by Mel Starr
He mumbled, “We sold them in Oxford.”
“To whom were my instruments sold?”
“I never saw. John sold them. Perhaps he’ll remember.”
“Which of your friends is left-handed?” I asked.
“Ivo.”
“’Twas him, then, who slashed a traveler upon the road near to Abingdon,” I said.
“Aye.”
“You thought to overpower three men upon the road, but ran off when others of the party appeared. Is this not so?”
“Aye.”
“Why then go to Eynsham Abbey? Why not return to Oxford?”
“We ran off and hid for a few days because we recognized the tanner when he appeared upon the road. We guessed him likely bound for Oxford, where he might recognize one of us on the streets.”
“What of the lass of Church Hanborough? Was that your doing?”
Edmund did not reply, but hung his head.
“You and your friends are the scoundrels who raped that lass?” Sir Thomas said. Without another word he delivered a blow to the side of Edmund’s head which left the lad sprawled in the dirt. The lad raised himself slowly to his feet, fearful of another stroke, which he surely deserved.
“Where is the one who helped you slay Oswald?” I said.
“He returned straightway to Oxford – last night.”
“Where you will now go,” Sir Thomas said, “to visit the sheriff… I have lost all of my sons.”
Sir Thomas would not wait for his dinner. I watched as he permitted Edmund to draw on his boots, then hailed two grooms. He instructed his servants to prepare four horses and be quick about it. Within the hour we watched Sir Thomas and his grooms leave the village, taking Edmund to the sheriff. Many knights would not have done so, preferring a surviving heir to justice.
My empty stomach prompted me to seek our beasts and depart Stanton Harcourt in the opposite direction from Sir Thomas. I thought momentarily of begging a meal from the manor serving men, but judged it not fitting. There would be no dinner for us this day ’til we arrived home.
At the intersection of Bridge Street and Church View Street I sent Arthur and Uctred on to the castle with our palfreys. I proceeded afoot to Galen House where, between bites of capon in bruit and barley loaf, I told Kate and her father of the resolution of the felonies between Bampton and Oxford.
“No more journeys to Oxford,” Kate smiled.
“One more. To find the monk who has purchased RHETORIC, and the surgeon who purchased my instruments. I want them returned.”
When my meal was done I sought Will Shillside and told him of the conclusion to my investigation of his father’s murder, unsatisfactory as it was. He was pleased to believe that, even though they did not admit their guilt, the felons had been apprehended. He told me later that the punishment inflicted upon the four scholars did not, to his mind, resemble justice. I had to agree.
As I suspected, the lads pleaded benefit of clergy before the King’s Eyre and were sent to Bishop Bokyngham’s court. There they were required to undertake pilgrimage to Jerusalem and wear hair shirts under their cotehardies which must not be removed until their return. By that time lice would infest the hair shirts and the degree of penance would be the greater.
Any pilgrimage is arduous, to Jerusalem especially so. A man will have many experiences upon such a journey, most of them bad. If he does not succumb to disease or thieves upon the road, or his ship does not sink beneath him, Musselmen may slay him for an infidel, or sell him into slavery. The penance was not so light as first appeared.
The monk who had purchased RHETORIC could not be found. Like Master Wycliffe he had departed Canterbury Hall. For Cambridge, another monk said. But John remembered the surgeon who had purchased my instruments – one of those who claimed ignorance of any such tools being offered, promising as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth that he would surely let me know if they turned up.
When I confronted the man he claimed the scalpels and other oddments had been his these many years, and that a felon who said otherwise was not to be believed. But Lord Gilbert heard of my loss and sent word of the business to Sheriff de la Mare. He sent a constable to visit the surgeon. A few days later a youth arrived in Bampton with my lost instruments.
Somewhere, perhaps many years hence, some man will read Aristotle’s RHETORIC and wonder how some pages became stained. The book will keep its secrets. Perhaps he will read this chronicle and understand.
Chapter 19
Edmund Harcourt’s denial of responsibility for Hubert Shillside’s murder vexed me. And the broken blade I had drawn from the man’s ribs did also. I had set the crude weapon in my instruments chest, and each time I opened the box it reminded me of my uncertainty. Will Shillside seemed satisfied that, despite disavowing the murder of his father, Edmund Harcourt and his goliard friends were responsible for the crime. I was not. Edmund had been forthcoming about his other felonies. Why not admit the slaying of Hubert Shillside if he and his friends had done the deed? The doubt seldom left my mind.
So it was that I considered Shillside’s murder one warm day in mid-May while I walked along the bank of Shill Brook seeking herbs for my depleted store. I knew of a place along the brook where feverfew and willow were to be found and went there to gather a sackful of the leaves of feverfew and bark of the willow. These are useful in reducing men’s fevers, as well as lessening headaches and relieving the aching joints of older folk.
When my sack was full I sat upon the bank of the brook to enjoy the sun and fell to wool-gathering as I contemplated the flow. Once a few weeks past such a preoccupation had led to the discovery of Hubert Shillside’s corpse. This day I made another find.
On the far side of the stream, where water deepened as it curved and undercut a bank, a small willow, its roots washed away, had fallen into the stream. Its branches waved gently in the current, and upon one of these boughs a brown object shaped like a pig’s bladder was caught. I was puzzled as to what this could be, for it seemed foreign to the brook.
The thing could not be reached from my side of the stream, so there was nothing to be done, if I wished to retrieve it, but to remove my shoes and roll up my chauces and wade into the brook.
I found a leather pouch caught upon a willow sprig, bloated and rounded as it filled with water in the flow. I drew the pouch from its place and splashed back to the bank, where I dried my feet upon the grass, pulled on my shoes, then examined my find.
I had discovered a purse of excellent quality, made by a good cordwainer. Sturdy leather thongs were woven into its closure, but these had been cut cleanly. Why, I wondered, would a man discard such a valuable object?
I turned the purse over in my hands, and this question was answered. I had seen this purse before. Engraved on one side was the letter “H”, painstakingly incised into the leather. Here was Hubert Shillside’s purse, found, like the man, in a stream. But streams many miles apart.
I hastened back to the village and Broad Street, where is found Will Shillside’s home and haberdashery. Alice answered my rapping upon the door, and recognizing me, bent to curtsey. This she need not do, for I am no nobleman, and she found the act difficult to do. Kate would, I thought, be called soon to serve as god’s sib, for Alice must ere long become a mother.
Will heard my voice and appeared behind his wife. I did not wish to dismay Alice, considering her sensitive condition, so asked the young man to walk with me. I led him to the churchyard, and when he was seated in the porch I drew the purse from under my cotehardie and laid it in his hands.
His eyes opened wide, as did his mouth, when he saw the “H” engraved upon the damp leather.
“’Tis my father’s purse,” he exclaimed. “Where did you come by it? Where was it found? The lad from Stanton Harcourt is away on pilgrimage, is he not? Did his conscience trouble him so that he gave it up before he departed? �
��Tis sodden. How so?”
“Edmund Harcourt and his felonious friends did not slay your father; nor did they have his purse. ’Tis as Edmund claimed. They were innocent of the crime, if not of many others. I found it not an hour past in Shill Brook, near to where the stream passes under the east bridge.”
“How would it come to be there?” Will said, then answered his question. “The guilty man lives here, and thought to cast the purse into the brook and thereby discard evidence of his crime.”
“Aye,” I replied. “So I believe. I found the purse caught on a willow branch, else by now, after so many days, it would be in the Thames and carried to London. The man who slew your father thought to destroy evidence of his felony when he pitched him into the Windrush stream. As with the purse, he thought the flow would take evidence of his crime far away. The streams betrayed his sin.”
Will sat silent for a moment, turning the purse in his hands, then spoke quietly, as if he feared some man might overhear.
“Who is the guilty man? Who do you believe has done this murder? ’Twill be some scoundrel of Bampton or the Weald.”
“It will, and I believe I know who has done this evil. But I would not have his name bandied about so that he learns of my suspicion and takes flight.”
“You will not name the man?”
“Nay. ’Tis for the best that I tell no man what I believe, not even you. If he learns of it he will do what he might to escape the scaffold, or if you have his name you may decide to take matters into your own hands, and not wait for the sheriff’s justice. You would then be as guilty of felony as the murderer.”
I may as well have named Walter Mapes, as matters befell. Will, I believe, told Alice of the purse. Indeed, he likely showed it to her, for he carried it with him when we left the church porch.
Alice, I think, then spoke of the discovery to friends, and one of these told Father Thomas, for early next morn he appeared at Galen House, curious as to whom I was about to charge with Hubert Shillside’s death.
“’Tis said you found Hubert’s purse in Shill Brook,” he said.
“Aye. Yesterday, while seeking willow bark and feverfew.”
“No doubt, then, that the felon is amongst us, eh, and not Sir Thomas Harcourt’s lad.”
“No doubt.”
“And who is the culprit? Surely you must suspect some man.”
“Aye, I do. ’Twill be the man who stabbed Shillside and left his broken blade in the haberdasher’s ribs.”
The priest’s eyes widened. “The felon who slew Hubert broke his dagger in so doing?”
“He did.”
“You did not say so when you discovered the corpse.”
“You did not ask.”
“We must speak more of this matter,” the priest said. I invited him to seat himself upon a bench.
“What more is to be said?” I asked. “You seem troubled.”
“I am. I have seen a dagger with its blade snapped off but a few weeks past.”
“Where? Why did you not say so?”
“You did not ask. But I will tell you now. You watched as Father Ralph, Father Simon, and I sought Alain Gower’s stolen goods and opened Walter Mapes’ chest. There was little in it. Nothing of Alain’s goods. But at the bottom, underneath an old, threadbare cotehardie, I remember a broken dagger.”
“I wonder if it remains there,” I said.
“We can discover if it is readily enough,” the priest replied.
“Aye. And I have yet the broken blade I drew from Shillside’s ribs. But we must seek other men before we confront Walter. He and his lads may object to our examining the chest, and we two are not enough to convince them otherwise.
“Walter Mapes attempted to enter this house and beat me because I had disparaged his name. So he said. But I think now he had another reason.”
“He worried that you were near to identifying Hubert’s murderer,” Father Thomas agreed.
“And had no dagger to plunge into my heart while I slept, for it was broken in his attack on Shillside.”
“Did he know that you had found a broken dagger embedded in Shillside’s ribs?”
“I doubt it, but mayhap he did. I told no one of the find. No one needed to know. But Will and Arthur knew of it. If Will later told Alice and she eventually spoke of it, the discovery might have found Walter’s ear.”
“In which case he will have discarded the broken dagger I saw in his chest.”
“Aye, likely. But we must seek it to be sure. I thought that by holding back the discovery of the broken dagger I might have information I could use against the felon, but I see now that was not the case.”
“Ah, but it was,” Father Thomas said. “Had you made this known Mapes would have rid himself of the dagger rather than placing it in the chest, and when I looked there I would have seen no broken dagger.”
“Fetch Father Ralph and Father Simon and your clerks. I will seek grooms at the castle and meet you at the bridge over Shill Brook. I’ll have the broken blade with me. We will learn if it matches the ruined dagger in Walter’s chest, if the weapon is yet there.”
At the castle I found Arthur and Uctred and we hastened to Bridge Street. With the priests and their clerks we were nine. The clerics were unarmed, but Arthur, Uctred, and I had daggers ready. We made a considerable show of force as we turned to the path to the Weald.
Our cohort was but fifty or so paces from Walter’s hovel when from its open door we heard a shout, then another, followed by a feminine screech. The uproar startled us, and we halted in the lane. Another scream followed, then the sound of a blow against flesh, and then a masculine bellow. I looked to Father Thomas, and he nodded toward the house and set off at a rapid pace. I and the others trotted behind.
Before we reached the house Mapes’ wife burst through the open door, Walter in pursuit. The woman was howling for aid, Walter crying out threats against her through his damaged lips, and waving over his head what appeared to be the broken shaft of some implement. Perhaps a pitchfork.
How this tool was broken I could not say, but as the woman saw us in the path she ran to us to escape Walter’s wrath. I saw blood trickling down her face from under her dingy cap as she drew near.
Walter’s wife staggered and fell to her knees before Father Simon, pleading for protection from her enraged husband. Walter, seeing that he was much outnumbered, skidded to a halt, lowered his weapon, and took stock of the situation. Without a word to us he turned, strode to his house, and disappeared through the open door.
Father Simon and his clerk kneeled in the path to comfort the battered woman while we others followed Walter to his house and pursued him through the door.
Walter yet held the broken shaft in his hand, and seemed for a moment ready to use it against us. But wisdom overcame valor and he backed away.
“What d’you want?” he growled.
“Why do you beat a defenseless woman so?” Father Thomas said.
“None o’ your concern.”
“Perhaps,” the priest replied, “but your chest and what it contains is.”
Father Thomas approached the crude chest and from the corner of my eye I saw Walter move as if to stop him. Arthur saw this also and stepped between them. Few men armed with only a thin staff will challenge Arthur. Walter stopped where he was. The man may be foolish, but not foolhardy.
The priest opened the chest and in the dim light inside the hovel rummaged about in its depths. He tossed out several items of apparel, then stood and spoke to Walter.
“Where is the broken dagger which I saw in this chest when I last examined it?”
“Broken dagger?” Mapes scoffed. “I’ve no broken dagger.”
“Perhaps not now, but you had one not long past. Where is it now?”
“In the brook,” Mapes’ wife said. The woman had ceased her howls and, with Fa
ther Simon and his clerk, followed us to her home. She stood in the doorway when she spoke. I turned to her and she spoke again. “’E tossed it in t’brook a fortnight an’ more past. Said ’twas good for naught. Wouldn’t say ’ow ’e broke it.”
Walter dropped his weapon and seemed ready to flee out of the rear door of the house. “Seize him,” I said, but Arthur had anticipated my command and took hold of Mapes’ arm as the words left my mouth.
“Show me where your husband discarded the broken dagger,” I said.
A woman whose husband regularly beats her is not likely to feel much loyalty to him. Mapes’ wife turned and without a word stumbled toward the brook about forty paces from her door. Father Simon and his clerk each took an arm to steady the woman. Walter’s beating had left her wobbling upon her feet.
Arthur had a grip on one of Walter’s arms and Uctred the other. Together they dragged the unwilling fellow along to the brook.
“Just there,” the woman said, and pointed unsteadily into the stream. The brook at this place is perhaps six paces wide and knee deep, no more, but turgid. The stream bed and whatever might be on it were invisible to us.
Invisible to sight, but not to touch. For the second time in as many days I discarded shoes, rolled up my chauces, and waded into the brook. The current would not carry away a broken dagger, unlike Shillside’s purse which, I suspected, had been disposed of in the same way, in the same place.
I thought it unlikely that a broken blade flat upon the stream bed would do harm to my bare feet; nevertheless, I stepped cautiously as I searched with my toes for Walter’s discarded dagger. No man upon the stream bank asked what I was about. They knew.
Twice my feet found curiously shaped objects which, when I dipped an arm into the water, became but large pebbles. When I felt these with my toes I thought they could not be a dagger, but drew them out for a look anyway, as my toes are not familiar with the shape and feel of a dagger in cold water. But when my foot found the dagger I knew what I had discovered before I lifted it from the brook.
I pushed my way to the bank through the current, where Father Thomas extended a hand to help me ascend its slope. From my purse I drew the broken blade which had been embedded in Hubert Shillside’s ribs. It was a perfect match to the haft I had just lifted from the water.
