Deeds of Darkness

by Mel Starr

  “Nay. I will stay here tonight and pray for Henry’s soul. Morning will be soon enough to carry him home.”

  The guest chamber was near full that night. Six men snored in unison. I know this because five of them kept me awake ’til midnight, and when I finally fell to sleep ’tis likely I added to the chorus. Kate has told me I do snore. In fairness, so does she – well, a little.

  If there is any advantage to sharing a chamber with Arthur and Uctred and such sonorous folk it is that whilst I seek sleep my thoughts circle about puzzling events and occasionally patterns may emerge.

  Henry Harcourt’s death made no sense. Of course, those who slew him might continue their ransom demand, assuming Sir Thomas to believe his son to be yet amongst the living. But word of Henry’s discovery would soon travel from Stanton Harcourt. When it did the ransom demand would be finished. Those who slew Henry would be disappointed his death was discovered so quickly. What need arose for the felons to meet it through murder? If Henry tried to escape them, could he not have been recaptured? If men were close enough to slay him they could surely have seized him. Was the stroke ending Henry’s life unintentional, meant to incapacitate not to kill?

  Whatever reason men had for doing murder, why leave Henry’s corpse against a wall, only partly hidden, where men would find it when in June they mowed the hay? Why not bury the lad in some wood and strew leaves across the grave? Did those who slew Henry wish for him to be found, but not so soon? If so, why?

  If I had not peered over the wall Henry Harcourt might not have been discovered ’til men entered the hayfield with scythes. What would remain of him? Enough to identify? Face and features might be marred beyond knowing, but his chauces and cotehardie would remain and Sir Thomas would surely know them.

  Chapter 9

  Sir Thomas came early to the guest chamber to rouse Alan. I felt eager to return to Bampton, and as Arthur, Uctred, and my father-in-law were awakened when Sir Thomas called for his man, we four also left our beds, rubbed our eyes, splashed water upon our faces, and prepared to meet the day.

  Brother Watkin had seen Sir Thomas leave the church as he entered with other monks for matins, so as soon as the service was completed he brought loaves and ale to us. An abbey cart to carry Henry Harcourt to his home was ready when we finished breaking our fast, and Sir Thomas and his grooms set out as the sun appeared and the monks entered the choir for lauds. Our beasts and cart were prepared soon after, and we followed Sir Thomas’s solemn party.

  As we passed through Stanton Harcourt I saw Henry’s corpse carried into the church. I touched my forelock to Sir Thomas as he glanced our way, but did not interrupt our journey home. To what purpose would I have done so? Sir Thomas’s bailiff must deal with this murder. I had Hubert Shillside’s death to untangle, and was making little progress at the business. If the two felonies were connected, perhaps solving one would solve the other. And what of other murders and thievery to the west of Oxford? Might all this mayhem be due to the same scoundrels? Likely.

  Sorrow and gladness mingled when Robert Caxton saw his daughter, his grandchildren, and his new home. Galen House, named for the great physician of antiquity, is but a few years old, built in the new fashion, bricked between posts and beams on the ground floor, and with glass windows upon the lower story, with a roof of tiles. Sir Simon Trillowe, now deceased, burned the previous Galen House when he tossed a brand to the thatched roof. Such arson will not happen again.

  Caxton was pleased to see Kate, Bessie, and John, but I could see in his eyes that in Galen House he saw the structure in which he would die. Such knowledge will create a somber mood within the most jocular men, which Robert Caxton never was.

  Arthur and Uctred helped me unload the cart of my father-in-law’s possessions. We placed bed, table, bench, chair, and chest in a ground-floor room used sparingly until now – only to house some injured person who required treatment for several days.

  Kate had been busy at the hearth, and so when Arthur and Uctred departed for the castle with beasts and cart we sat to a dinner of stockfish in balloc broth and maslin loaves.

  “Oh,” Kate exclaimed. “I forgot to tell you – Lord Gilbert has returned. Yesterday.”

  “Then I must go to the castle and tell him of Hubert Shillside.”

  I would have preferred a more leisurely meal, but it is not wise to keep a great lord waiting when one possesses news he will want to hear.

  I found Lord Gilbert, his son Richard, his guests, grooms, and valets at dinner in the hall. Lord Gilbert did not wait for me, but I for him. As this was a fast day there were fewer removes, so the wait was not long.

  John Chamberlain showed me into Lord Gilbert’s presence in the solar, where he prefers to spend his time, many hours alone, or with a small assemblage of friends. Since Lady Petronilla’s death Lord Gilbert seems more pleased with keeping his own company than to be a part of some noisy society. Only one other was present in the solar. Lord Gilbert introduced me to a knight of his fee, Sir Reginald de Broc. The name seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place it – and then I remembered. I wondered if the knight was a descendant of one of those who had rid King Henry II of his “meddlesome priest” some two hundred years past; but this seemed no time nor place to ask.

  It took an hour to relate the felonies, both real and suspected, which had occurred in the past weeks between Bampton and Oxford. As I spoke, Lord Gilbert occasionally raised an eyebrow. This was a mannerism I had tried to emulate in years past, but could never master. One eyebrow only. Try it.

  “Does Sir Thomas seek the felons?” Lord Gilbert asked, speaking of Thomas de la Mare, Sheriff of Oxford.

  “I assume so,” I replied.

  “You have traveled to Oxford many times in the last fortnight or so but not told the sheriff of the evils in the county?”

  “To what point? He will surely know of the felonies.”

  “Oh, aye, I suppose so. Sir Thomas is not the most energetic of men, unless he’s approaching his dinner,” Lord Gilbert chuckled. “Well, next time you travel to Oxford speak to Sir Thomas, even if he is unlikely to exert himself overmuch in pursuing the rogues responsible.”

  From the castle I walked to Father Thomas’s vicarage, where his clerk answered my knock upon his door. I wished to know from the priest if strife continued in the Weald. Not that I felt responsible to end it if it did, but trouble amongst the bishop’s tenants and villeins could spread readily enough to Lord Gilbert’s lands. Father Thomas assured me peace prevailed in the Weald, although Alain Gower’s stolen possessions had not been recovered, nor had evidence been found to implicate any man in the theft, not even Walter Mapes, whom all men apparently thought responsible.

  Matters of manor business occupied me through Saturday. Two of Lord Gilbert’s tenants, according to John Prudhomme, were shirking week-work. I had spoken to these same fellows in past years about the same transgression, and fined both of them. Words and fines have done little good. Since the plague, men know the value of their labor – inferior though it may be. Most lords and nobles possess much fallow land, need more workers than they have, and try to attract tenants from other estates, although the Statute of Laborers forbids such practice. So the effectiveness of my attempts to keep discipline with such malefactors is limited. I speak harsh words and threaten new penalties, and when I leave them the fellows smile and continue their ways. The only hold I have over such men is that Lord Gilbert is a fair master, the soil of Bampton is fertile, and tenants and villeins know I deal justly with them. Not all bailiffs do so. And where else might they find a bailiff who can set their child’s broken arm when he topples from an apple tree where he has been stealing his lord’s fruit?

  Tenants of Bampton Manor have chosen John Prudhomme to be reeve for many years, his prosperity earning respect amongst his peers. His house upon Catte Street is large and well kept, which is surely why when he and his wife and children returned
home Sunday after mass, they found hamsoken done and many valuable possessions taken. Among these were a glazed bowl from Italy, a set of pewter spoons, a small chest wherein John kept his wealth – nearly fourteen shillings, he said – and his dagger, which he had not worn to church.

  “Why would thieves want my wife’s bowl?” John asked as I surveyed his damaged door.

  “They do not, I think. It will be sold in Oxford or Abingdon or Witney before the week is out. What was its value?”

  “Paid a shilling and four pence for it.”

  The intruders had used a chisel to carve away the wood of the door from its hinges. This could be done silently, or nearly so, ensuring that no man would hear them about their mischief. There would be few folk about at that time anyway, as all are expected to be at mass, or if servants, busy about preparing their masters’ dinner. Men who would steal another man’s chattels care little for their souls, so do not concern themselves if they forsake God’s house.

  “Come with me,” I said. “Perhaps we may find your stolen goods before the thief has had opportunity to hide them away. Little reason to raise the hue and cry. The felons have had time to make their escape.”

  “You have some man in mind? You know who did this?”

  “A man of the Weald has been accused of a similar felony.”

  “Ah! Walter Mapes. I’ve heard of the charge made against him.”

  John had come for me straightway when he discovered his loss after returning home from St. Beornwald’s Church. I had not even had opportunity to sit down to Kate’s dinner when he pounded upon Galen House door. So the miscreants – I suspected that more than one man had been involved in the hamsoken – might not have had time to conceal the stolen items.

  John and I hastened to the Weald and Walter Mapes’ hovel. I pounded upon the fellow’s insubstantial door and it immediately swung open. Apparently Mapes, his wife, and their brood were not long home after mass. Or that is what other folk were to think.

  Mapes tends always to peer out at the world from under a scowl, so I cannot be sure that he was especially offended to see me at his door. But likely he was, considering our past encounters.

  I bid the man “Good day” and smiled. He did not return either the sentiment or the expression.

  “What d’you want?” Mapes growled.

  “Valuable goods were stolen this morning whilst honest men were at church,” I said. “Did you and your sons attend mass?”

  “Of course. Against the law not to, unless a man be ill.”

  “Who would have seen you there?” I said.

  Mapes ignored my question and went straight to the point. “I haven’t taken no other man’s goods.”

  “Who can attest that you attended mass this day?” I repeated. “I was there and do not remember seeing you or your lads.”

  “Richard Mersh seen us. Was right behind me. An’ Roger Thursby.”

  I knew of these men by their reputation, which was little better than Mapes’. They were of the Weald, and it occurred to me that, for a share of the spoils, such men might cheerfully forsake the truth.

  “Fetch Father Thomas,” I said to John. “I will remain here. Make haste.”

  If I demanded of Walter Mapes that he open his hovel to a search for stolen goods, ’twould be best to have at my side a representative of his lord, the Bishop of Exeter. He might protest, but would not deny entry to Father Thomas as he possibly would to me. My authority did not extend to the Weald, and Mapes knew it.

  “What d’you want with Father Thomas?” Mapes said.

  “He is needed to assist in the search for John Prudhomme’s stolen goods.”

  “What? ’Ere? I’ve no man’s possessions.”

  “Then you’ll not be troubled if we search your house and barn.”

  Mapes folded his arms. “Search where you will. An’ you don’t need to wait for John to return wi’ Father Thomas.”

  The man stood aside from his door and invited me to enter. I knew as I did so that I would find no stolen property here. Either because he had not done hamsoken, or because he was confident that the goods were well hidden elsewhere.

  I entered the dark, shabby dwelling and waited a moment ’til my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. A fire glowed upon the hearth stone, its smoke contributing to the tenebrous atmosphere. The man’s wife looked up from the pot she tended, then went back to stirring her dinner. The older children, who with their mother had heard my conversation with their father, glared at me. No doubt they learned this from their father. If I discovered that Walter Mapes had stolen from Alain Gower and John Prudhomme, he would hang, and his sons would have another reason to hate me. Evil men always find ways to justify their sins and place guilt upon those who find them out.

  The hovel was of two rooms, one quite small, and the larger no more than four or five paces in length and breadth. I poked through bedclothes and a chest before John returned with Father Thomas. The priest was not pleased to have his dinner interrupted, I think. But whether or not Walter Mapes was the target of his ire I could not tell. He growled at all of us.

  Together the priest, John, and I investigated the smaller room, which was barely large enough for the pallets of Mapes’ children. We prodded the matted rushes upon the floor, then left the house to examine the toft for any recently disturbed earth. We saw none, and the small barn and decaying henhouse held no valuable items belonging to either Walter Mapes or anyone else. If Walter Mapes was a thief he had concealed his gains well. It occurred to me that if Roger Thursby or Richard Mersh would vouch for Walter’s presence at mass, whilst he was in truth elsewhere, they might also harbor the ill-gotten gains. Did Mapes have other friends who might do the same for a share of the loot?

  Neither I nor Father Thomas could search every household in Bampton or the Weald whose tenant might know Walter Mapes. And, for all his unappealing reputation, Mapes might indeed be innocent of the felony, if not of many others.

  Mapes had stood silently, arms folded, a slight smirk occasionally decorating his face, whilst we searched. Did his grin mean that he had outsmarted us, or did his confidence arise from a clear conscience? There is no window through which we may see into a man’s soul. This is just as well. Although I might desire to see truly another man’s nature, I prefer no man peer too deeply into my own. That prerogative belongs only to the Lord Christ.

  We gave up the search, bade Mapes “Good day,” and set off for Mill Street. I glanced back as we neared the mill and saw Walter yet standing before his door, the mocking smile still on his face, along with the purple bruises from the blows he had received a few days past.

  The king has commanded all men of the realm to practice with bow and arrows. The French and their friends in Scotland make such proficiency necessary if the kingdom is to endure. Lord Gilbert, as with most of his station, requires his tenants and villeins to hone their skills at the butts upon warm Sunday afternoons, and encourages participation by awarding a penny each to the six most skillful archers. ’Tis my duty as bailiff to oversee the practice and award the prizes.

  So I hurried from the Weald to Galen House, devoured my dinner of leach Lombard, and hastened to the castle forecourt where Arthur and three other grooms had erected the butts.

  Although not of Lord Gilbert’s manor, nor of my bailiwick, men of the Weald generally appeared upon these Sunday afternoons to fling arrows at the targets. Among these was Walter Mapes. When he took his place at the line he lowered his bow and cast in my direction the same grin with which he had favored me an hour earlier.

  Arthur had measured only a hundred paces from line to butts, because I told him that this being the first session of the season we must not challenge the archers overmuch. Come August we can increase the distance to two hundred paces or so, as decreed in the king’s ordinance.

  Participants notched six arrows at each try, and by the third or fourth
volley most were placing two or three arrows into the target, which was the width of my arm from chin to fingertips. Not Walter Mapes. The man hit the butt with four arrows at his first attempt, and at the fourth round placed all six within a circle the size of a pig’s bladder.

  He had snagged one of Lord Gilbert’s silver pennies fairly, but it pained me to present him with the coin. ’Twould have been more bearable had he not approached me for his prize with that intolerable smirk yet spread across his face.

  Partway through the contest Lord Gilbert appeared, accompanied by his guests Sir Reginald and – new to the castle – Sir John Lynum and his lady Alyce. There ensued much doffing of caps and tugging of forelocks when they appeared. Lady Alyce applauded daintily when an archer hit his mark, and her appreciation of skill was much valued, I think, for blushes colored the cheeks of these robust archers.

  My father-in-law attended the archery practice and, as we strolled back to Church View Street afterwards, he spoke of what he had observed.

  “One of the men who won coins, the shaggy fellow, smiled as though he had gained more than a penny.”

  “Walter Mapes,” I said. “And perhaps he has. You heard me tell Kate that John Prudhomme was robbed this morning whilst all good men were at mass.”

  “Aye. And you think this Mapes is not a good man?”

  “He claims witnesses who will place him at the church whilst the theft was happening.”

  “Will you question the witnesses?”

  “To what purpose? He would not name them unless he was sure of their testimony – and perhaps he tells the truth. Perhaps he is innocent of the felony, for all of his past misdeeds.”

  “He looks guilty,” Caxton said.

  “Aye, I give you his looks. He has been guilty of so much wickedness for so long that the appearance comes naturally to him. But Father Thomas and I searched Walter’s house and barn and found nothing.”

  “So perhaps,” Caxton observed drily, “he grins in triumph.”