by Mel Starr
“Can you think of anyone who would harbor enough ill will to lie in ambush and kill Sir Robert?” I asked.
“I can.” The man could speak.
“Can you name them?”
“No.”
“The confessional?”
“Aye.”
“I have learned that Sir Robert could be…a difficult man for some to like.”
“And easy for some to hate,” the vicar replied in a somber tone.
“Then you are not surprised to learn that he was murdered?”
“More surprised the attempt was not made long ago.” The man was growing almost voluble.
“Oh?” That one-word question had worked well with Matilda atte Water; I decided to try it with the vicar of Northleech. It was not quite so successful with him, but worked well enough that I resolved to use it more often in the future.
“What have you to do with this matter?” the vicar asked, without malice. He was simply curious. I explained once again the commission Lord Gilbert Talbot had settled on me.
“Murderers must be found out,” the vicar said softly when I had finished my report.
“Even those who attack evil men?” I asked.
“Even those,” he sighed. “It is for God to judge the deeds of men, evil or good.”
“Then we would not prosecute Sir Robert’s killer,” I responded.
The vicar smiled thinly. “You have studied the trivium, I see. You pose an interesting riddle. We must have law, else men would fall on each other like beasts; some men, at least.”
“They would,” I agreed.
“So the king must do God’s work to enforce justice among men. It is his right and duty. So holy scripture tells us.”
It was my turn to nod agreement.
“But men must not take justice to their own hands,” he continued.
“What if a king will not do justly?”
The vicar was silent for a moment. “You pose another engaging question,” he said, finally. “Is a king who behaves badly nevertheless due homage as king? To say otherwise is to assert that God has made a mistake in placing such a sovereign.”
“Does God make kings,” I challenged, “or do previous kings and queens?”
“God knows all,” the vicar replied, speaking so softly that I could barely hear him over the wind whistling through the porch entrance.
“He does,” I agreed. “Does that make him responsible for all, even the deeds of bad kings, or bishops, or any other who may break his laws?”
The vicar’s eyebrows raised at that remark, but he was not deterred. “Job would say, no.”
“True. We must not blame God when men do wickedness in violation of his law.”
It was the vicar’s turn to nod agreement. It was warming to find harmony in such a cold place. “What does God require?” the vicar asked. He answered his own question: “To do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with God,” he quoted from the prophet. This vicar was no illiterate priest, as were some.
“Micah,” I said.
His eyebrows lifted again. Above that nose, it was an impressive feat. “You know the scriptures?” he asked.
I explained that I had studied at Oxford. I generally avoid mentioning that, fearing resentment from village priests, most of whom had studied nowhere but at the feet of some other equally untutored priest. This vicar sighed, and remarked that he would have liked to complete a term or two at university. He was envious, but not jealous.
This philosopher’s discussion was entertaining, but not productive. I am suspicious of philosophers. There is nothing so foolish that, allowing his thoughts freedom, some philosopher has not said. I directed the discussion back to Sir Robert’s untimely end.
“Sir Geoffrey gave me to believe that Sir Robert made enemies through his, uh, unwanted attention to ladies.”
“They were not all ladies, and the attention was often welcome.”
It was my turn again to nod knowingly. Distant witnesses might have thought us two ravens pecking at the ground. When the vicar did not continue, I followed.
“He paid court to wenches?”
“He did.”
“From his father’s manor?”
“Aye.”
“But you will not tell me who?”
“I cannot. My pledge at the confessional screen…”
It was my turn again to nod. “Such maids, I concluded, were foolish to think his court was anything but dalliance.”
“They were,” he sighed, “but a wench may believe a foolish promise if he who makes it be convincing.”
“Sir Robert could be convincing?”
It was the vicar’s turn to nod.
“Did he promise marriage to a wench?”
“Nay, not that I know…but promised a lass he’d set her up in comfort as mistress.”
“And is her father a man to take action?”
“Dead of plague, two years ago.”
“A brother, then?” I wondered aloud.
“All younger, just lads. Probably know nothing but they have a nephew.”
“Does Sir Geoffrey know of this grandchild?”
The vicar’s turn to nod. “Worst of it is, he demanded leirwite and childwite from the lass. Sixpence, he required of her.”
“And he knew the father.”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Does the child thrive?”
“He survives. Sixpence, from them who had not two farthings to rub together.” The man sighed heavily at the injustices of the world.
The conversation continued, but I learned nothing more of Sir Robert. I bid the vicar farewell with the wish that we might meet again, and set Bruce toward home on the Oxford – Gloucester road. I could hear behind me in the distance the vicar ringing the noon Angelus bell, the sound carrying a mile or more on the gale blowing against my back.
It was near dark when I returned to the inn at Burford. I saw Bruce put to the stable and oats, then availed myself of bed and board, although not in that order.
The howling wind did not keep me awake long, but before I fell to sleep I heard, over the snoring of my companions, the hiss of snow driven against the shutters. Next day the snow was so fierce that I determined to spend the day with my thoughts, beside the fire. Bruce was tired from three days of travel and needed rest as well.
Snow continued the second day, but not so severe. One day of idleness might serve a worthwhile purpose; two days would not. Although it was Sunday, I decided to continue my journey. I directed a hearty feeding for Bruce, and ate well of the landlord’s unsavory table myself. I lodged a loaf under my cloak for midday, and pointed Bruce south up the hill and into the drifted road leading to Shilton and Bampton.
I saw no living soul, nor beast nor fowl, on the way to Shilton. The road lay unmarred before me. But Bruce was stout and rested, and broke the way with little strain.
Shilton lay buried, roofs white under their load of snow. Smoke wafting from under cottage eves and tracks in the snow where inhabitants had ventured out to the church, or to care for livestock or poultry, indicated that there was life under the white blanket. The house I sought had such footprints at its door. I knocked, and was admitted.
“Who…ah, it is the surgeon of Bampton. Caught in the storm? Where did you spend the night? Come in.”
I answered the older man’s questions, then turned toward a corner of the room where I saw Thomas at a table, spoon in hand and a bowl of pottage before him. “I would speak to you again of Margaret Smith,” I said.
The youth shrugged. My request seemed not to trouble him, but he took no more of his meal.
“Perhaps you will accompany me?” I asked, and motioned toward the door. “’Tis no day to be out,” he replied. “You may speak here.” He looked at his parents as he spoke. His meaning was clear: “I have nothing to hide.” But I knew now he did.
“You know of Matilda atte Water, of Burford?” I asked.
“Aye.”
“She prowls about at ni
ght, as you may know,” I told them. “Mad as a March hare,” the mother interjected.
“She goes to the churchyard, to speak to her husband. Early summer she went one evening, late, after curfew bell, and found two lovers quarreling behind the churchyard wall.”
I waited, but this information brought no comment from Thomas Shilton. So I pressed on.
“Matilda says ’twas you and Margaret.”
“She is weak in the head,” Thomas said evenly, and went back to his cooling bowl of pottage.
Between mouthfuls he spoke again. “Margaret and I quarreled on t’riverbank, as you well know. I never disputed with her in t’churchyard…or any other place but t’river.”
“Matilda knows you well?” I asked.
“Aye,” his mother entered the conversation again. “She were midwife to many hereabouts, ’till she went soft in t’head. No one’ll have her now, nor for ten years past an’ more.”
“She knows you well, so you say, and says so herself.”
“How could she see who was in t’churchyard at night?” Thomas challenged.
“’Twas near full moon. What did you promise Margaret?”
“Promise?” The youth was surprised, or acted so.
“Matilda overheard Margaret protesting your broken promise – to care for her if she was got with child.”
“With child?” I saw Thomas’ mouth drop, and he laid down the spoon. “I promised Margaret nothing. We – that is, I – assumed I need make no promise.”
“Oh?” (This was fast becoming my favorite word.)
“I supposed she knew, so I made no promise.”
“Knew what?”
“That when she decided, we should wed.”
“Had you asked her?” The light was dim, for the commons will not burn a lamp or candle when daylight, no matter how thin, gives light, but I thought I saw him redden at the question.
“Aye…well…not like askin’, actually.”
“Then how, actually?”
“Oh, we’d talk about how many children we’d have. What I could do with another yardland; perhaps rise to gentry someday.”
I understood why such conversations might lead a man to think the question of marriage had been answered. “You said that when you quarreled at the river she spoke of a gentleman keeping his promise.” I added.
“Aye, she did. When was I supposed to have had this dispute in t’churchyard?”
“About Whitsuntide. Matilda does not remember exactly.”
Thomas smiled. “She remembers what did not happen, and cannot remember what did.”
“You insist you were not there?”
“Yes,” he answered with more vehemence than I had yet seen from him. “It may have been Margaret in dispute with a man, but the man was not me.”
“He was broad-shouldered and fair, like you. Are there others Margaret knew well who fit such a description?”
“Walter, the hayward’s lad,” said the father.
Thomas chuckled softly. I turned to him with raised eyebrows. “All the lads knew Margaret, but you’re askin’, did Margaret know him?” Thomas commented.
“Well, did she?” I asked.
“Knew of him. Would never meet ’im past curfew in t’churchyard.”
“Oh?”
“Had no prospects,” the father spoke again. “Handsome an’ strong as Thomas, but she’d not be interested in a hayward’s son.”
“I have been trying,” I told the three, “to log this churchyard encounter in to the last events of Margaret’s life. Matilda’s was, I think, the last sight any acquaintance had of her yet alive, but perhaps for her father.”
“If such a fool as Matilda heard or saw anyone in t’churchyard at all. Talks to her husband, indeed,” the mother exclaimed in a superior tone.
I decided to lay my knowledge out for all to see. “You claim not, but a witness says you quarreled with Margaret Smith but a few days before you took a cartload of oats to Bampton Castle. You returned next day. Margaret was not seen alive again.”
“You speak foolishness,” Thomas said sharply.
“Put yourself in my place.” I wished someone could be in my place, for this work was repugnant to me.
“Put yourself in mine,” he replied. “I was to marry a beautiful maid; over-spirited, perhaps. I’d made no promises her father would take amiss. An’ should I wish to kill her, why would I put her in Lord Gilbert Talbot’s cesspit? There are barren places along the road I could have hid her. What of that?”
What of that, indeed? I did not speak for a time. I remembered well our first meeting, when to spare him sorrow upon sorrow I had refrained from telling Thomas where the girl was found.
“How did you know Margaret was found in the cesspit?” I finally asked.
I saw him swallow, but not a mouthful of pottage. That lay cold in his bowl. He replied readily enough, “Roger atte Well told me.”
“Who is he?”
“A villager here. Was a villager here. Took ill a fortnight ago; could not rise from his bed after three days, and died six days past.”
“How did he know of this?”
“His sister married a cooper in Witney. T’cooper’s brother is cooper in Bampton,” Thomas replied.
“So gossip spread this far? Has Roger a widow?”
“Aye.”
“Where might I find her?”
“She lives in t’house beside t’well,” Thomas replied evenly. “If you would speak to her, I will take you there…now, if you wish.”
I did wish it. Together we pushed through the snow to the widow’s cottage. She answered the knock at her door suspiciously, startled that anyone would call on her on such a day. But at second glance she recognized Thomas and admitted us.
I told the woman that I had learned from Thomas of her husband’s death and expressed my sorrow for her loss.
“Got soaked comin’ home from Witney,” she explained. “Made some staves for ’is brother-in-law; lives in Witney. I told him he should await a better day to take ’em, but he would not delay. Wanted t’money, y’see. Caught a fever two days later, an’ now here I am, an’ he’s gone. Little use a few pence is to me now.”
“Did your husband, on his return, speak to you of events in Bampton? About a girl’s death there?” I asked.
The woman’s eyes narrowed as she tried to divine a motive for my question. She was suspicious, although I tried to make my tone as gentle as possible.
“Nay. Don’t recollect he said anythin’ ’bout anybody dyin’ in Bampton. I know who you mean, though. Wan’t any of our business, was it?”
I turned to peer through the gloomy cottage at Thomas, but directed my words to the woman. “He said nothing about the manner of Margaret’s death, or where she was found?”
“Nay. I told you, he said naught about it.”
“How much did he receive for his staves? Did he say?”
“Oh, aye. Fourpence for t’bundle.”
“Did he learn of other Bampton town gossip on his journey?”
“Aye,” she chuckled lowly.
“What did he learn?” I leaned forward as if I was a fascinated co-conspirator in exchanging tales.
“You live there,” she replied. “You should know all.”
“Perhaps I have missed something? I have no wife to keep me informed.”
The woman chuckled again but was otherwise silent, considering, I suppose, whether or not to enlighten this foolish man regarding things he should already know.
“He spoke of Lady Joan,” she said finally.
“Oh?’ The one-word question worked again, this time assisted by a raised eyebrow. I had seen Lord Gilbert perform this asymmetrical feat and was laboring to perfect it myself. The woman answered readily.
“Word is she traveled to Cornwall to catch a husband, but,” she cackled, “he got away.”
“Anything else?” I prompted.
“Of Lady Joan? No, not that I recall.”
“Of townsfolk, then?
”
“Hah. S’pose it’ll do no harm, as I don’t know the woman, but rumor is there’s a wife of the town grown unnatural fond of the smith.”
Bampton’s smith rarely scrubbed away soot and sweat. On approach he could be smelled from thirty paces. Fondness for him, bachelor though he was, might be construed as unnatural in several ways.
I thanked the woman for her time and rose to leave. Both she and Thomas peered quizzically at me. Why should I be satisfied with information so inconsequential and disjointed? When we were well away from the house, Thomas voiced his puzzlement.
“What was that about, then?” he challenged. “Did you not know of Lady Joan, or the smith?”
“Not the smith, no, although I take her story lightly there. Does it not seem odd to you, Thomas, that her husband would speak to her of such ordinary things but not tell her the startling news of a murdered girl found in Lord Gilbert’s cesspit? If he would tell you, why not his wife?”
“You doubt my word?” he challenged.
“It had occurred to me.”
“No man can say I’ve been false to him, nor woman, either! Ask any in Shilton. I was not with Margaret in t’churchyard when the crone accuses me, and Roger atte Well did speak to me of Lord Gilbert’s men finding my Margaret!”
“Your Margaret?”
“Aye! She would have been. When whoever was misleading her affections tired of her.”
“Would a man have grown tired of Margaret?”
“A gentleman might have…would have, surely. I would not.”
I thought I heard a choke in his voice. But perhaps it was the wind whipping snow about the eaves of his dwelling as we approached.
He stopped at the door, blocked it, and turned to me. “You think I killed her, then?”
“I am unsure,” I replied. “But I will tell you there is no warrant to accuse any other.”
“Will Lord Gilbert’s bailiff charge me?”
“I do not know.” That was no lie. I did not know, and saw no point in yielding more information to him then. “Murder is not business for a manor court, as you well know. The king’s sheriff, in Oxford, will take whatever steps he sees fit.”
“Aye,” he muttered, “at Lord Gilbert’s word and the coroner’s court.”