by Mel Starr
Sir Simon managed a weak scowl in my direction, but otherwise seemed eager to do the sheriff’s bidding. He was immediately upon his feet and with Sir Jocelin and his other companion disappeared into the corridor beyond the anteroom. I heard their rapid footsteps fade as they descended the steps at the end of the passage which led to the ground floor and the castle yard.
“Come,” Sir Roger said, and waved me before him into his chamber. From a window in that room we watched as the three knights entered the yard, took the reins of their horses from grooms, mounted, and spurred their beasts through the gatehouse into Great Bailey Street.
I was pleased to see Sir Simon’s back disappear past the gatehouse, and hoped he would heed the sheriff’s warning. Perhaps in two years’ time his ire would cool and his companions no longer bait him regarding Kate and his misshapen ear. Mayhap he would discover some other lass, one who would not mind a jutting ear, overlooking the deformed appendage for his better qualities. Of these I was unaware, but there must be some, else Kate would not have one time considered the man. I must ask her some day. Then again, perhaps not.
We bid Sir Roger good day, and I took my leave of the sheriff with much thanks. The leather purse hung heavy from my hand, and attracted some attention as we walked the Canditch to Holywell Street and Caxton’s shop. Arthur noted this scrutiny and when we arrived at the stationer’s bid me wait there with Uctred while he retrieved our horses from the stable behind the Stag and Hounds.
“Seen too many folk eyin’ the purse,” he explained. “Won’t do to have you about the streets. Even in day there be folk willin’ to risk their neck for a takin’ like that.”
I thought Arthur’s advice of merit, and while he was gone asked my father-in-law for a length of cord. This I tied under my cotehardie and fastened the purse there, hidden. I appeared then as a young man too much given to his trencher, but when I was seated upon Bruce the bulge would be little noted.
June days are long. The afternoon sun warmed my face as our beasts passed Osney Abbey, but we would reach Bampton before night fell. I was somewhat relieved for this, for although we were three men armed with daggers it would yet be well to be off the roads before darkness overtook us. Several times I turned in my saddle, uneasy that some miscreant might have seen my pouch and collected a band of ruffians and be even now in pursuit.
But not so. We met few men upon the road, and none caught us up. Perhaps the lack of travelers was due to the season. Soon after we passed Osney Abbey we saw families at work haymaking, singing at their labor. Men had swung their long-handled scythes since dawn, and were surely weary, but warm, sunny days must not be lost. Behind their husbands and fathers women and children followed, prodding and turning the hay with forked sticks so it might dry evenly.
There is no rest for tenants and villeins. When the meadows have been cut ’twill then be time to shear the sheep and plow fallow fields once more.
Fatigue etched men’s faces as they swung the scythes, but there was joy there also. Rains had been plentiful, but not so much as to rot the hay in the fields. If there was no deluge until the hay was dried and stacked there would be abundant winter fodder. More beasts might be kept this next winter, for fresh meat come the lean days of April and May. No wonder the laborers smiled as they toiled.
Shortly after the twelfth hour we crossed Shill Brook and turned our horses into the Bampton Castle forecourt. Kate, sitting upon a bench in the sun, awaited me there and was ready with questions of how matters stood with Geoffrey Homersly.
I dismissed Arthur and Uctred, told them to see the horses to the marshalsea, and instructed Arthur to seek the cook and tell him Kate and I required a light supper in our chamber.
While we supped on slices of cold mutton, bread, cheese, and ale, I told Kate of events in Oxford and placed before her Sir Simon’s purse. She stared at it with troubled expression.
“’Twas he, then, who stabbed you,” she said, glancing to my arm.
“Aye. And this eve you have more work. The wound has healed and ’tis time to cut the stitches free.”
“You suffer no more discomfort?”
“None.”
“It was me Sir Simon wished to slay, was it not?”
“Both of us, I think.”
“But I rejected his suit and made of him a laughingstock before his companions.”
“And it was I who won you from him. He had ample reason to resent both of us. No matter; Sir Roger has ordered him from Oxford for two years, nor is he to come near Bampton.”
“Will he obey?”
Kate’s lovely face was clouded with concern. The sheriff’s commands did not bring her much comfort.
“Sir Roger threatened the scaffold did he disobey.”
At this the lines upon Kate’s brow relaxed. She softened more at my next words.
“Tomorrow I will seek Peter Carpenter and Warin Mason and make plans to rebuild Galen House. There is enough coin there,” I nodded to the purse, “to build a house with a fireplace in each room and chimneys at either end.”
“That will be well,” she smiled. “Our babe will be born in November, when winter will be nearly upon us.”
We had nearly finished our meal when Kate spoke again. “What will you now do in the matter of Thomas atte Bridge?”
I had asked myself the same question since speaking with Geoffrey Homersly. I had no good answer.
“Many men had cause to wish him harm, but when I seek to assign the death to one or another I find reason to exonerate rather than blame.”
“Is that what you seek?”
“What I seek?”
“Aye. Do you seek guilt of some men, as Geoffrey Homersly, but innocence of others? What a man seeks, I think, he will often find.”
“I cannot tell,” I admitted. “There are men who, are they guilty of murder, I would rather not know of it, and others, did they slay Thomas atte Bridge, I would have little distress for their penalty.”
“Such are my thoughts,” Kate admitted.
“I have no strategy whereby I might find a murderer,” I sighed. “I intend to set myself to rebuilding Galen House, which thing I can do, and dismiss the death of Thomas atte Bridge. The matter has vexed me long enough. Mayhap, in time, some new clue will appear, or some guilty man will let his tongue slip.”
“If that does not happen,” Kate asked, “will you be content to leave the matter unresolved?”
“I do not know of all the mischief Thomas atte Bridge did in his life. What I do know is vile enough. Perhaps his death was justice for some evil he did, and if I found who took his life, and hallmote or the King’s Eyre send the man to the scaffold, that would be the greater injustice.”
“Do you say this because you believe it so, or to salve your pride that you have not found what you sought?”
“I do not know,” I replied. “I do know that my wound has been stitched long enough.” I arose from my place at table, brought forth scissors and tweezers from my instruments chest, doffed cotehardie and kirtle, and set my arm before Kate. She snipped the sutures with as much skill as she had employed creating them, and I thought then she might make a fine assistant. Mayhap I should instruct her in some rudimentary surgical practice so if some man injures himself while I am distant she might offer aid until I return.
I woke early next day, before the Angelus Bell or the poulterer’s rooster could summon other castle folk from their beds. I had dreamt of beams and bricks and rooftops, and was eager to spend Sir Simon Trillowe’s purse on a new Galen House.
I sought first Peter Carpenter. He walked with me to the pile of cold ashes which had been Galen House, and I explained to him what I wished him to build. I would have a house somewhat larger than Galen House had been, of posts and beams. The spaces between timbers on the ground floor I would have filled with bricks, in the new style. For the upper floor, wattle and daub, whitewashed, would suit. I would have two windows, of glass, in each room, and Warin Mason I would have build another chimney to match
the one which yet stood sentinel over the acrid stink of what once was my home.
“And for the roof,” I concluded, “I will have tile.”
“No more will a man set thatch alight and burn your house, eh?” Peter agreed.
“Nay. Does some felon seek my life in future, he will need to devise some new way.”
Peter told me he would assemble workmen and set to work with his horse and cart hauling away the debris this very day, as he had few other obligations before him. I next called upon Warin Mason and found him hoeing weeds from cabbages in his toft. I told him of the brickwork I wished him to do, and the fellow seemed pleased to leave the hoe to wife and children and set his hand to masonry.
No tilers reside in Bampton. I thought Warin might know of such a man in some greater town. He did, and promised to send for the fellow.
I took dinner in the castle and while we ate I told Kate of my plans. She seemed much pleased at the new house I described. Glass windows particularly caused her cheeks to glow and her eyes to sparkle. I entertained a brief worry that my plans might be beyond Sir Simon’s contribution, but I could not disappoint Kate after making much of her forthcoming residence.
Late in the day I sought a groom of the marshalsea, ordered Bruce made ready, and set off for Alvescot. I found Gerard limping about his wood yard, where were stored beams and poles cut from Lord Gilbert’s forest.
“You’ll want elm for the beams what’ll be upon the ground,” Gerard said when I told him of my plans. “Oak an’ beech’ll do well for the others. Tiles is heavier than thatch, so for rafters you’ll need stout poles. I got enough, I think, dryin’ in the shed there.”
I left the verderer with the understanding that Peter Carpenter would soon call upon him with a list of the timbers needed. Gerard assured me that the wood yard held all Peter would need, and a few glances about the place in the fading evening light told me he spoke true.
Bruce had carried me near to Bampton when I saw, a great way ahead of me, a figure standing in darkening shadows beside the road. As I approached I saw that a man was flinging something about at Cow-Leys Corner. The fellow glanced up from his work, saw me while I was yet far off, and immediately fled. Bruce lumbered up to the place where the man had been busy and I reined him to a halt, curious about what I had seen. From atop the horse my eyes discerned nothing of interest, but surely there must be something here, I thought, else why the fellow’s actions and hasty departure when he discovered he was seen?
I dismounted and searched among the foliage at the verge. The place, I noted, was where Thomas atte Bridge had been buried near two months past. And then I found what had been cast about the grave.
Entrails lay scattered there, near to the wall which enclosed Lord Gilbert’s meadow. I could not identify the beast from which the guts had been torn, but surmised a goat had perished so the ritual I had observed from a distance could take place. Many believe that spirits will not rise in the dark of night to vex the living if the entrails of a goat be strewn about the burial place.
Was there some man of Bampton who feared the ghost of Thomas atte Bridge? Why else undertake to keep his spirit below the sod? Who might so fear a ghost? The murderer? I mounted Bruce and prodded him into motion with a conviction I had seen a thing which might lead me to a felon.
I dismounted at the castle gatehouse and sought Wilfred the porter. He appeared at the sound of Bruce’s great hooves against the cobbles, somewhat surprised at my halt at that place.
“Have you seen a man approach Mill Street from Cow-Leys Corner?” I asked. “He was in haste,” I added.
Wilfred scratched his balding pate and peered beyond me into the dusk. “Seen folk about, but none as was in a hurry,” he replied.
“Were any of these traveling alone? Did you note where they went?”
Wilfred chewed his lip in thought before he replied. “Two was alone. They went on past the castle. That’s the last I seen of ’em. Mill Street can’t be seen from the gatehouse once folk near Shill Brook,” he explained.
Nor can an observer at the castle gatehouse observe those who might turn away from Mill Street to enter the Weald. I began to think I might guess who it was I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner. The fellow had waited ’til near dark, the better to complete his errand unseen, yet early enough that John the beadle would not yet be about the streets of Bampton to enforce curfew. And if the man entered the Weald John would not see him, for the beadle’s duty lay only in Bampton. The vicars of the Church of St Beornwald, as representatives of the Bishop of Exeter, have responsibility for enforcing curfew in the Weald, a thing which neither they nor any other men trouble themselves to do.
I sent Bruce to the marshalsea with the porter’s assistant, advised Wilfred that I might return late, and set off for the Weald. Behind me I heard Wilfred cranking down the portcullis.
If it was Edmund Smith I saw scattering entrails about Thomas atte Bridge’s grave, I wondered where he might have found a goat. Wealthier tenants of Lord Gilbert and the bishop possess a few sheep, and some own goats. I did not think Emma in such company, and before the smith wed her he owned nothing but a few hens.
I walked in the dark to the end of the path and Arnulf Mannyng’s house. A faint gleam through the skins of his windows told that the family had not yet sought their beds. No man wishes to hear pounding upon his door at such a time, but I was impatient to learn the reason for what I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner.
I rapped upon Mannyng’s door and shouted my name to ease the fellow’s mind about who his late visitor might be. A moment later I heard him raise the bar and lift the latch.
I did not seek Arnulf Mannyng because I thought him the man I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner. Rather, I thought he might know who in the Weald possessed goats.
I apologized for disturbing the peace of his evening, then asked about goats. Mannyng stared at me for a moment, then invited me into his cottage and shut the door behind me.
“Why do you ask of goats?” he said. A cresset upon his table provided enough light that I could see a puzzled expression upon his face.
I did not wish for Arnulf, or any other man, to know yet what I had seen along the road. “Have any in the Weald who own goats seen one go missing?” I asked next.
“Strange you ask,” Mannyng replied. “We began shearing the wethers today. I keep six goats with the sheep, but this day I found but five. No sign of the other. Thought it’d run off, or got took by some wild hound.”
“It was killed, I think.”
“A hound?”
“Nay, a man.”
“Who?” Mannyng asked indignantly.
“I am yet uncertain.”
“But you have suspicion?”
“Aye.”
I bid Arnulf good eve, and walked north in the dark toward Mill Street until I stood in the path before the hut of Edmund and Emma.
I was about to put my knuckles to the door, then reconsidered. I am no coward, but neither am I a fool. No man knew where I had gone this night, or to what purpose. Was Edmund the man I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner, and he took amiss my interest in his business there, he might employ those muscular arms to silence me. Edmund has the heart of a cur in the body of a bull.
I have heard it said that the man who fears God need fear no man. That may be so, but I did wish to live to become a father. I set off silently for Mill Street.
Next morn, after Kate and I broke our fast, I sought Arthur, and with him to help draw explanation from Edmund, walked again to the Weald. Emma answered my knock and told me that Edmund was at work this day at his forge. Arthur and I retraced our steps to Mill Street, crossed Shill Brook, and found Edmund pumping his bellows over new-lit coals.
The day promised warmth, and already sweat stood upon Edmund’s brow and lip from his effort at the bellows. He glanced up at our approach, then resumed pumping, as if to say without words that his work was more important than any matter concerning me. Arthur recognized the slight and scowled at the smith’s back.
A smith cannot pump air to his coals forever. He must eventually set about his work. Edmund’s hammer lay upon a table, aside his anvil. I walked to it and picked it up. He would answer my questions before I returned the hammer to him, else he would accomplish no business this day.
Edmund saw me lift the hammer but continued at his bellows for some time, until the blaze was white with heat and even Arthur and I felt beads of sweat upon our brows. The smith finally ceased his pumping, folded his smoky, sweaty arms across his chest and glared at me. We had disagreed about his conduct in the past, so I did not expect a cheerful welcome, but the scowl now leveled at me bespoke more than a year-old dispute. So I thought.
“What have you done with Arnulf’s goat? You needed only the entrails to cast on Thomas atte Bridge’s grave.”
Edmund blanched. His face went from red with heat and exertion to white in a heartbeat. His words denied my accusation, but his visage said otherwise.
“Goat? Whose?” he protested. “I’ve no man’s goat.”
“You discarded the flesh after cutting free the entrails? A terrible waste.”
“Don’t know what you speak of,” he protested, seeming to gather his wits.
“Perhaps we should inspect your house, to see if there be some carcass there upon a spit. Mayhap Emma will remember if you left her last eve for a time, just before curfew.”
“You got no bailiwick in the Weald,” Edmund spluttered.
“True, but you are a tenant of Lord Gilbert, and I saw you last eve casting the entrails of some beast — a goat, I think — over Thomas atte Bridge’s grave, which lies upon Lord Gilbert’s land at Cow-Leys Corner. I suspect the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church will not take offense if I do their work and find a thief and murderer in the Weald.”
My words were not entirely true. I had seen a man at Cow-Leys Corner. This may have been Edmund, or mayhap not. I thought to show the smith confidence that I knew him to be the man and see what was his response.