forgot about Randle. Worth ten shillings, Jaket knew. Sir John ’ad banned folk from the wood during fence month, so he hid it there.”
“And Geoffrey put Walter to work feeding and providing water for the beast?”
“Aye. Jaket thought to sell it in some nearby town when ’e could.”
“How did Bertran find the beast?” I asked.
“Poachin’. Good with snares, was Bertran.”
“He entered the wood against Sir John’s decree?”
“Must’ve, else ’e’d not have found the horse.”
“What then? How did Henry Thryng discover him trying to sell the animal in Burford?”
“Dunno.”
I thought it likely that Elkin spoke true, but if he did not know why Henry Thryng happened to be in Burford at the same time Bertran tried to sell Randle Mainwaring’s horse there, I thought another in the company might. I turned to Geoffrey.
“You hanged a man for a murder he did not do, you and your father,” I said.
“A man may hang for stealing a horse,” he replied.
“Aye, but how did you know he did so? Albreda said your father sent Henry to Burford to sell six capons. That would fetch three pence, no more. Why would Sir John send a man to Burford for but three pence return?”
“Dunno. Father doesn’t tell me of all he does.”
Perhaps the lad spoke true. But I was convinced that Henry Thryng was sent to Burford for more than the sale of six capons. And that Sir John knew Bertran Muth would on that same day be in the town with a horse to sell.
“Henry Thryng’s death was convenient, wasn’t it?” I said.
“Don’t know what you mean,” Geoffrey replied.
“He could not tell me of who sent him to Burford on such an unprofitable errand, or what else he was expected to do whilst in the town. Perhaps your father can explain.”
“He is ill.”
“Aye, and I have the tools and skill to make him well again. I will seek him now and deal with his complaint as soon as he tells me what I wish to know of Bertran and Henry.”
I had no sooner spoken the words than I heard in the distance a ringing bell. ’Twas Arthur and Simon returning with Father Kendrick. The clerk, as was fitting, had abandoned his horse and walked before the priest, ringing his bell. Father Kendrick wore surplice and stole and carried a small sack wherein was the blessed sacrament.
Simon ceased ringing the bell when he and Father Kendrick and Arthur came near. The priest saw our company standing about Jaket’s prone form and guessed the man’s fate. He knelt over the corpse, crossed himself, and began to quietly whisper a prayer for the dead.
When he was done, and standing, Lord Gilbert commanded that Jaket’s corpse be raised from the dust and laid across his palfrey. This was done, and the company began the short walk to Kencott.
Sir John’s valet answered my knock upon the manor house door with wide eyes. Well he might, for before him he saw one of the great barons of the realm, several well-armed knights, and a half-dozen resolute-appearing grooms surrounding his master’s son and a corpse.
The valet’s eyes flashed about, then returned to me. He knew of my promised return this day, and said, “You have come to mend Sir John’s wound?”
“Aye… perhaps.”
“I will tell him you have come.”
The valet was so addled that he did not invite Lord Gilbert or me to enter the house, but fled to seek Sir John, leaving us standing in the yard. While we waited I pointed across the road to Jaket’s house and told two grooms to take his corpse to his wife. They did so as Sir John appeared at the door.
’Tis a remarkable thing that a man so arrogant in the company of underlings can become so humble when in the presence of a superior. Sir John removed his cap and bowed in greeting to Lord Gilbert. His head, however, remained partly covered by the linen strips I had bound about the wound.
The knight saw beyond the group at his door to Jaket’s corpse being taken across the road. At that distance he could not identify the dead man, and so asked.
“’Tis your new bailiff,” I replied. “He died trying to slay me upon the road to Alvescot.”
“Jaket? Do murder? Surely not,” Sir John protested.
“While he lay dying in the road he also admitted the murder of Randle Mainwaring,” I said.
“Randle? Bertran Muth slew him.”
“Jaket said not. And I suspect you have known this.”
“Me? Why would I know of such a thing? And why would Jaket slay Randle?”
“Because you told him to do so, or he knew that you wished it to happen. I know of Randle’s suit to win back Kencott Manor, which he believed rightfully his. Mayhap you thought that he could be appeased if you appointed him bailiff, so he could use his position to cheat you of some of the manor’s profits, as bailiffs are known to do. But Randle was not content with occasional larceny, was he? He wanted more, and was ready to sue to get it. He bribed a clerk at Chancery with coin he had taken from you.”
“Bah,” Sir John scoffed. “You speak foolishness.”
“Makes sense to me,” Lord Gilbert said.
“How did you learn that Bertran Muth had discovered Randle’s horse hidden in the wood? Did Jaket tell you of this?” I asked.
“A horse? In the wood?” Sir John replied incredulously.
“You sent Henry Thryng to Burford with six capons to sell,” I said. “Why would you send a man on such an errand for so little return, unless you knew there would be a greater profit than just a few coins?
“Bertran had to die, you decided, because I had come to Kencott asking of Randle. If I somehow learned from Bertran of the bailiff’s beast being hidden in your wood, I might then guess that Randle was not away visiting a brother, for he had none, but was dead and nearly consumed in Bampton’s St. John’s Day fire.”
“Bertran stole Randle’s horse,” Sir John muttered.
“And for that theft he might hang,” I said. “But that was a convenient excuse to do what you wished, which was to silence the man so I could learn
nothing from him.”
“You said that you would return to deal with my wound,” Sir John said. “Why has Lord Gilbert also come?”
“Many men of Kencott knew I was to return this day. Some did not wish me to do so. Lord Gilbert traveled with me to see that I arrived here safely.”
“What will you do to relieve my injury?”
“Nothing, ’till I have the truth from you. You can go to your grave with the wound, for all I care.”
“This hurt will kill me?” Sir John asked.
Such a wound as he had suffered was not likely to end his life, even though it might make his days unpleasant, but I saw no reason to reassure him of that.
“It may,” I said.
“And you can deal with it so I will live?”
“I can, after you have told Lord Gilbert the truth of matters here in Kencott.”
Sir John stood yet in the manor house door. He looked from me to Lord Gilbert to the others standing before his door.
“I will speak privily to only you and Lord Gilbert,” he said. “In my chamber. The others may wait in the hall. I will send ale.”
Sir John directed a groom to lead the others to his tiny hall, then motioned me and Lord Gilbert to follow him to the stairs. Two chairs and a bench, as well as his bed, furnished the chamber. Knowing my place, I stood before the bench and waited to sit until Lord Gilbert had taken the best chair.
“Now, then,” Lord Gilbert began. “Master Hugh has fit together pieces of this sorry business. I will hear it all from you, with nothing omitted. Your bailiff was found consumed in the flames on my lands, and I will know why and how.”
Lord Gilbert’s tone left no doubt that Sir John would face disagreeable consequences if he did not comply. The knight sat heavily upon the other chair, which he would have done even was he not under duress, then began to speak.
Sir John told of the enfeoffment which placed Kencott in his mother’s hands, free of wardship, and how, rather than comply with the enfeoffment, his father, following Lady Amice’s death, had claimed the manor as his own. Randle Mainwaring’s father was too young when this happened to know that he had been cheated of his inheritance, and a few years later a convenient fire destroyed a part of the manor house and the enfeoffment document with it.