by Mel Starr
The fewterer had leashed and quieted the hounds when we arrived. The dogs were stiff and alert, their attention focused on a small clearing which they had penetrated in their search. A dense fence of coppiced saplings surrounded this opening, so that to enter we had to pull ourselves through the enclosing scrub. The hem of my cloak caught on a shoot and tore, but not at the place Lady Joan had mended. I resolved to fix the tear myself before Lady Joan might see it and wonder at my careless ways.
I motioned for Arthur and Uctred to begin their work. They scraped snow and leaves from the center of the clearing, then set to work at digging. I traced four lines across the opening with my heel, and directed them to dig along those furrows. The fallen leaves and snow had blanketed the soil, so it was not yet frozen. I could not imagine murderers taking time to bury their victims deeply, so told the men to excavate trenches no more than knee deep.
It seemed Uctred’s fate to uncover bones. He was halfway down his second trench when one of the dogs growled and the hackles stood erect on its neck. A few scoops later, Uctred’s shovel caught on something at the base of his trench. This did not alarm us, for both he and Arthur had found digging through the forest roots an arduous business. But this time, when he yanked the spade from the tangle, it came up with a shred of linen caught in a split at the point. I directed Arthur to cease work on his trench and join Uctred. In half an hour two moldering corpses lay open to the gray sky in a shallow grave. The dogs would not be silenced, so I ordered the keeper to remove them and wait for us at the road.
I turned to Uctred, he being at my elbow as we peered into the grave. “You saw Sir Robert about the castle when he visited; is this the man?”
“I cannot say. They’re too far gone, like…”
I could see he found it irksome to gaze on the decaying bodies. “Was Sir Robert fair?” I asked him.
“Aye, he was,” Uctred nodded in agreement.
Removing the bodies would require more labor, and a conveyance. I asked if Arthur or Uctred would stay to guard the grave while I and the other took the news to Lord Gilbert. The men looked sheepishly at each other and I read in their faces dismay at the thought of spending time alone in an empty forest with unquiet cadavers whose spirits might seek revenge on any who disturbed their rest.
So I sent them to give the account of our discovery to Lord Gilbert and request assistance. My wait at the grave gave me opportunity to inspect the bodies. Flesh was nearly gone, but the clothing was yet whole, though filthy and disarranged. The grave, while shallow, was deep enough that no marauding animal had detected and upset it.
The larger of the two bodies was fair-haired, the smaller was dark. The kirtles of both were of fine linen, once white, now stained with earth and, I thought, blood. Gashes disfigured the kirtles, and it seemed to me darker stains surrounded these cuts. The squire would also have worn a cotehardie, though not so fine as Sir Robert’s. There was no sign of it in the grave. Where, I wondered, was it?
My last word to Arthur and Uctred was to urge them to haste. This they must have taken to heart. One might suppose that sitting on cold, wet ground in a silent forest accompanied only by the dead would cause time to creep. I did not find it so. The sound of voices from the road soon told me that the grooms had completed their mission in good time.
Arthur pushed into the clearing first, Lord Gilbert at his heels. “You have found Sir Robert?” he asked.
“I fear so.”
Lord Gilbert’s eyes fell to the excavation before him. He knelt and peered in. The cold of winter had slowed decomposition, so no stink assailed his nostrils as he bent to look at the bodies. He remained motionless for so long that I began to fear that the sight might cause him to become unhinged.
But Lord Gilbert had seen men slain in battle; some were friends, a few were relatives. This apparition could not disturb him much. He rose slowly to his feet. “’Tis Sir Robert. I have no doubt. And his squire. The lad was slight and dark.”
Lord Gilbert ordered the exhumation of the bodies, and directed that they be taken to Galen House for my inspection when that work was done. I would have objected to this, had I thought of a reasonable complaint. I thought of many reasonable protests while riding Bruce back to Bampton, but by then it was too late to interfere with Lord Gilbert’s command. And he explained himself logically enough as we rode to the town together:
“You are our expert on bones and bodies. This time you will not need to identify the dead. You must tell me and the coroner’s jury what you can of how they died, as you did for the girl found in my cesspit.”
I thought that clear already, and considered telling Lord Gilbert so, but doubted he would be content with a conclusion based on so cursory an examination.
“That may tell us,” he continued, “why they died, though I doubt it. But if you can discover why they died, we may then also know who has done this.”
I agreed with that possibility. But I had deep misgivings that I could learn anything past the how of the business. We parted at Galen House. The reeve, riding behind us, took Bruce’s reins and led him on while I employed my time making another draught of ale and hemp for Henry atte Bridge.
I found Henry where I left him the night before, not that I expected any different. Pale afternoon sunlight filtered through the single window which illuminated the fuming interior of the hut. A smoldering fire continued to burn, putting some heat, and much smoke into the atmosphere. The bed my patient lay on, I saw, was yet flat on its four legs.
“Could you not find someone to raise the bed?” I asked the girl, rather more sharply than I should have, I fear. She began to cry.
“Nay. Asked me brothers. They would not. Too busy in t’fields.”
This seemed unnatural to me. Lifting the head of their father’s bed would be but the work of minutes and in no way harm their work for the day. There is, I thought, some family discord lodged in these huts.
“Very well. I will raise him. First, help me prop him up to take this draught.”
Henry atte Bridge grunted heavily as we lifted him, but took the ale readily.
“Did the potion give you sleep last night?” I asked him. “Aye…the pain returned by morning. I’ve looked for your return, and another draught.”
“Send your daughter tomorrow, after the morning Angelus bell. I will have another draught prepared for the day.”
I walked back up the track to the castle, then along Mill Road to the brook. On its banks I found two round, flat stones of likely size, grasped them with wet, frozen fingers, and returned with them to the hut. I placed them on the packed earth floor, one on either side of the bedposts, and instructed Alice to slide them in place as I lifted the bed. I reminded the girl to come to Galen House in the morning for another draught, then made my way home through the gloom of a winter evening. A cart with two bodies, attended by half a dozen cold, impatient men, awaited me.
My table would have to serve again. The toft behind Galen House was enclosed, so I ordered the bodies moved there. The table was long enough to serve the squire, but Sir Robert overhung it head and foot. He would not care.
Chapter 9
There were advantages to residing across from the churchyard. Being awakened before dawn by the Angelus bell was not one of them. I reasoned that I could learn nothing from the corpses until daylight, anyway, so kept to my bed for two more hours. Had I known who lingered at my door I would not have been so sluggardly.
I stumbled down the stairs and lit a cresset to improve the dim glow from my east window. Before I could slice a loaf of barley bread for my breakfast, I heard a soft knock at my door. I opened it and found Alice, bundled against the cold, shivering there. I bade her come in, and asked how long she had waited there.
“Since the Angelus bell, sir,” she replied.
“Is your father taken worse?”
“Nay, not worse. But the draught you gave him last night no longer serves. He needs another. You told me to come.”
I set about preparin
g the crushed seeds and root of hemp, added some crushed lettuce for good measure, then mixed the stuff in a pint of ale.
The girl watched me work in silence for a time, then spoke: “He’ll not live, will he?” she said softly. It was more a statement than a question.
Not for the last time in my profession, I met an issue for which I had no good answer. Should I destroy all hope, and speak frankly? Should I attempt to preserve hope, especially in a child, when I knew that hope was all that remained? Henry atte Bridge had too many obstacles to overcome: the broken hip, his age, the cold of winter, and the noxious air of his hut among the worst of these. He would not live.
I paused before I answered the girl, sorting these thoughts in my mind. My hesitation was response enough.
“I thought not,” she said quietly. I turned to her, the laced ale before me. The girl stood, trembling yet from the cold, with a tear reflecting the lamp as it coursed down her cheek. “What will become of me?”
“You have family. Your brothers live at the Weald, do they not? Surely one will make a place for you?”
“No,” she whispered, “they’ll not want another mouth to feed. Not mine, ’specially.”
I needed ask only a few questions. The girl gave me the story of her life with little prompting. Henry atte Bridge’s first wife died twenty years before. His sons were angry when, six years later, he married a widow of the town, Alice’s mother. They feared another son who might share Henry’s meager possessions at his death. A daughter born of the union should have allayed their fears, but too much anger had passed between the families. The death of Alice’s mother eliminated the possibility of more contenders for inheritance. This also should have softened the sons, but did not. Then plague struck again. There was fallow land available across the shire for payment of a small fine and rent. Henry atte Bridge’s smallholding might be doubled or tripled by enterprising tenants. But the alienation continued.
I sent the girl back to her father with the draft and what remained of my barley loaf. I had another loaf, of mixed oats and barley, and a finer one of barley and wheat. I feared there might be little to eat in her hut and I had plenty. I must confess that, as I watched her go, I reflected that this child might grow to become a beautiful young woman. Her features were fine, her carriage seemly, and her eyes and hair glistened.
I could put off my repulsive duty no longer. I opened the rear door and approached the bodies. In the light of day I discovered the cause of death quickly. I had not seen this from above the grave, because of the bent position the corpses took in the ground, and in the night, as they were deposited on my table, it was too dark. But now in the day I could see clearly.
There were slashes in both kirtles where blades had wounded the two. These injuries, I thought, did not bring instant death, but the wounds were near enough the heart that whosoever received such a stroke would not live long.
I studied both bodies, but could find no purse, nor were any rings on the fingers or chains about the necks. There had been theft when this murder was done, but I doubted that was the only motive.
Hubert Shillside convened the coroner’s jury next day, and I told them what I had learned. This was murder for murder’s sake. The slayers were unwilling to bury gold and silver, but did not, in my opinion, kill for it. The jury met in the church nave, as it had done when I presented evidence of the bones of Margaret Smith, then retired briefly to the porch, and returned with a verdict that murder had been committed.
The coroner dismissed the jurymen and Lord Gilbert dismissed the coroner. He did not, however, dismiss me.
“I know,” he began as we walked in the churchyard, “that the unraveling of what has happened to Sir Robert should be the duty of a bailiff.”
“And revealing the killer of Margaret Smith,” I reminded him.
“Indeed.” He fell silent for a moment as we walked the path sunk among the graves. How high, I wondered, will the earth over these graves rise? Will my body some day help add another layer to the embanked earth lining this path? Lord Gilbert spoke again, distracting me from my morbid thoughts.
“I must appoint a bailiff before I depart for Goodrich. Tell me…I ask for candor…do you think my reeve, John Holcutt, suitable?”
I did not, but wished to be tactful. It is not easy to criticize a man politely. Once again my hesitation was answer enough.
“I agree,” Lord Gilbert punctuated my silence. “John is an excellent husbandman, and manages accounts well enough. My tenants have chosen him three years now to serve. He would decline the position, but I walk softly with him, and permit him more consideration than I might another because of his abilities.”
“He seems a competent man,” I agreed, “in his management of the manor.”
“Indeed. But to place upon him the burden of bailiff? That, I fear, may extend his duties beyond his talents. And I think a bailiff should be one of higher rank, not drawn from tenants or villeins. The younger son of a knight, or from the gentry, perhaps, would serve.”
Lord Gilbert had gone to pulling his chin as he spoke. I made no reply, for I feared the direction his words were taking.
“To be brief, Hugh, I would have you serve here as my bailiff.” To my raised hand and unvoiced but imminent objection he continued, “No…no…hear me out. You are performing some of the duties of a bailiff already, seeking miscreants in my lands. The townfolk admire you for your service to them. You can continue to perform that duty. John dislikes his position as reeve, which makes him a good man for that work. He will not begrudge me passing over him for bailiff. To the contrary, I think he will be relieved.”
“But I know little of managing a manor,” I protested.
“You grew up on one, where you observed your father. Did he administer well?”
“He did.”
“Then do as you remember him doing, and I will be content. You may safely leave direction of fields and meadows to John. And the tenants here make sensible decisions at bylaw. My steward will preside at hallmote. You need only enforce the decisions of bylaw and hallmote.”
“And collect rents and enforce week-work. I will be the most unpopular man in Bampton.”
“Perhaps. But if you set a child’s broken arm, his father is not likely to deny his half-virgate of week-work on my demesne.”
“I should dislike using my competency to enforce a man’s obligation.”
“He has the obligation whether you serve him or not,” Lord Gilbert replied. “I prefer a bailiff who can persuade my villeins and tenants to their duty rather than compel them. And I will make the service worth your while. Thirty shillings a year…no, thirty-two. And you will live in the castle, of course. You will dine at my table, and have a room there, off the hall.”
When I made no immediate reply, Lord Gilbert continued, “You force a hard bargain. I see you are the man for the job. I will also give you Bruce, or any horse in the marshalsea but for my dexter or the palfreys Lady Petronilla and Lady Joan employ. And a fur coat.” Winter was upon us and Lord Gilbert could see the frayed condition of my cloak and the newly ripped seam. “You will have fodder for Bruce from my stable, and twopence yearly for Christmas oblation.”
When again I did not immediately respond to this demonstration of largesse, Lord Gilbert interpreted my hesitation as a demand for more. “All right, then…thirty-four shillings each year, but not a penny more. That’s my limit.”
“It is not your generosity which troubles me,” I answered. “It is my fitness to serve.”
“I am a better judge of that than you, I think. Serve me one year. If either of us thinks the bargain a mistake, next year at Michaelmas we will conclude the arrangement. You can go back to being surgeon. I will hold Galen House untenanted for you until then.”
With much misgiving I accepted the post.
“Excellent. Now, tell me, what will you do to seek out Sir Robert’s killers?”
“I am lost for direction,” I admitted. “But I think two things must be done firs
t; I will visit his manor at Northleech to learn of his friends and enemies.”
“And the second?” Lord Gilbert asked.
“When we found the squire, he wore no cotehardie. But a search of the forest yielded no other discarded garment.”
“You have lost me,” he acknowledged.
“Where is the cotehardie? Not abandoned in the forest, or we or the foresters would have found it, I think. It was not in the grave nor on the corpse.”
“You think it was taken, with Sir Robert’s purse?” Lord Gilbert mused.
“I do. What do you remember of the squire’s dress?”
Lord Gilbert was of no help at all. He could remember the gait of a fine horse or the coloring of a bulldog, but another man’s clothing made as much impression on him as his chaplain’s sermons. Well, as he grows older arthritis will remind him of mortality and he will attend a sermon more thoughtfully. But he will never give attention to wool or silk unless it adorns a shapely female. He and I, I admit, are much alike.
“Come to the castle with me. The women will know, and I must announce your new duties.”
The women did know. The squire’s cotehardie was green; not a brilliant green, but somewhat faded. It was not a cast-off from some gentleman of greater wealth, for its cut was plain and it boasted no ornamentation.
“Greet my new bailiff,” Lord Gilbert announced when the cotehardie was identified.
I cannot well remember the conversation which followed; nearness to Lady Joan often had that effect on my memory. But it revolved around good wishes from both ladies, and plans for improving the apartment off the hall which would be my home; for the next ten months, anyway. The women left us, making animated schemes for my chamber as they departed.