The Unquiet Bones

by Mel Starr

  “Ah, I see. And this is more likely to happen when ’tis cold?” I asked.

  “It is,” he nodded in agreement.

  “Then I shall ask Lord Gilbert to provide a warm blaze in the great hall,” I smiled. “I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon in Lord Gilbert’s service on his lands in Bampton.”

  “Oh…I remember Bampton. We did well there.”

  “But for losing your contortionist and her lad,” I finished his remark for him.

  “Aye, we did so,” he muttered.

  “She was Hamo’s daughter, I heard.”

  “She was. A pert lass.”

  “She was, you say. But surely she is living yet…somewhere?”

  I watched closely for the juggler’s reaction to my assertion. He shrugged and looked away. “’Twas but a manner of speakin’. Hamo says she’ll come round when she thinks time an’ enough has passed an’ he won’t throttle the lad.”

  “Will that time come soon?”

  “Aye. It has already,” the juggler sighed.

  “Hamo misses his daughter greatly, then?”

  “He does. I’ve heard ’im call her name in the night…when he thinks all asleep.”

  “How old was the girl?”

  “Ah…seventeen, perhaps.”

  “And the lad?” I asked.

  “They were of an age. Grew up together,” he replied.

  “The boy was part of your company when a child?”

  “Aye. Father juggled, like me, an’ ’is ma was acrobat ’til he come ’long. But she stood for the knife-thrower we had then ’til she perished of t’black death when first it came on t’land.” He crossed himself as memory of that time rolled across him.

  “The lad’s father perished then, also?”

  “Nay. Took to his bed six, seven years ago just after Candlemas an’ never rose from it. He was older, like.”

  “So Hamo let the boy stay on? What did he do to earn his keep?”

  “’Bout anything Hamo’d ask; he was right willin’ to please. Saw to t’horses and carts, mostly. He was learnin’ to juggle; maybe take my place when I lose my competence.”

  “Will that be soon?” I asked.

  “Nay,” he chuckled. “So long as I keep me hands warm.”

  “Was Hamo surprised,” I asked, “when they left the troupe together?”

  “Aye. We all was.”

  “Why so? Did they give no sign of fondness for each other?”

  “Nay, I saw no sign. Oh, the lad was fond enough of Eleanor – Hamo’s daughter was named Eleanor, for the great queen, y’know – but she’d not return any suit of his…so I thought.”

  “Why so? Was the lad ill-formed, or dull of wit?” I asked.

  “Not more so than t’rest of us,” he smiled. “But Eleanor had lads in every town would have offered marriage. A young burgher of Winchester would have had her for wife when we were last there.”

  “What,” I wondered aloud, “did Hamo think of that?”

  “Oh,” the juggler paused, “he was torn, I’ll tell you.”

  “How so?”

  “Every father wishes his daughter well wed, an’ Hamo had little enough for Eleanor’s dowry. But no man wishes to lose his daughter, ’specially as how he’d need to find another acrobat. A man can do that, replace a servant. Not so easy to replace a daughter…what with Hamo’s wife dead an’ gone these nine years now.”

  “Did Hamo forbid her to wed the burgher of Winchester, or did Eleanor so choose?”

  The juggler shrugged. “’Twas the lass, I think. Had Hamo forbid it, she’d have wed to spite him. She was of that age.”

  “She was a troublesome maid, then?”

  “Aye; could be. Not much more than many of her years,” he replied.

  “But you were surprised, then, that she stole away with the boy?”

  “Aye, that’s so. So were we all, I think.”

  “How do you know of a certainty that she did?” I asked.

  That question seemed to take the juggler by surprise. He stammered a moment, then held his hands to the fire again before he answered. “Well…uh…’twas plain enough. Both gone of t’same night.”

  “But no one saw them together…that day, or in their flight?”

  “Nay. But it adds up, wouldn’t you say?”

  I was not so sure of that, but decided I would get no other tale from any in the troupe unless I could convince them I knew their story false. But I did not know this, only suspected it so. The juggler seemed, of the three I had chatted with, the most likely to yield the truth when pressed. He had looked away often, avoiding my eyes. So I pressed him.

  “Walter Tanner has a fine green cotehardie; how long has he owned the garment?”

  “Huh…how…what has that to do with me?” the juggler stammered.

  “Perhaps nothing, but one much like it was taken from a corpse near Bampton some months ago, and about the time you were there.”

  “’Twas not Walter. I remember now. He bought it in London…aye, London.”

  “When were you there?” I pressed further.

  “Uh…’twas Shrove Tuesday, two years, nearly, now.”

  “The tear he received in it – a misfortune, surely. How did that happen?”

  “’Tis torn?” he replied. “I knew not.”

  “Come, man. ’Tis at the front, just below the heart. You could not stand before it and the slit escape notice, no matter how well mended it is.”

  “Oh, that…uh, ’twas mischance,” he hesitated, “when ’twas packed in saddle bags with t’knives, I think. Yes, that was the cause. Right woeful Walter was, too.”

  I thought perhaps I had disconcerted the juggler, and that with another sally he might break, but as he replied I saw confidence return to his gaze and his spine stiffen. I tried again, anyway.

  “The cut is in a perilous place, were a man wearing the cotehardie when a fellow skilled as Walter, let us say, might hurl a knife at him.”

  “Aye, but was Walter wearing it, who would throw the blade?” he countered.

  “Perhaps another had donned it,” I asserted through stiff lips, “and Walter was free to fling the dagger?”

  “Walter is no murderer,” the juggler retorted with acrimony.

  “But is he a man-slayer?” I replied.

  “What say you, that a man can slay another but not be a murderer?”

  “Some,” I responded, “might say so, if they think slaying a miscreant be justice rather than murder.”

  “You go too deep for me,” the juggler complained nervously. “An’ I have business to attend before Lord Gilbert calls. Good day, Master…Hugh.” And with that he dismissed me and retreated to his tent. I admit my interview technique was crude, but even a dull blade will cut if applied firmly.

  I turned from the tents, uncertain of my course, and saw the new contortionist approach from around the northeast tower. There was a raised, dry path through the mud of the yard, and she picked her way across the mire on it. I directed my feet to the same trail, and we met in the middle of the yard, between the castle wall and the marshalsea. Her eyes were fixed on her course, so I caused her to start when finally she perceived me before her, blocking her way lest she choose to step into the muck.

  The girl stepped back, as if she feared I would thrust her into the mud. This, I admit, would have been a simple matter, for the lass was tiny – little bigger than Alice. She could not have weighed more than six stone.

  “Good day. Forgive me…I had no wish to alarm you,” I reassured the girl. “I am Master Hugh, surgeon to Lord Gilbert at his Bampton estate.”

  The girl smiled shyly. “I am Agnes, sir.”

  “Well, Agnes, I marvel at your talent. I am told that you are newly brought to this work.”

  “’Tis so, sir.”

  “You have learnt quickly, then. It must be difficult for you…to replace Hamo’s daughter, who was so practiced at the art.”

  “Uh…aye. Uh, I mean, no. Hamo says I do well.”

&n
bsp; “He speaks truth. I did not see his daughter perform, but I cannot think she could surpass you in facility.”

  “I thank you, sir.”

  “Of course, you would not have seen Eleanor perform, either.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Hamo brought his company to Banbury when I was but a wee lass. I saw her tricks, and copied as best I could. When Hamo brought his band again to Banbury and I saw he’d no lass for acrobat, I sought him out and showed what I had mastered.”

  “And now you travel with him. Has he taught you more?” I inquired.

  “Aye. Much more; I practice new tricks every week. Some Hamo has taught me, and some I devise.”

  “No doubt Hamo misses his daughter. Does he seek news of her as you journey?”

  The girl was silent and thoughtful for a moment. “Nay,” she finally replied.

  “He does not wish to find her?” I wondered aloud. “He must be very angry.”

  “’Tis a puzzle,” she agreed. “I was told she fled with a lad of the company. But one night in autumn I was sleepless and lay in my tent listening to Hamo and Walter as they talked by the fire late into the night. They spoke of her as dead, and perhaps the lad too. Perhaps it was but a manner of speaking,” she added.

  “Did they give opinion how this might be known to them?” I asked.

  The girl’s tone became conspiratorial, and she stepped closer. “Nay, sir. They spoke softly, and the fire crackled; I did not hear all.”

  “An accident, or illness, mayhap, took the two lives?”

  “No,” she frowned. “I think not. ’Twas an evil deed, I think. They spoke of justice for Eleanor.”

  “Hmm…yes. One would not seek justice if death was a result of mischance or malady. Was this justice they sought, or justice done?”

  The girl pressed closer yet, and whispered, “Justice done, sir, I think.”

  As the girl spoke Hamo Tanner appeared at a stable door. He glanced in our direction as he strode toward his tents, then hesitated in mid-stride and peered under narrowed brows at Agnes and me. It was clear he found our conversation disquieting. He turned from his course and approached us.

  “Agnes, don’t be takin’ up Master Hugh’s time. An’ you must be limber for your performance this day. Off with you, now.”

  Agnes fled, and Hamo turned to me apologetically. “She’s a good lass, an’ does her work well, but dim, she is.”

  “Dim?” I questioned.

  “Not right in t’head, you know.”

  “Ah…I understand.”

  “Fancies odd things. Pretends herself a fine lady, she does.”

  “She has imagination?”

  “That’s it, sir…the very word. Imagines all sorts of strange things what never was nor never will be. A fine lady, indeed,” he scoffed.

  “Aye,” I agreed. “Her words did drift to strange and unusual events. I see your point.”

  “Good day, Master Hugh. I must see to my band. We need to make ready for Lord Gilbert.”

  I bid Hamo Tanner good day, and retired to my chamber, where I reflected on the morning’s conversations. There were yet gaps in my knowledge, but those were smaller than before. It is the trivial particulars of comprehension, however, which are most difficult to grasp. The general understanding of a riddle comes more easily. Those petty particulars create the details of an image which is otherwise but shadow.

  Chapter 16

  While I pondered these things the horn sounded for dinner. I hurried to take my place beside Sir John, and while washing and drying my hands managed to steal a glimpse of Lady Joan. A servant also attended that end of the high table with ewer and towel. As she rinsed and dried her hands Lady Joan looked up and caught me observing her. It was that sixth sense again, I suppose, which gives a woman the wit to catch a man so. She smiled, but immediately turned back to Sir Charles and smiled at him as well.

  The meal this day was nearly as elaborate as the Christmas feast, but served in three courses, and missing the great roasted boar of the previous day.

  This day minstrels played upon tambour and lutes and sang between removes. When the third remove was cleared and the musicians were again at their work, I saw the juggler to whom I had spoken that morning rise from his place at the far end of the hall and leave the room. Perhaps he required a visit to the garderobe before his performance. Whatever the cause, his departure lent credence to the plot I had already formed, and to work his absence into the scheme would require little modification. I left my place and spoke softly in Lord Gilbert’s ear. Music covered our conversation. Lord Gilbert at first questioned the plan, but eventually accepted the idea and agreed to fulfill his part.

  Hamo Tanner and his troupe rose from their places at the far end of the hall when the musicians were done. The juggler had by this time returned to his place, and so joined his cohorts to begin the performance. He was near the age, I think, when visits to the garderobe become frequent. While all eyes in the hall were on the jugglers, I leaned over to whisper to Sir John. Lord Gilbert, I told him, wished to speak to him this moment on a serious matter.

  Sir John bent over Lord Gilbert’s shoulder, listened intently as Lord Gilbert spoke softly to him behind an upraised hand, then hurried out of the hall. A few minutes later, as Walter was enclosing Agnes in a ring of quivering blades, I saw valets in Lord Gilbert’s colors of blue and black positioned at the exits of the great hall. My plot was begun. If it concluded well, I should receive much honor. If not…well, I tried to dismiss that thought.

  When Agnes began her display of acrobatics, tumbling, and contortion, I saw Sir John return and again speak briefly to Lord Gilbert. Lord Gilbert then leaned to his wife and spoke briefly to her. His words brought a shocked expression to Lady Petronilla’s face, which abruptly faded to surprise and then puzzlement. Onlookers, and I was desirous that there should be some who would take their eyes from Agnes for a moment, would think she had been given a startling revelation. She had.

  Agnes received her usual ovation when she finished her exhibition. Lord Gilbert then stood, as all in the hall expected him to do. But what came next they did not expect.

  There was no pleasure in Lord Gilbert’s face. Rather, his brows were wrinkled in a scowl. Those in the hall who had been conversing with their neighbors and preparing to rise from their bench were suddenly silent. Lord Gilbert gazed with thin lips and lowered brows across his guests, then spoke.

  “Sir John,” he began, “has returned from an errand I assigned him. He reports that he found the Lady Petronilla’s chamber door ajar. This should not be. I will have everyone remain in the hall ’til it be known if some thief has plundered her possessions.”

  Audible gasps went round the hall, and hands were raised to lips. Then, as the occupants of the hall digested his words, they began to peer from the corners of their eyes at one another, wondering who might be a thief.

  Lord Gilbert turned and spoke to his wife. “You must inspect your chamber and see if aught be missing. Sir John…I will have you and Master Hugh accompany her and her ladies.”

  Something was missing, I knew, for I had it hidden under my cloak as Lord Gilbert spoke. Lady Petronilla’s casket, a gold and red enameled wood and metal box, in which Lord Gilbert’s lady kept her jewels, would not be found. Sir John had seized it from Lady Petronilla’s chamber and slipped it to me while all eyes in the hall followed Agnes.

  Lady Petronilla and her two maids followed Sir John past the guard and out the door. I followed the others. The casket was large, but my cloak was voluminous and I was able to keep the box concealed. That corner of the hall was dark, as was my cloak, which also served to conceal the lump under my arm.

  Lady Petronilla led the way to her chamber in the northwest tower. I allowed myself to fall farther to the rear of the hurrying party. At the door to the tower I turned away. The castle yard was unoccupied, as I knew it must be. It was possible a stable boy might see me if he looked up from his work, but by the time he told any of what he had seen my mission wou
ld have failed or succeeded of its own merit.

  I ran through the mud of the yard, past the marshalsea, to the jugglers’ tent. I drew the flap aside, found a pile of bedclothes, and hurriedly concealed the casket between them. Then I was off again at a run across the yard, into the tower. I heard Lady Petronilla’s shrieks before I entered her chamber. She had discovered her casket missing.

  We hurried to take this melancholy news to Lord Gilbert, for whom, of course, it would not be news at all. Lady Petronilla was disconsolate, and I was, for a moment, uncertain I was doing the proper thing. The end does not always justify the means, but occasionally it does.

  Lord Gilbert banged the table with his cup and demanded silence in the hall, then announced the reason for his wife’s grief. Another cycle of gasps and guarded looks filled the hall.

  “Sir John,” he concluded, “see that no one leaves this place ’til I return. Master Hugh,” he turned to me, “come with me. We will find whosoever has done this thing.”

  Lord Gilbert motioned to four grooms who stood against the inner wall and they took place in line behind us as we left the hall.

  “Where is it?” Lord Gilbert whispered when we were in the inner yard.

  “Peace, m’lord. The search must not end too soon. Set your men to search the east range hall first. Instruct them to overturn the possessions of the poor – but only a little. Enough to make our hunt seemly without troubling those who have enough trouble already.”

  Lord Gilbert so ordered, and we stood together in the entry as the searchers overturned the hall. Half an hour later they had done. There was, of course, no casket.

  “Where now, m’lord?” a groom asked. Lord Gilbert cocked his head and peered at me, but I looked away, as if examining the carpenters’ art in the trusses of the hammer-beam roof.

  “Uh…the marshalsea next. Find rods to poke through the straw.”

  The grooms darted off to the other side of the castle and Lord Gilbert and I followed in their wake. “Is it there?” he whispered.