Unhallowed Ground hds-4

by Mel Starr

  Hubert Shillside I could discount, as my attacker was surely right-handed. But Peter Carpenter, Arnulf Mannyng, Walter Forester, and Edmund Smith remained as potential murderers. I could not envision Peter or Arnulf attempting to silence me if to do so would harm Kate. Fear, however, may drive a man to do what he otherwise would not consider. My thoughts of Walter and the smith were not so benign. They seemed less likely than Peter and Arnulf to concern themselves with an innocent victim of their vengeance, but seemed also less likely than the others to have wished harm to Thomas atte Bridge. Edmund had reason to resent Thomas and the blackmail he did, but it seemed to me the smith would not have delayed revenge for more than a year. Edmund never seemed a patient sort.

  I had seen Arnulf ride a horse, and this he did often enough that he owned a saddle, crude as it was. But did he possess a dagger with such a long blade as the one which pierced my arm?

  Peter Carpenter also possessed a horse, but would own no riding boots. He would have chisels among his tools as well as a dagger of some sort, and the injury done my arm could have come from a chisel as well as a dagger. The wound was caused by a thrusting stroke rather than a slash.

  And what of Edmund? Like Peter, he would own no shoes suitable for stirrups, but he was a smith, and could at his forge make any weapon he desired.

  Kate and I sought our bed as darkness fell upon the castle, secure behind gate and portcullis from him who sought to do us harm. I lay abed considering Arnulf, Peter, Walter, and Edmund, but before sleep came I found reason to dismiss all four. Was it possible there was another man in Bampton or the Weald whose hatred of Thomas atte Bridge washed beyond that miscreant to engulf me?

  I woke before the Angelus Bell with the same thought occupying my mind. If some man I did not yet suspect murdered Thomas atte Bridge, and sought my life to preserve his own, I must devise some way to learn of him. I decided that after I broke my fast I would seek Father Thomas de Bowlegh.

  Since my return from Exeter I had spoken but briefly to the vicar. I am like most men, I believe. I see little merit in reviewing my failures with another. This may be mistaken behavior, but conceit often interferes with wisdom. I had traveled to Devon seeking a murderer and, as Father Simon predicted, I found instead a walking skeleton who was not at all the man who once served as curate at St Andrew’s Chapel. That earlier John Kellet might have taken the life of another from spite, but it was difficult to envision the new Kellet doing so. Nor could I see Kellet with the strength to subdue Thomas atte Bridge and carry him to Cow-Leys Corner, even with the aid of another.

  I found Father Thomas at his vicarage, preparing to cross the lane to the church for nones.

  “Master Hugh,” he greeted me with a sober expression. “A good day to you… although my wishing will not make it so, I fear. I have heard of your removal to the castle.”

  “And you know the cause?”

  “Aye. ’Tis an evil thing, that a man would seek to burn another man’s house. There has been little rain the past fortnight. All roofs are dry. Set alight one roof and half the town might burn to ashes.”

  Concern for my own danger had obscured the plight of the town should Galen House have caught fire. Would Peter Carpenter have done such a thing? His house and shop are but two hundred paces from Galen House. A conflagration begun there could engulf his property. But perhaps he did not think of that in his determination to end my probe of Thomas atte Bridge’s death, if he was the guilty man, which I increasingly doubted.

  “Since St George’s Day, when Thomas was discovered at Cow-Leys Corner, have you seen any man joyful of his death?”

  The vicar chewed upon his lower lip and pondered the question before replying. “I’ve seen no man sorrow for it. Thomas had done injury to many folk.”

  “Including me,” I smiled ruefully, and rubbed my skull where atte Bridge had twice delivered strokes in darkened churchyards which raised knots upon my pate. As I rubbed my scalp I thought I could yet detect the lumps left there by his blows.

  “Aye,” Father Thomas agreed. “There are those who think you had better reason than most to see Thomas atte Bridge buried in unhallowed ground.”

  I had not considered this. While I sought a murderer, and my search became known in the town, there were those who saw me as a likely source of vengeance against the dead man. I must be doubly careful in my quest, else in accusing another, could I find cause to do so, folk might believe I was seeking to deflect suspicion from myself.

  “If you hear of any man more pleased than most that Thomas atte Bridge no longer vexes the town, I would know of it.”

  “You will not give over pursuit of a murderer, then, even after so many weeks with no success? Surely the trail now grows cold… and remember, many yet believe there was no murder, but suicide.”

  “Aye, many believe so. But you have heard my evidence.”

  “Aye,” he sighed. “And so, like you, I believe a murder done. But if you quit the search few will think the worse of you for it. Most wish that nothing but a suicide happened at Cow-Leys Corner.”

  “The man responsible for Thomas atte Bridge’s death is the one who seeks to burn me in my bed, so I believe.”

  “Oh,” the vicar replied thoughtfully. “The fellow must think you close on his trail, then?”

  “He is mistaken. I could select ten men at random upon Bampton’s streets and find eight Thomas atte Bridge had wronged.”

  “Aye,” Father Thomas chuckled wryly. “And the other two would have suffered at his brother Henry’s hand.”

  “Do you know Sir Reynald Homersly, of Cote Manor?”

  “Aye.”

  “He is another Thomas atte Bridge wronged.”

  “At Cote? How so?”

  “Three years past he hired Henry and Thomas to plow. Said they worked but a few days, then sought their pay and came no more. Complained of no time to labor upon their own strips in the Weald. Next day a calf was gone from Sir Reynald’s barn.”

  “Sir Reynald believes Thomas and Henry made off with it?”

  “He does. Could prove nothing.”

  “How does the Lady Amecia? She was sorely grieved when plague took their youngest lad five years past. ’Tis well Sir Reynald’s older lad is well.”

  “She seemed well enough. Sir Reynald has an older son?”

  “Aye. Can’t recall the lad’s name. I remember he was sent off to be squire to some knight of Oxfordshire and learn the arts of a gentleman. Near old enough now to be knighted, I’d think.”

  “His father will find use for him when he returns to Cote.”

  “Unless he attaches himself to the retinue of some great lord. Some would prefer to be a small fish in a great sea, like London, than a large fish in a pond like Cote.”

  Father Thomas spoke true. Nobles are fond of exhibiting their power with the number of knights in their train. Cote would offer a young knight little compared to life serving a powerful gentleman. Perhaps Sir Reynald’s son had made his choice, and that was why he was not spoken of when I visited Cote.

  I enjoined Father Thomas again to keep ears alert for any who spoke gleefully of Thomas atte Bridge’s death and turned to leave the vicarage when he called out to me: “’Twas the sheriff… Sir John Trillowe.”

  “Who?”

  “Sir Reynald’s lad. I remember now. He is squire to Sir John. As Sir John was dismissed from that post, he’ll need fewer retainers. Likely the lad will return to Cote when his service to Sir John is ended.”

  I agreed, and considered this information while I returned to the castle. My path took me past Galen House, now dark, its shutters closed, its chimney cold. If I walked past the house each day its condition would, I thought, inspire me to greater labor to find the man who slew Thomas atte Bridge.

  After dinner at the castle, which, according to Arthur, was much improved now that Lord Gilbert’s bailiff once again took meals in the hall, I spent the afternoon seeing to business of the manor. Some obligations cannot be set too far aside, even
to seek a murderer.

  I lay abed that night considering where I might seek truth. That I must redouble my efforts if I wished to return to Galen House was sure. But would my toil bring success? A man may spend much of his life seeking truth, yet not find it unless he search for it where it may be found. No hunter’s effort will find a stag in the castle marshalsea; no tenant’s labor will harvest oats in a field planted to barley. To find the truth of Thomas atte Bridge’s death I must seek it where it may be found, else all my struggle will be in vain.

  This was not a reassuring thought to propel a man to restful slumber.

  Next morn I awakened to the distant sound of the Angelus Bell from the tower of the Church of St Beornwald. The tolling of the bell did not cease, however, but continued; a slow, mournful repetition. Someone was near death, and the passing bell warned all to pray for the soul of him who was departing this life.

  I did not take time to break my fast, but dressed hurriedly and with a word to Kate of my intention left the castle to seek news of who it was dying in Bampton. None of Lord Gilbert’s tenants or villeins had been ill, that I knew of, but several are aged, and death may come to any man, no matter his years.

  I found Father Ralph and his clerk on Church View Street. He was returning to his vicarage, he told me, having been called to the Weald to shrive Philip Mannyng. Mannyng was the bishop’s tenant, so I had no duty in the matter, no heriot to set, but I thought it appropriate to visit the Weald and express sympathy to those who mourned.

  I found Philip’s family crowded into the house when I arrived. Amabil was silent. She had mourned her husband for many days as he lay fading from life in his bed, so had few tears remaining, I think. Arnulf also was silent, but his thoughts were transparent. He strode about the room, fists balled at his side, and when he noticed my arrival spared but a brief nod to me before he resumed his pacing. His brow was deeply furrowed, and his lips drawn tight against his teeth.

  Was Arnulf angry regarding his father’s death? Or was his stalking and unwelcoming scowl but the way of a man in sorrow? I did not know Arnulf well enough to interpret his moods. It seemed to me he viewed my presence with distaste, but why? I had nothing to do with his father’s injuries or his death, and had provided soothing herbs to help the old man in his pain. Was the son bitter that I now sought one who had murdered the man who injured the father? Was Arnulf that man? His expression said this might be so.

  Words at such a time are often insufficient. And many words are no more suited to the moment than few. To speak the appropriate words and no more is a skill. Some folk believe that by speaking many words a few in the bundle might be found to suit the occasion. I am not such a one. I expressed condolence to Amabil and Arnulf with few words. Amabil replied with thanks, but Arnulf simply nodded and continued his pacing. This was not convenient for him or others, for the house was small and crowded with family and neighbors. Arnulf seemed not to notice, and the mourners made way for him as he traversed the room.

  I bid Amabil good day — an affectation of custom, for surely it would not be — and left the house. The day had dawned cloudy, and now rain began to fall as I returned to the castle.

  Rain continued throughout the day and night, so when mourners began the procession from Philip Mannyng’s house in the Weald to St Beornwald’s Church the streets were deep in mud. Arnulf Mannyng was one of four men who carried Philip upon his bier at the head of the procession, immediately behind the three vicars of St Beornwald’s Church. All who walked behind the corpse seemed clear-eyed and walked without lurching. The wake must have been a quiet and solemn affair.

  I had another motive beside honoring a good man on his last journey to the churchyard. I wished to see the prints Arnulf Mannyng’s shoes might make in the mud of street or churchyard. Too many mourners followed the corpse to see what marks Arnulf’s shoes made in the street. His footprints were obliterated by those who came behind.

  I moved to stand close to Arnulf when he and his companions set down their burden in the lych gate. But again the press of other folk made it impossible to see what mark his shoe made in the mud.

  At the churchyard, after the funeral mass, I found a place behind Arnulf and so was able to examine his footprints in dirt freshly excavated from his father’s grave. His heels made no deep impression, and I saw no groove across the sole. It was as I thought when I saw him a few days past upon his beast. He was not accustomed to riding a horse, and his equipage for doing so was crude and seldom used. Unless Arnulf possessed other shoes or boots, he had not been in my toft. Most men of his rank own but one pair of shoes, and if they have another it is likely they will be rough, wooden-soled and made for work in the fields. I did not know whether I should be pleased at the discovery or not.

  Hubert Shillside, John Kellet, and Arnulf Mannyng I had absolved of Thomas atte Bridge’s death, although I was prepared to be mistaken should I learn some new thing which might lay murder at the feet of one of these, especially some new thing of John Kellet. Peter Carpenter, Walter Forester, and Edmund Smith remained of those I knew to have reason to desire vengeance against Thomas atte Bridge. Would any of these attempt to stop my inquiry by burning Kate and me in our bed? Did they wear shoes meant for a knight? Would Peter burn a house so near his own the flames might spread and consume him as well? Did he possess a dagger? Or would he be so enraged that he would pierce me with a chisel?

  I could not answer “aye” to any of these questions. I sought truth in the wrong place. It was not to be found in Bampton, I decided, but in Cote. Sir Reynald could not seek to silence me, but he had a son who might. Sir Reynald might have provoked this son to revenge against Thomas atte Bridge and to my destruction. Why he would do so I could not tell. Would a man fan the coals of a grudge into flame after three years? Would even a hot-headed youth kill to avenge a stolen calf? Would he seek to end my search for him when I had given no sign that I suspected the knight? Indeed, when the first attack came against Galen House, I knew nothing of the man.

  Next day the rain had ceased. The sky was bright blue and dotted with clouds scudding west to east in a brisk wind. It was a good day to travel. I told Arthur and Uctred they would accompany me to Cote again that day, and to make ready to set out after dinner.

  Sun and wind had dried the roads, so we arrived dry-shod at Cote. As we entered what remained of the plague-stricken village I saw a cotter hoeing weeds from his patch of leeks and onions. I halted, cleared my throat to warn the fellow of my approach, for his back was to the road, then entered his toft. He stood erect, leaning upon his hoe, and stared suspiciously at me as I drew near. Strangers entering isolated villages often bring such a response.

  I smiled to put the fellow at ease. This seemed a failure. His expression did not change, and he seemed to grip the hoe the tighter.

  “Good day. We come from Bampton. Can you tell me if Sir Reynald’s older son is yet in Cote, or has he returned to Oxford?”

  “Geoffrey?”

  “Aye, Geoffrey.” Now I had a name, which before I had not.

  “Ain’t seen ’im in years.”

  “I heard he had returned from Oxford for a time.” This was a lie. May the Lord Christ forgive me.

  The cotter scratched himself, smiled wryly, then replied, “Nay. Not been seen in Cote since before my Matty perished.”

  “Matty?”

  “Me wife. Took ill two winters past. Young Geoffrey went off to Oxford summer afore that. Three years it’d be now, near.”

  “And he’s not returned?”

  “Did once, I heard. I din’t see ’im, but word gets out. Sir Reynald wanted ’im to return to Cote when ’e was knighted. Geoffrey had other plans. Manor house servants said as there was hard words. Geoffrey ain’t been seen in Cote since, far as I know.”

  “You are sure of this?”

  “Aye. Was ’e to return, the village would know of it.”

  “He was sent off to Oxford to serve as squire to the sheriff, was he not?”

  “Ay
e, but sheriff had little use for more retainers, so ’twas said, so Geoffrey become squire to sheriff’s son.”

  “Sir Simon?”

  “Uh, aye. Believe that was ’is name.”

  I thanked the fellow for his conversation and returned to the road. Arthur and Uctred had remained there, but the toft was humble and so close were they to the cotter, they had no difficulty hearing the words exchanged.

  “That squire what you patched up back before Christmas, after him and Sir Simon was sliced up on the Canditch… suppose that was Sir Reynald’s lad?” Arthur asked.

  I did so suppose, and had the same thought which Arthur voiced. If Sir Reynald and his son had a falling out near three years past, and the youth had not been seen in Cote since, it was not likely the lad would strike down another who had wronged his father, nor would he know of my pursuit of the man who did. And if he did not slay Thomas atte Bridge, he had no cause to stop my search for the felon who did so. Geoffrey Homersly did not try to burn Galen House.

  I saw no reason to approach the manor house at Cote to confront Sir Reynald concerning his son. The man endured enough sorrow, I thought, without my adding to it. I turned to the west, my face warmed by the slanting sun, and Arthur and Uctred fell in silently behind. I was left with but two men Thomas atte Bridge had wronged who might have done him to death: Walter Forester and Edmund Smith.

  Walter worked regularly with sharp tools, and might have plunged one of them through my arm. And Walter, with his father and brother, would use horses to draw carts full of timbers and firewood from Lord Gilbert’s forest. Would he occasionally ride upon a beast, so as to put cross-grooves in the soles of his shoes from stirrups? That seemed improbable.