by Mel Starr
My heart fell at these words, for I was certain he was about to demand that Osbert be sent to Sir Philip forthwith.
“We will soon be away to Goodrich for the winter. How do my tenants and villeins do? Harvest was plentiful this year, was it not?”
“Aye. John Holcutt is much pleased.”
“So the poor will see themselves through the winter?”
“A man who has but a quarter-yardland will find it difficult to feed his family even in a year when the harvest is plentiful.”
“Oh,” Lord Gilbert said, and the eyebrow rose again. “Well, I will leave funds for you to assist the poor while I am at Goodrich and Pembroke, so no man may starve upon my lands this winter.
“And another thought has come to me. The dead chapman, found near to St. Andrew’s Chapel, have you discovered the murderers?”
“Aye, I have.”
“Has Sir Roger held them for the King’s Eyre?”
“Nay, m’lord. They have fled, and we do not know where to seek them. ’Tis said they have gone to London.”
“Ah… and the coins the fellow found, do you know where they came from?”
“Nay. Arthur and I searched, but found nothing.”
“The fellow’s cart and horse, and the goods found in the cart… I’ve no need of them. You said that the priest of St. Andrew’s Chapel wished to have them to help the poor. He may do so. I have no need of coarse wool and crude buckles, nor of such a horse and cart. Sell them, or give the stuff to the poor.”
I could not tell Lord Gilbert that I had already done so, but was much relieved to hear him speak these words. My conscience would rest easier.
“One more thing. The villein who fled Sir Philip Rede, is he whole enough to be returned to East Hanney?”
I swallowed, then replied. “He has fled, m’lord.”
“Fled?”
“Aye. He knew his fate if he was returned to Sir Philip, so arose in the night and made off.”
“What night?”
“Just last night, m’lord.”
“So if I sent men after him he might be found? You’ve probably no idea where he went?” he said sarcastically. I made no reply.
“Well, bolting as he has done solves two problems. I no longer must send a man to his death, and you must no longer leave my service so to soothe your tender conscience. I am glad he is no longer a concern for either of us.”
I had not been aware that Lord Gilbert was troubled about Osbert’s fate. Perhaps I had misjudged my employer.
For the next months, when the weather was not foul and the ground not frozen, I prowled the forest to the east of St. Andrew’s Chapel where I had found John Thrale’s horse and cart, and where Arthur and I had discovered the rows of strange stone mounds. Occasionally John Kellet accompanied me, or Arthur, but I brought no other man to the search, and required of John and Arthur that they tell no man of what we did. If folk of Bampton learned that treasure was perhaps buried somewhere in that wood, the forest floor would soon be ploughed as if an army of hogs had been set loose to pannage the place.
I lost interest in the search when spring came. I am yet convinced that the chapman’s discovery is somewhere in that forest, upon Lord Gilbert’s lands, but no longer trouble myself seeking it. Perhaps, many years hence, some other man may find the hoard. If so, I pray the consequence will not be as it was for John Thrale.
Afterword
In Bampton Town; Its Castle and the Earls of Pembroke (a publication of the Bampton Archive written by Anthony Page) we read that “there are traces of (Roman) occupation in the Weald area. A Roman altar has been found, and a quantity of Roman coinage, one coin of which is very rare.”
In the fifth and sixth centuries Romanized Britons often fled west before the invading Saxons. Some buried valuables, perhaps hoping to return for them when the invaders had passed. Some of these caches have been found. Who knows how many more await discovery?
The orderly columns of tiles and masonry Master Hugh discovered were hypocausts. This construction permitted Romans to pass warmed air under the floor of a villa, providing heat in winter. A fine example has been unearthed at Chedworth Roman Villa, a few miles west of Northleach.
A few decades ago a medieval longbow was found preserved in the oxygen-free environment of a bog. A new bow was made to its measurements and was found to have a draw weight of 140 pounds. This is about twice the force needed to draw a modern compound hunting bow. So much for the idea that our medieval forebears were smaller and weaker than modern men.
Medieval arrows were as thick as a large man’s thumb, and were supplied with iron points up to four inches long, depending upon the arrow’s intended use. Such an arrow, more than three feet long, discharged from a bow of 140 pounds draw, could travel more than a mile.
Abbot of Abingdon’s St. Mary’s Abbey in 1367 was indeed Peter of Hanney. Whether or not he was obese is conjecture, but it is true that he was not popular in the town. Relations between town and abbey led several times in the fourteenth century to lawsuits and riot.
In the early 1960s Peter, Paul, and Mary sang the delightful song, “A Soulin’,”
about children begging for coins and soul cakes at Christmastime. The cakes and begging were accurate enough, but it was on All Souls’ Day that children went from house to house seeking the little cakes, not at Christmas.
Many readers have written asking about medieval remains in Bampton and tourist facilities in the area. St. Mary’s Church is little changed from the fourteenth century, when it was known as the Church of St. Beornwald. Little remains of Bampton Castle. The gatehouse and a small part of the curtain wall form a part of Ham Court, a farmhouse in private hands. Visitors to Bampton will enjoy staying at Wheelgate House, a B&B in the center of the town. Village scenes in the popular series Downton Abbey were filmed on Church View Street, and St. Mary’s Church appears in several episodes.
An extract from the sixth chronicle of Hugh de Singleton, surgeon
Chapter 1
Unwelcome guests may be a tribulation, and when they depart ’tis usually considered a blessed occasion. But not so if the visitor is a knight and he departs to make his new home in St. Beornwald’s Churchyard.
Sir Henry Burley was a small, ferret-faced man who, in battle at Poitiers more than a decade past, had done some service for my employer, Lord Gilbert Talbot. What this service was I know not. Lord Gilbert said only that it would cost him little to repay the knight’s valor. From this brief explanation I judge that Sir Henry had distinguished himself in battle, to Lord Gilbert’s advantage. How this could be is a mystery to me, for Lord Gilbert is nearly as tall as me, and is squarely built, while Sir Henry is – was – small and slender and, I judge, weighed little more than eight stone.
But after nearly a month entertaining Sir Henry, his wife and daughter, two knights and two squires in Sir Henry’s service, and several valets and grooms, Lord Gilbert was clearly ready for them to depart. Sir Henry was a demanding sort of man who seemed to delight in finding fault with Bampton Castle and its inhabitants; the garderobe was not perfumed to his liking, and Lord Gilbert’s servants did not show him proper deference.
Three days before St. John’s Day, in the year of our Lord 1368, Sir Henry went to his bed hale and healthy after enjoying a long evening of music, conversation, and dancing in Bampton Castle’s hall. The next morn his valet found him cold and dead.
Shortly after Sir Henry’s valet made this disagreeable discovery, I was breaking my fast when a loud and insistent thumping upon my door drew me from my morning reverie. Kate was feeding bits of a wheaten loaf to Bessie and continued her occupation, an early summons not being unusual in Galen House. I am often sought at such an hour, either because of my profession, surgeon, or due to my service as bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot’s manor of Bampton. My summons this day was because of my training as surgeon, but soon called for a bailiff’s work as well.
John, Lord Gilbert’s chamberlain, stood before me when I opened the d
oor. I knew immediately some affair of urgency had brought him to Galen House. Had it been some routine matter, a lesser servant would have been sent.
“Come quickly, Master Hugh. Sir Henry is dead!”
Why the presence of a surgeon was required quickly, when the patient was dead, did not seem to have occurred to John, but I did as he bid. I had yet a part of a wheaten loaf in my hand. This I left upon our table, then explained my hasty departure to my wife. Bessie has discovered language, and makes incessant use of the knowledge, often at great volume if she believes her words are not awarded sufficient attention. So Kate had not heard who was at our door or what the reason until I told her.
Usually when I am called to some place where my skill as a surgeon is required, I take with me a sack of instruments and herbs, so as to be prepared for whatever wound or injury I may find. I took no implements this day. Of what use would they be to a dead man?
I questioned John regarding the matter as we hurried down Church View Street to Mill Street, crossed Shill Brook, and approached the castle gatehouse. As we spoke I heard the Passing Bell ring from the tower of the Church of St. Beornwald.
“Lord Gilbert wishes your opinion as to what has caused this death,” John said. “The man was in good health yesterday. Complained of no illness. Lord Gilbert, I think, fears poison or some such thing which might cast blame on him and his household.”
I reflected. Two days earlier a page had called at Galen House. Lord Gilbert’s guest, he said, was unable to sleep. Lord Gilbert wished me to send herbs which might calm a troubled mind and bring rest. I sent a pouch of pounded lettuce seeds, with instruction to measure a thimbleful into a cup of wine an hour before Sir Henry went to his bed.
Perhaps Lord Gilbert worried that the lettuce seed I provided to aid Sir Henry’s sleep might have contributed to his death.
“Is there reason to suspect evil in this?” I asked.
“None… but that the man was robust one day and a corpse the next.”
“Men may die of a sudden. ’Tis known to occur.”
“Aye, when they are aged.”
“But Sir Henry was not. I dined with him a week past, when Lord Gilbert invited me to his table. How old was the man?”
“Forty-six, his wife said.”
The faces of those who greeted me in the Bampton Castle hall were somber, lips drawn tight and thin. Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla sat in earnest conversation with an attractive woman whom I recognized as Lady Margery, Sir Henry’s wife. Lord Gilbert stood when he saw John usher me into the hall, spoke briefly to the widow, then approached.
“I give you good day,” I said.
“Much thanks, Hugh, but the day is ill. John has told you?”
“Aye. Your guest was found dead this morning.”
“He was. And no sign of what caused the death… which is why I sent for you. A surgeon or physician might more readily see what indisposition has caused this.”
“You have seen the corpse?”
“Aye.”
“And you saw nothing out of sorts?”
“Not a thing. All was as a man should be when asleep, but for his eyes. They were open. The body is unmarked. Sir Henry was not a young man, but he was in good health yesterday.”
“John Chamberlain said you feared poison.”
Lord Gilbert shrugged, then whispered, “’Twas but the thought of a moment. We are all baffled. I would not have Lady Margery hear of poison. John,” he continued, “take Master Hugh to Sir Henry’s chamber.” Then to me he said, “’Tis an odious business, I know, to ask of you, but I wish to know if Sir Henry’s death is God’s work or man’s.”
“You suspect man’s work?”
“I do not know what to think. So I have called for you. Is it possible that the sleeping draught you sent did this?”
“Nay. The seeds of lettuce are but a mild soporific. A man would need to swallow a bucket of the stuff to do himself harm.”
Lord Gilbert turned back to Lady Margery and left me to John, who nodded and led me to the stairs which would take us to the guest chambers beyond Lord Gilbert’s solar.
Past the solar the passageway grew dark, but at its end I saw two figures. I recognized one. Arthur, one of Lord Gilbert’s grooms, stood at the closed door of a chamber, and another man, wearing Sir Henry’s livery and badge, stood with him.
The two men stood aside as I approached, having been notified, no doubt, that I was to inspect the corpse and give reason for the death. I opened the heavy door and entered the chamber, but none followed. Death is not pleasant to look upon, and the three men who stood outside the door were content to allow me to do my work alone.
Sir Henry lay as he had been found, upon his back, sightless eyes staring at the vaulted ceiling and boss of his chamber. Would a man die in his sleep with his eyes open? Perhaps some pain seized him in the night and awakened him before death came.
A cresset was burning upon a stand, where it had been all night should Sir Henry have wished to rise and visit the garderobe. I lifted it and held it close to the dead man’s face. Two windows gave light to the room, but they were narrow, and one faced north, the other west, so that the morning sun did not illuminate the chamber.
I first inspected Sir Henry’s neck to see if any contusion was there. None was. I felt the man’s scalp, to see if any lump or dried blood might betray a blow. All was as should be. I pried open the lips – no easy task, for rigor mortis was begun – to see if Sir Henry might have choked to his death upon regurgitated food. His mouth was clear.
Because Sir Henry was already stiffening in death I assumed that he was dead for some hours before he was found. De Mondeville wrote that rigor mortis begins three or so hours after death, and becomes severe at twelve hours.
A blanket yet covered the corpse. I drew this aside, and with my dagger slit Sir Henry’s night-shirt so I might inspect the body for wounds or evidence of blows. There were none.
Beside the bed, next to where the cresset had been placed, was a cup. I held it to the window and saw in the dregs the few remains of the pounded seeds of lettuce which had been in the wine. Was some other potion added to the cup? I touched the dregs with my fingertips and brought them to my lips. I could detect no foreign flavor, although this is not telling, for there are several malignant herbs which leave little or no taste when consumed. Monk’s Hood is one. And for this they are all the more dangerous.
The walls of Sir Henry’s chamber were of stone, of course, and the door of heavy oak. If he felt himself afflicted in the night, and cried out for aid, he might not have been heard, especially if his call was weak due to an affliction which took his life.
I went to the door, where Arthur and Sir Henry’s valet stood, and asked the valet if anyone had heard Sir Henry shout for help in the night.
“Don’t know,” he replied. “My chamber’s in the servants’ range. I wouldn’t have heard ’im.”
“Has no other, those whose chambers were close by, spoken of it?”
“Nay. None said anything.”
“It was you who found him?”
“Aye.”
“Has anything in his chamber been moved since then? Has Sir Henry’s corpse been moved?”
“Nay… but for Lady Margery throwin’ herself upon ’im when she was brought here an’ saw Sir Henry dead. Lord Gilbert drew her away. Told her he had a man who could tell why Sir Henry was dead. That would be you?”
“Aye. I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon, and bailiff at Bampton manor. You are…?”
“Walter Mayn, valet to Sir Henry… was valet to Sir Henry.”
“Two days past I was asked to provide herbs which might help Sir Henry fall to sleep. Was there some matter which vexed him, so that he awoke of a night?”
Walter did not reply. He looked away, as if he heard some man approach at the end of the passageway. A valet is to be circumspect, and loyal, and hold his tongue when asked of the affairs of his lord. The man did not need to say more. His silence and glance to
ld me that some business had troubled Sir Henry. Whether or not the issue had led to his death was another matter. Might a man die of worry? If so, this was no concern of Lord Gilbert Talbot’s bailiff.
“Who slept in the next chamber?” I asked the fellow.
“M’lady Margery.”
“And across the passageway?”
“Sir John an’ Sir Geoffrey.”
“They are knights in Sir Henry’s service?”
“Aye.”
“And they did not speak of any disturbance in the night?”
“Not that I heard. There was lots of screamin’ and all was speakin’ at once when Sir Henry was found.”
I decided that I should seek these knights, and the Lady Margery, if she was fit to be questioned. I told Arthur and Walter to remain at Sir Henry’s door and allow no man, nor woman, either, to enter the chamber till I had returned.
Lady Margery I had seen in the hall, so I returned there and found Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla comforting the widow. Lady Margery’s eyes were red and her cheeks swollen. She had seen me an hour before, but through teary eyes. She did not then, I believe, know who I was.
“Master Hugh,” Lord Gilbert said, rising, “what news?”
“Hugh?” the woman shrieked. “Is this the leech who has poisoned my husband?”
Lord Gilbert answered for me. “Nay, Lady Margery. Master Hugh is as competent as any at his business. He has assured me that the potion he sent to aid Sir Henry’s slumber could not cause death.”
“Of course he would say so. Something did. And Sir Henry took none of the potion until the night he died.”
“’Tis of that night I would speak to you,” I said. “Sir Henry’s valet said your chamber was next to your husband’s. Did you hear anything in the night? Some sound which might now, when you think back upon it, have told of Sir Henry’s distress, even if in the night, when you heard it, you paid no heed?”
“Nay, I heard nothing. ’Twas the potion you gave which caused his death. It was to bring sleep, you said. So it did, the sleep of death. This man,” she turned to my employer, “should be sent to the Sheriff for trial before the King’s Eyre for the murder he has done.”