Lucifer's Harvest

by Mel Starr

  “I can,” another said. “Edwin was ’ere, playin’ nine man morris by light of the fire till we sought our beds.”

  “You and he alone?”

  “Nay. Ralph an’ John an’ Thomas was with us. Who else?” he said, scratching his balding head. “Oh, Osbert an’ Walter was about.”

  Six men could vouch for the whereabouts of the swindled youth. Of course, some or all of them might have assisted Edwin in tipping Sir Simon into Couzeix’s well. The lad was unlikely to have done such a thing alone. Asking of this would not produce an admission, so there was no point in doing so.

  Edwin’s face had gone white, and a nervous tick caused his left eyelid to twitch. He wound his hands together before him as if washing some stain from them. This was not the behavior of a man with a clean conscience, I thought.

  “When you left the camp yesterday afternoon,” I asked the youth, “where did you go?”

  I had no information that the lad had departed the camp, but thought that, if he had, I might catch him in a denial which could then be overturned. He seemed to reflect guilt for something. If he had witnesses to defend his presence in the camp when Sir Simon died, would he also find a defense for the time when the crone went into the well? “Three,” the old woman had said. Edwin and two others?

  My question struck a nerve. The lad looked as if I had thumped him between the eyes with a barrel stave. Oddly enough, his companions, including Sir Charles, turned to Edwin with some surprise, mouths open, as if my assertion was unanticipated. If it was, and Edwin had indeed slain the old woman, who had assisted the squire in seeking the crone and dropping her into the well? Perhaps he was strong enough to deal with her alone. She was frail, unlike Sir Simon.

  My assertion that Edwin had left the camp at the time the old woman had been dropped into the well was an artifice, but it was clear to me from his response, and to the youth’s companions as well, that he had absented himself from camp a day earlier.

  Edwin’s mouth opened and closed like a carp thrown upon the bank of a stream. “Who accompanied you,” I said, “and where did you go?”

  “N-n-no one.”

  “You went to Couzeix alone?” I said.

  “Couzeix?” the lad said. “Where is Couzeix?”

  There was sincerity in the question and his open-mouthed comportment, and I began to doubt the success of my gambit. Unless Edwin was a cunning player, he was genuinely ignorant of Couzeix.

  “Not far from here,” I said. “You and your companions could travel there and return in less than an hour.”

  “Couzeix’s where Sir Simon was found,” one of Sir Charles’s companions said, glancing to Edwin. “So I heard.”

  “You heard?” I said. “Were you one who accompanied Edwin there?”

  “Nay. Never been there; don’t know where the place is. Never traveled from camp since we came before Limoges.”

  “This is true,” Sir Charles said. “There are men of Sir Henry’s band who are not lamenting Sir Simon’s death, but so far as I know none has set off on his own … but for Edwin, perhaps.”

  He turned to Edwin and spoke. “Master Hugh would like to know, if ’twas not Couzeix where you went yesterday, where did you go?”

  “I seen ’im goin’ to the river,” another of the group said.

  The river was in the opposite direction from Couzeix. Of course, the lad might have walked away from the village to confuse any who might, like me, think he had to do with events there.

  “Why go to the river?” I asked Edwin.

  The squire blushed. Here was a strange response to a simple question.

  “Why go to the river?” Sir Charles repeated my question. “Answer Master Hugh.”

  “W-w-went to bathe,” he finally spluttered.

  “Why so unwilling to say so?” I asked.

  “Other lads do taunt me about it.”

  “What? That you wish to be clean and not stink?”

  “Aye,” Edwin said.

  “You’ve gone to the river to bathe before?” Sir Charles asked.

  “Aye … twice.”

  “And other lads do mock you for it?”

  “Aye.”

  “Walk with me,” Sir Charles said to me, and nodded toward an open space between tents. When we were out of earshot of his men and Arthur, he spoke.

  “Edwin fears his own shadow. He has lived with me since he was eight years old, his father desiring that he learn military arts from me, but he is not an apt pupil. You see how puny he is. I fear he will never make a soldier. A scholar, aye, but not a warrior.”

  “You think he would not have the pluck to attack Sir Simon? What if he had assistance? You think he went to the river, as he said?”

  “Aye. He does not reek as most of us do. I should seek the river myself. Lady Joan will not welcome my return if I do not. Few men would follow Edwin to a fight. ’Twould be more likely he would follow others.”

  “Others who also lost to Sir Simon?” I said.

  “Aye. Perhaps. Though none lost so much as Edwin, I think. Thomas lost a few pence, and also John.”

  “You saw the lad’s face when I ventured the guess that he had been away from camp yesterday.”

  “Aye. Proves my point. Was he made of sterner stuff he’d not have recoiled so. And he’d not care if others teased him about cleaning himself in the river. He has not done mischief, I’d wager on it.”

  “Even after your promise to Lady Joan?” I smiled.

  “Even then.”

  I did not offer to take Sir Charles’s bet. Even after spending but a few minutes in Edwin’s presence I was coming to agree with Sir Charles about the lad’s character. He seemed unlikely to be capable of hate so strong that he could be compelled to do murder. But I’ve been wrong about such matters before. The Lord Christ has set limits to my wisdom, but none to my ignorance. This seems unfair. I resolved to keep Edwin in the brief list of potential felons I was building. Just in case.

  Arthur and I bid Sir Charles “Good day”, and returned to our own tents. If I had learned anything of value in visiting Sir Henry Morley’s camp, I did not know what it might be.

  Those who found Sir Simon’s corpse in the well must be questioned, but I would not venture to Sir John’s tents alone, or even with Arthur. A greater show of strength was required.

  After a dinner of more pottage I gathered Arthur, Uctred, Alfred, and William, and we five set out for Sir John’s tents. I told my companions to adopt a resolute expression, as if they had consumed a sour apple, and keep a hand resting upon the hilts of their daggers. Those who seem most ready for a brawl may be least likely to find themselves in one, and we five would be as welcome among Sir John’s men as plague.

  Sir John’s tent was emblazoned with his arms and easy to identify amongst the others. We attracted much attention as we approached. When yet thirty or so paces off I saw a man glance in our direction, then enter Sir John’s tent. So it was that he stood before me when I came to his tent. His jaw moved, and I caught the scent of roasted pork. I had interrupted his dinner. His victualer must have traveled far to find flesh for his master. I wondered in what other way I might offend Sir John.

  “Why are you come hither?” he said. No polite greeting, but why did I expect one?

  “I seek the same thing you seek,” I said. “How did Sir Simon die, and was his death mischance or felony?”

  “Bah … you know well ’twas felony. You are the felon.”

  This conversation had already attracted a crowd. Near twenty men had gathered, most appearing as determined as we. If Sir John wished it, we would be set upon and outnumbered four to one. I began to rue my decision to visit Sir John.

  But the four men behind me wore Lord Gilbert Talbot’s blue-and-black livery, and Lord Gilbert is a great baron of the realm. Sir John is but a knight. He would not be eager to provoke Lord Gilbert by attacking his bailiff and grooms. So I hoped.

  “Spare me your accusation,” I said. “’Tis all nonsense, as I think you we
ll know. Who found Sir Simon in the well yesterday? Prince Edward wishes this business resolved, and has charged me to bring light to the matter. Those who found your son may be of some assistance.”

  I placed hands on hips, faced Sir John, and awaited his reply. I had mentioned the prince intentionally, perhaps adding more authority than Edward intended for me. But the result was exemplary. Sir John did not wish to annoy Lord Gilbert, and he surely did not want to offend Prince Edward with his intransigence.

  “Osbert and John.” Then, to one who stood close by, “Fetch them.”

  The fellow scurried away and soon returned with two well-dressed lads – squires, surely. I recognized one of the youths as Sir Simon’s companion the night that he struck me at Leeds Castle, and the same who brought two shillings in exchange for Sir Simon’s dagger. Sir Simon might be dead, but his influence lingered. Both wore their liripipes coiled low over one ear.

  “This … fellow would speak to you of Sir Simon,” Sir John said. He spat the word “fellow” as if it was a spoonful of hot pottage burning his tongue.

  “You are Osbert and John?” I said.

  “I’m John,” one of the youths said. This the squire who had exchanged shillings for dagger. “He’s Osbert.”

  “Come with me. We will walk a ways and speak of Sir Simon.”

  I saw the squires hesitate and look to Sir John. He frowned, but nodded toward me, indicating his permission. I turned to walk toward Lord Gilbert’s tents, the lads fell in behind me, and behind them Arthur, Uctred, Alfred, and William. I wanted the squires well away from Sir John, his men, and their influence. And amongst Lord Gilbert’s men their apprehension might loosen tongues.

  I motioned to a bench before the cold embers of a fire pit and bid the lads sit. I remained standing. I have discovered in past interrogations that superior altitude is a good thing.

  “Sir John said that you found Sir Simon in the well at Couzeix yesterday morn. At what hour?”

  The lads looked to each other. Perhaps they sought some reason to dissemble. Apparently finding none, Osbert said, “Second hour.”

  “Why did you go to Couzeix, and why peer into a poisoned well?”

  “At dawn yesterday, when Sir John learned that Sir Simon had not been in his bed all the night, he sent us, an’ others, to seek him.”

  “Did Sir John, or any other man, send you to Couzeix?”

  “Nay. We’d no instructions but to seek Sir Simon an’ ask folk if they’d seen ’im.”

  “Had anyone … seen him, that is?”

  “A man of Sir William Barnhill’s troop said he saw him night before with two others, walkin’ toward Couzeix. That’s why we went there.”

  “Did Sir Simon tell you where he was going that night with two others? Did the fellow describe Sir Simon’s companions?”

  “Don’t know where he was going. Sir William’s man said one was tall an’ slender, the other shorter and thick.”

  Here was the evidence Sir John apparently needed to accuse me of murder, if this squire spoke true.

  He did not. How was I then to know?

  “You told Sir John of this?”

  “Aye. Then me an’ Osbert went to Couzeix to see if Sir Simon was there … mayhap set upon in the night.”

  “Then what?”

  “Found ’im in the well, didn’t we?” Osbert said.

  “Why look there?”

  “Why not? He wasn’t to be found in the houses, or church. We looked. Peered into the well as we passed by on our way back to camp.”

  “You found no other soul in the village?”

  “Nay. All was gone. Not so much as a hen left behind. Saw a cat creep out of a barn. Nothing else alive there.”

  “The well is covered. How is it you saw Sir Simon at the bottom in early morning light?”

  “Sir John didn’t tell you?” Osbert said.

  “Tell me what?” I replied.

  “Wouldn’t need to. If you are the man who did murder. He was nearly naked, white against the water, so when we looked into the well we saw some pale fellow was at the bottom.”

  “He was in the well head first, I was told.”

  “That’s so.”

  “Did you then draw him from the well?”

  “Nay. We shouted into the well, but there was no reply an’ Sir Simon didn’t so much as wiggle a toe, that we could see. Knew whoever was down there was dead. Not sure then ’twas Sir Simon, but who else could it have been? John ran back to tell Sir John an’ I stayed to keep watch.”

  “Keep watch over a corpse?”

  The lad shrugged a reply. “What else was I to do?”

  “What else, indeed … Has Sir Simon been buried?”

  “Tomorrow morning. Father Richard will say the mass. Laid out in a chapel, is Sir Simon. Sir John wished to take ’im back to East Hanney churchyard, but he’d stink long before that could happen … ’less Sir John could pickle ’im in a cask of wine.”

  “Sir Simon was a large man,” I said.

  “Aye,” Osbert agreed. “Take a tun, an’ a large one, to do so.”

  Whether or not Lord Gilbert’s and Prince Edward’s influence would sway Sir John to allow me to examine Sir Simon’s corpse, I knew not. Nor could I imagine what I might discover if I did so. But it was sure that if I did not examine the dead man I would learn nothing, whereas an inspection might suggest whether or not the death was felony or mischance. Mischance? Why would a man, even drunk, stumble naked into a well? I sent John and Osbert back to Sir John with instructions that they must tell him that I would call upon him anon.

  “You think them squires spoke true?” Arthur said when the lads were well away.

  “If men have no reason to deceive they will usually speak the truth, I think,” I said. “What is unclear is if they had reasons I do not know for speaking false. Anyway, I intend to call again upon Sir John.”

  “What d’you expect to learn from another visit to Sir John?”

  “Very little. ’Tis Sir Simon I wish to visit. Perhaps he may tell me something his father and companions cannot.”

  “Or will not.”

  Chapter 9

  Before questioning Osbert and John I had released Alfred, William, and Uctred. I sent Arthur to fetch them, desiring their presence when I again called upon Sir John Trillowe. Arthur did not soon return. He found William and Uctred, along with many others, watching the work of the Cornish miners to undermine the wall of Limoges. There was little to see. The shed of heavy planks protected the opening of the mine, so nothing of the excavation was visible.

  French crossbowmen stood at the crenels, eager to send a bolt toward any man who ventured too close to the wall. Welsh longbowmen watched, but after loosing a few shafts in days past toward the French atop the town wall, had given up the sport as a waste of arrows.

  The day after the shed was built the French dropped great stones upon its roof. One penetrated the planks with a splintering crash. So sawyers busied themselves at a pit and next night, when ’twas dark, another layer of planks was fixed atop the shed. Crossbowmen heard the work below them, and tried to interfere, but their shafts went astray in the night and I had no work to repair any wounds.

  Soil and rock which the miners removed from under the wall could not be hauled away in the day. Those who did the work must leave the protection of the shed, but were near enough to the wall that a skilled crossbowman could put a bolt through a man or beast hauling a cartload of soil.

  Arthur found Uctred and William shouting insults at crossbowmen who peered through the crenels. The Frenchmen returned the taunts, remarking, no doubt, upon the ancestry of the English soldiers. This exercise was futile, for the French understood few of the English barbs, and the English soldiers understood little French.

  Alfred was not to be found, so we four returned to Sir John’s tent, each one assuming a determined mien.

  “Never,” Sir John shouted when I told him that I wished to examine Sir Simon’s corpse. “You have slain him. What mo
re do you wish to do to him?”

  “Reckon you’ll need to call upon Prince Edward again,” Arthur said.

  Sir John looked from me to Arthur and back again. Sir John did not want me near Sir Simon’s corpse. But neither did he wish to incur the prince’s displeasure. If I reported to the prince that Sir John would not cooperate, the royal wrath might be unpredictable. Arthur sensed this, and knew that Sir John would also understand the possible threat. Arthur has wit as well as brawn.

  I said no more, but stood squarely before Sir John and waited, as if I was certain that he would reconsider. He did.

  “There’s a chapel along that road,” he said, turning to glance over his shoulder. “Father Richard is there, making ready the funeral mass. Tell him I grant you permission to … to examine my son.”

  It would be easy to dislike Sir John. Many men did. He had used his position as sheriff of Oxford for corrupt purposes, and had accused me unjustly of murder. But he had lost a son, and now had but two remaining to continue his line. How might I behave if I faced a man whom I believed had slain Bessie or Sybil?

  “You must accompany me and tell him. The priest might not believe me, and I prefer that you witness my examination, so you will be sure that I did no malfeasance.”

  Perhaps Sir John would have preferred not to attend the inspection of Sir Simon’s corpse so that he could then claim some cunning on my part if he did not agree with the result. Or perhaps he did not wish to look upon the remains of his son. I was not eager to do so myself, although I had many good reasons to be satisfied that Sir Simon now rested upon his bier. Uctred’s blackened eyes were only now fading, his nose was yet sore and swollen, and in memory I could yet smell the ashes of the first Galen House.

  The chapel was five hundred paces to the north of the camp, one of those shelters where pilgrims and travelers might seek refuge for a night and pray. Until this day I had not known of its existence, the chapel being away from the road which we used to approach Limoges, and beyond a hill and wood from the camp. A low stone wall covered in vines and shrubbery enclosed a chapel yard of perhaps thirty paces on each side. I saw two fresh graves there. Standing siege can be a deadly business, even before arrows fly and swords flash.