Deeds of Darkness

by Mel Starr

  The priest rapped vigorously upon the manor house door, which drew my attention back to him. The servant I had seen before opened to him, and the priest spoke abruptly, with no greeting.

  “Fetch your master. There is news.” As he said this he waved the parchment in the servant’s face.

  News of what, I wondered? Arthur surely thought the same, for he glanced to me with raised eyebrows.

  The servant hesitated in the doorway for a moment, as if he was about to ask the priest what the news might be, but thought better of it, quickly turned, and disappeared, forgetting his service and leaving the priest standing in the doorway.

  Sir Thomas appeared almost immediately. His face was haggard and grey, but I noticed his swollen cheek had now reduced to its proper size.

  “Walchin said you have news of Henry,” Sir Thomas blurted.

  “Aye. Walter Oxlane’s lad brought this just minutes past,” the priest said, and held the scrap of parchment before him.

  Sir Thomas peered at the parchment, then said, “What does it say? You know I do not read well.”

  The priest cleared his throat, then read the document.

  “We have taken Henry, and will hold him until you pay ten pounds for his return. His palfrey is a fine beast. Worth two pounds. We will send word in a week’s time where the ransom must be delivered. If you doubt that we hold your heir we will send a finger, wearing his ring, as proof.”

  I had sidled close to the priest as he read. The demand was written in English, not Latin or French, but was couched in excellent grammar and written in a dexterous hand. Whoever Henry was, he was held by at least one man who could write English well. And if he could do so, it was likely that he could also make himself understood writing in Latin and French. Few men that I know of can write in one of these tongues but not the others. Who but a scholar, or one who had been a scholar in times past, could do so?

  “Twelve pounds!” Harcourt exclaimed. “Where am I to find twelve pounds? This is no great estate. In my whole life I’ve never seen twelve pounds together in one chest.”

  Twelve pounds gathered together would surely require a chest. No purse, no matter how sturdy, could contain so many pennies and groats and nobles.

  Sir Thomas turned and shouted into his house. “Where is Walchin? Ah, there you are. Fetch Oswald, an’ be quick about it.”

  The servant ducked under Sir Thomas’s arm and scurried past me. This was Walchin, no doubt, on his way to seek Oswald, whoever that might be.

  Sir Thomas watched the groom hurry away, then noticed me standing behind the priest. “Ah, Master Hugh. My tooth no longer aches. How could it? ’Tis gone. My ache now is of another kind.”

  Sir Thomas saw the puzzled expression upon my face and explained. “My firstborn is taken. You heard just now the demand for his return. Ten pounds! Where am I to find ten pounds? And two for the beast.”

  “When did this abduction happen?” I asked.

  “Yesterday. Henry rode out about the third hour to see how plowing progressed upon my demesne lands, villeins not being eager to complete their week-work when their own fields need attention. He did not return for dinner, so I sent the reeve to seek him. The plow team – not the one you see in yon field, but another beyond that wood to the north – said he’d never arrived.

  “I knew something was amiss. Thought perhaps he’d been thrown from his horse an’ lay injured, something broken. I sent Oswald, my bailiff, to seek him, but he found nothing. Oswald, the reeve, Walchin, and two others searched fields and forest alongside me ’til after dark. No sign of Henry. Now I know why.”

  From the corner of my eye I saw the groom reappear with a corpulent fellow I assumed to be Oswald, Stanton Harcourt’s bailiff. So he was.

  The rotund bailiff came puffing to a halt before Sir Thomas, and the knight told the man of the demand which had just been delivered.

  “Taken, eh? There has been much villainy hereabouts of late. Will you pay?”

  “The wretches have given me a week. You have seven days to find Henry if you wish to keep your position.”

  The bailiff stepped back as if slapped. “But… if I am unable to do so…”

  “A week. I have spoken to you before about neglecting your duties. I have considered replacing you in the past, as you well know. Fail me in this and I will surely do so.”

  Here was an argument I had no wish to enter. My only reason for visiting the village had been to learn of Sir Thomas’s aching jaw. Now I knew it to be on the mend I was prepared to renew my journey home. But questions occurred to me. Perhaps the scoundrels who held Henry Harcourt were the same who had slain Hubert Shillside and done the other felonies hereabouts.

  “’Twas a lad who brought you the message?” I asked the priest, nodding to the parchment in Sir Thomas’s hand.

  “Aye. Harold Oxlane.”

  “Was it he I saw a moment ago leaving the church for yonder field, where the plow team is at work?”

  “Aye,” the priest said. “That’s Harold.”

  “How did the lad come by the parchment?” I asked.

  “Only thing he said was a man told him to give me the message. When I read it I came straight to Sir Thomas.”

  “Perhaps, was he asked, the lad might have more to tell. Come,” I said to Oswald, “let’s speak to the child.”

  ’Twas less than a quarter-mile from the manor house to the field where the plow team was engaged. Arthur, the bailiff, Sir Thomas, Walchin, and I set out for the partly turned plot. Oswald was soon left puffing behind.

  Our group reached the plow team as they were about to turn at the end of a long furrow. This is not an easy thing to do. Four oxen and two horses are not readily shifted, even though the beasts know what is expected of them. The lads following the plow, stepping upon clods to break them, were temporarily at their ease as the plowman and goad man had yet to change places.

  “Which is the lad who brought the message?” I asked the priest.

  The lads and the plow team had stopped their work to watch our approach. “Harold,” the priest called, and a slender youth of twelve or so years looked to us, saw the priest motion to him, and trotted near.

  “This man,” the priest said, pointing to me, “has questions for you.”

  I was about to introduce myself to the child as Lord Gilbert’s bailiff in Bampton, but thought better of it. I know nothing of Oswald’s governance of Stanton Harcourt, but I do know that bailiffs are oft accused of being villainous, thieving, and conniving. This is because many are villainous, thieving, and conniving. Better the lad not know of my position than to fear my response to his answers.

  “You were given a message to take to the priest,” I said. “Do you know the man who gave it to you?”

  “Nay – never seen ’im before.”

  “Where were you when the fellow appeared?”

  “Just there,” the lad pointed. “We’d finished a furrow an’ was by the wood, turnin’ round, when a man stepped from behind the great oak beyond the hedgerow there, called to me, an’ give me that parchment.”

  The youth pointed to the message that Sir Thomas yet held in his hand.

  “Was the man young, or old?” I asked.

  The lad shrugged. “Not old.” To a lad of twelve years any man of more than thirty years is old.

  “Twenty years old, perhaps?” I said. “Or mayhap a little older?”

  “Aye. Twenty years, or twenty-five.”

  “Was the fellow bearded?”

  “Nay. He’d been shaved but a day or two past.”

  “What garb did the man wear?”

  “A gentleman ’e was. ’Ad a green cotehardie, particolored chauces of green an’ yellow, an’ a blue cap.”

  “Was his liripipe long?”

  “Aye.”

  Here was the third time I had recently heard of a f
elon who wore a blue cap, and the second time the man was identified as wearing particolored chauces.

  “Show me the tree where the man appeared.”

  The lad turned and walked to the verge of the field where a low stone wall divided the plowed field from a greenwood of oak and beech trees.

  “Just there.” Harold pointed to the trunk of an oak of enough circumference that two men could conceal themselves behind it.

  The wall was not in good repair. Some stones had fallen, so it was no more than waist high.

  Since the plague, labor to repair fallen walls is in short supply. I found a place free of nettles, having had experience with nettle-crusted walls in the past, and climbed over. The others, but for Oswald, followed.

  I advised the group to stay back, then approached the oak cautiously. I could not say what I expected to find, but if I did not search the place I could be sure to find nothing.

  The forest soil under the oak was in broken shadows formed by branches and twigs bare of leaves. I peered intently at the leaves covering the ground but could see there nothing of interest. The decaying verdure retained no footprints to follow.

  The west side of the oak was in shade, so I nearly missed the wisp of wool caught on a shard of bark. The wool was about waist high, perhaps a bit higher, and when I lifted it from the bark and held it in the sunlight I saw it was green. The man I sought had perhaps leaned upon the tree, awaiting the slow approach of the plow team. Likely he wished for the adults of the plow team not to see him.

  I held the wool before the lad and asked if it seemed the same color as the cotehardie worn by the fellow who had delivered to him the message for Sir Thomas.

  “Aye, it does… but the message wasn’t for Sir Thomas,” the lad said. “’E said I was to give it to Father John.”

  “He named the priest?”

  “Aye, ’e did.”

  Here was interesting information. Sir Thomas had but a few moments earlier asked the priest to read the message to him, admitting that he read poorly. Was this why Harold was told to take the parchment to the priest? Did the rogues who had seized Henry Harcourt know enough of Sir Thomas to send the demand for ransom to him through the priest? And the fellow knew the priest’s name. What else did they know of the village, and how had they come to know it?

  Sir Thomas reached for the tuft of wool and examined it. “More weld than woad,” he said. Indeed this was so, for there was a faint yellow tint to the strands.

  Chapter 7

  There was nothing more to be learned from the lad or the oak, and my stomach was growling mightily. I told Oswald I would leave matters in his hands, the tuft of wool also, and if he should learn of anything tying those who took Henry Harcourt to the felons who slew Hubert Shillside I would be pleased to know of it.

  Arthur and I mounted our palfreys, bade Sir Thomas farewell, and hurried away to Bampton and a hearty meal. I dismounted at Church View Street, directed Arthur to see to the beasts, and hurried to Galen House with my bundle of parchments.

  My Kate is seldom a disappointment. There was, upon our hearth, a kettle of pottage awaiting my return: peas and white beans, thick and bubbling. Alas, no pork, for ’twas a fast day, but maslin loaves fresh from the baker and fresh ale from the baker’s wife. I was well content.

  Kate wished to know of my travel to Oxford, so I told her how I’d met up with Hamo Tanner and his troupe and her father, described the two versions of conflict on the road from Abingdon to Oxford, and recounted all about the abduction of poor Henry Harcourt – complete with the grisly threat of sending on a severed finger.

  “Odd that the villains who do these felonies seem unalike,” I said. Some of the rogues wear black, as do monks or lay brothers or scholars, and others are clothed as young gentlemen.”

  “Men may change their garb,” Kate replied, “depending upon how they might wish to appear.

  And how does my father?”

  “He grows frail,” I said. “There is a pallor about his face, and he walks bent from the waist, as if his back pains him.”

  “You think the wound from that splinter you removed still troubles him?”

  “Nay. When folk become aged they seem oft unable to stand upright, especially crones. Why this is so no man knows, but observation proves it so.”

  “You believe he will die soon?”

  “Aye. I do. And his business is in decline. So many deaths in the past twenty years means fewer scholars and fewer books and less call for parchment and ink.”

  Kate’s face grew somber as I spoke. “I wish he might see Bessie and John before he meets the Lord Christ,” she said softly.

  “I have thought on that. We have an empty room in Galen House. Perhaps your father would consider selling his stationer’s shop and removing to Bampton. Should he fall ill in Oxford there is none to care for him. Though ’twould make more labor for you,” I added.

  “Not so much. But I fear he would not consider it. He would not wish to burden me.”

  “Possibly. But we will not know unless we ask. I’d like to go back to Oxford to speak again with Hamo Tanner, if he has not yet moved on to another place. I will seek your father and learn of his opinion. Bessie and John mayhap will persuade him, if I speak of them a time or two.”

  John took that moment to announce that he desired his own dinner, so Kate left me with Bessie and a second bowl of pottage.

  I had scarce finished my meal when there came a rapping upon Galen House door. I opened it to Father Thomas.

  “Mistress Kate said she expected your return this day,” the priest began. “Have you learned any more of Hubert’s death, or the other felonies between here and Oxford?”

  “Only that the evils continue.”

  “Wickedness continues in the Weald, also,” Father Thomas said.

  “There is more mischief afoot? Come in and tell me. Does the matter involve Alain Gower and Walter Mapes?”

  “Aye, it does.”

  I invited the priest to take his ease on the bench at the hearthside, for the April afternoon was gloomy and cold. I lit a cresset upon the table with embers from the fire, to furnish us with some light for our conversation.

  “Alain has beaten Walter, so Walter claims,” Father Thomas began.

  “Claims?”

  “Walter was walking from Bridge Street to the Weald when men set upon him. ’Twas yesternight, near dark, but he swears he recognized Alain as one of the assailants.”

  “Did the attackers speak?”

  “Nay. So Walter says. All three had cudgels and laid them upon his ribs and head. Eye is all blackened and ribs also, so he says. Nose is a bit awry and likely broken.”

  “This is a matter for you and Father Ralph and Father Simon to sort out,” I said.

  “But what if ’twas not Alain who attacked Walter? What if it was the felons who slew Hubert and have done much other mischief hereabouts?”

  “’Twas not such men who beat Walter,” I said.

  “Oh – why do you say so?”

  “What did the assailants take from him?”

  “Uh, nothing.”

  “Why would thieves attack a man, leaving him broken and bloodied in the road, but take none of his possessions? This business is about revenge. Alain retaliating for the hamsoken he blames on Walter.”

  “But if Walter truly did no harm to Alain, as he claims, then Alain’s robbers may have been of your bailiwick, or the same who did slay Hubert Shillside.”

  “Mayhap. When I discover if it is so I will interest myself in Walter’s bruised ribs. ’Til then he and Alain are the Bishop of Exeter’s men, not Lord Gilbert’s. You must seek to maintain order in the Weald. I have enough to do with Bampton Manor.”

  Father Thomas sat quiet and thoughtful. Of the three vicars of St. Beornwald’s Church he is the most energetic, but even he would allow another
to do his work for him if that other man was willing. In this, he is, I suppose, like most men. And much like me, I confess it.

  But I knew of no other men eager to find those who robbed and murdered Hubert Shillside. Most seemed willing to shrug their shoulders, proclaim the death a terrible villainy, and go about their business. Even Will no longer sought me daily, when I was at home, to learn if I had found the felons.

  Next day was Sunday, the day for Kate’s churching. She wrapped John snugly, for ’twas a chilly morning, and over his head placed the chrisom. She covered her own head with a veil, and together we walked Church View Street to the Church of St. Beornwald, where Father Thomas met us at the porch. He pronounced a blessing upon Kate and the babe, sprinkled holy water upon my wife, then gave her a candle.

  Kate, in turn, gave the priest the chrisom which had covered our son, and the ceremony ending her uncleanness was done. So was her confinement. A man who has done some of his wife’s work for forty days learns to appreciate her more.

  I spent the next day with John Prudhomme, Bampton’s reeve, inspecting flocks and herds, examining plowing and planting, surveying fences and ditches, and inquiring of John if any tenants were lax in week-work owed Lord Gilbert’s demesne. As the shadows grew long I sought Arthur and told him to be ready on the morrow with two palfreys, for we must once more travel to Oxford.

  Again I did not halt at Eynsham Abbey to consult Abbot Gerleys, intending to do so on the return journey, and stay the night. Although April had been dry, the winter had been wet, so the river at Swinford was deep and swift. I had found it necessary to cross the stream too many times for my liking. One slip of a beast’s hoof could plunge a man into the chilly current. I was well pleased to be past the ford, safe and dry.

  A hundred or so paces beyond the river I noticed my palfrey lay back her ears. A moment later the beast snorted, and after a few paces Arthur’s mount did likewise, and shied to the right of the road.

  I had neither seen nor heard anything to pique a horse’s interest, but beasts are more perceptive of danger than men. I tightened my grip upon the reins, looked intently about, and readied myself to spur my palfrey to a gallop if need be.