by Mel Starr
“Ah…Master Hugh,” she greeted me from under her bent brow.
“Good morning, Sarah. Are you well?” A foolish question. Who seeks the surgeon when they are well?
“Nay. ’Tis me shoulders again. I’m terrible distressed. Do ye have more of the oil such as you gave me at Candlemas?”
“Did the oil help?”
“Oh, aye, it did. But ’tis gone for a fortnight.”
I told her to wait at the gatehouse and I returned to my chamber. The oil Sarah sought was produced from bay leaves and monk’s hood, and when rubbed vigorously upon a bruise or aching joint will relieve the hurt. I was startled to see how little of the oil remained in my pharmacy. I poured it all into a vial, stopped the vessel with a wooden plug, and carried it to the sufferer.
I gave Sarah the vial with strict instructions that, after rubbing the oil on her aching shoulders, she must not touch her hand to her lips until all trace of the oil was washed clean of her fingers.
The widow accepted my remedy, fished in her purse for the farthing fee, then tottered off toward Mill Street clutching the vial to her shrunken breast. I knew what I must now do this day, and the thought pleased me, for while I gathered bay leaves and the root of monk’s hood I would not have to consider the murder of Henry atte Bridge.
Had I discovered my shortage a month sooner, I would have had an easier time gathering more bay leaves. Sweet laurel is green all winter through and easily identified in a bleak winter wood. But now all the low plants were bursting out in color, from fragile pale yellow-green to darker hues of full summer. These herbs, many having uses of their own, disguised the plant I sought. But some months before I had discovered a thick patch of sweet laurel at the fringe of the wood behind St Andrew’s Chapel, very near the place where the coroner and I had found the beadle’s cudgel. I threw a sack across my shoulder and set off for the chapel.
My route took me past the place where, nearly four weeks before, the plowman found Alan’s corpse. ’Twas well the man was found when he was, for now the place was dense with new growth of nettles and hawthorn. A body lying there now would not be found until autumn.
The wood behind St Andrew’s Chapel was thick with sweet laurel, as on my previous visit. I filled my sack with leaves and had yet enough time to seek the monk’s hood to complete the physic.
I had seen what I thought to be monk’s hood when following the hounds as we tracked the beast which must have attacked Alan and howled in the night. The patch lay south of Shill Brook where the stream turned east toward Aston. I crossed a fallow field to the brook, waded it at a shallow place where the water flowed swiftly over a gravel bed, then set off to the west where I remembered the monk’s hood to be.
It was too early for the purple flowers to be in bloom, so I had to search carefully for the narrow, multi-pointed leaves before I found what I sought. I dug up several plants, washed the roots free of dirt in the brook, then placed them in the bag with the bay leaves.
I was careful as I returned to the castle not to put my fingers to my mouth. The root of monk’s hood is a powerful poison. I do not know if the small amount of the oil from the root left on my fingers could cause death, but have no desire to discover so in experiment. Monk’s hood is like many good things God has given to man. Used wrongly, it becomes a curse.
After dinner — a fine meal of game pie, pork in spiced syrup, and tarts made from mushrooms new found in the forest — I went to my chamber to prepare a fresh batch of salve for Sarah and others afflicted in their old age.
I used flax-seed oil as a base, and set a pot to simmering on a charcoal brazier while I turned my attention to the leaves and roots I had gathered in the morning. With mortar and pestle I crushed the bay leaves fine and poured the fragments into the warm flax-seed oil. Next I mashed the monk’s hood root to a pulpy mass and stirred that into the thickening oil as well. There are some who believe that the oil of bay and monk’s hood serve best when pure, but I hold with the view that flax-seed oil also relieves affliction, and makes a fine carrier for the oils of bay leaf and wolfsbane root. I finished this work shortly after St Beornwald’s bell rang the ninth hour. I was sorry to be done with the task, for now I had no excuse to ignore the search for a murderer. I left the oil, leaves, and roots to bubbling and departed my chamber. I had no destination for my feet, but it is sure I would not find a killer while sitting upon a bench in my chamber watching a steaming pot.
I walked Bampton’s street with no goal in mind and after several turns found myself drawn to the north in the direction of the bishop’s new tithe barn. I heard the sound of industry as I approached; a hammer on a chisel cutting a tenon; an adze smoothing a beam; a draw knife shaping a treenail. I stopped to watch this activity from the road and as I did several questions occurred to me which might, I thought, be answered by the workmen.
I approached the builder with the adze, who stood bent over his work in a pile of sweet-smelling shavings. He did not see me approach, so I coughed so as to advise him of my presence. I did not wish to startle him as the adze came down for another strike, for fear I might deflect his aim. I had no desire to employ my surgical skills on the fellow’s ankle.
“Good day,” I offered.
“Aye…’tis.” The man leaned on his adze and with a calloused hand brushed a stray wisp of hair back under his cap. He seemed pleased to have a reason to cease his labor.
“You must have heavier work, since Henry atte Bridge is no more among you.”
“Aye,” the man spat into the pile of shavings. “But the vicar says he’ll send us another, so we’ll be four again, soon.”
“Does the work go well, without a man as you are?”
“Same as always. Henry were no worker. Least, no carpenter. Can’t see why reeve put ’im with us for his week work. Should’a had ’im plowin’, where ’e’d do some good.”
“He lacked skill?”
“Aye. An’ had little wish t’learn.”
“He must have owned some competence. He seemed prosperous enough for a man with but a half yardland.”
“Aye,” the adze-man scowled. “’E fed well for a man wot shirked.”
Here before me was a man who disliked Henry atte Bridge. Did the other two laborers, casting sidelong glances at me while they worked, feel the same? Was their dislike intense enough to distill into hatred? Surely an objection to a man’s work would not lead another to plunge a dagger into his back. Would it?
The man shaping treenails finished another fastener and sauntered over to join the conversation. Then tenon cutter decided he was not to be left out, and followed him. I was soon surrounded by three men redolent of sawdust and oak shavings. The scent was a significant improvement over their natural odor.
“Have you ever seen,” I pointed to the forest across the road, “an archer in that wood?”
The three men peered at each other for a moment, as if to get their stories aligned. But perhaps I am too mistrustful. The tenon cutter answered.
“What would an archer be doin’ in Lord Gilbert’s wood?”
All knew the answer to that.
“Are there deer to be seen in that wood, so close to the town?”
“Never seen any,” the adze-man replied. He looked at the others and they shook their heads in agreement.
I was about to tell them of the broken arrow I had found there, but thought better of it. I am learning to keep my own counsel and trust no man until he prove himself. I cannot say that this is a good thing — to mistrust all. And surely I do not. There are many I trust to speak truth: Master Wyclif, Lord Gilbert Talbot, Thomas de Bowlegh, Hubert Shillside, even Alice atte Bridge. But rather than trust a stranger until he prove faithless, I was becoming one who mistrusts another until he might prove to me his veracity. Perhaps this is safe for a bailiff, to pass his life suspicious of all men and their motives, but it is not enjoyable.
“Did Henry speak of enemies?”
The barn builders gave sidelong glances to each other before th
e adze-man, who seemed to be nominated their leader, spoke.
“’At’s ’bout all ’e’d speak of, them as done ’im wrong an’ ’ow ’e was like t’get even w’them as harmed ’im.”
“Had you ever done him harm?”
The tenon cutter snorted. “Ev’ry man of the bishop’s has, I think, an’ most o’ Lord Gilbert’s, too.”
I could agree with that, being Lord Gilbert’s man and having offended Henry atte Bridge more than once.
“He took offence quickly, then?”
“Aye,” the tenon cutter muttered. “Thought the whole shire was out t’do ’im mischief.”
“I am told that he attended confession often…at St Andrew’s Chapel.”
At this revelation the adze-man laughed heartily and the others grinned. “Henry? Confession?” The man chuckled again. I waited to be apprized of the cause for this mirth. An explanation was not long in coming.
“’E ’ad much t’confess, that I’ll agree,” the tenon cutter said finally.
“An oath on ’is lips whene’r ’e was wrathful.”
“And was this often…that he was wrathful?”
“Most ev’ry day. An’ more’n once in a day, too,” the treenail shaper added.
“You are not sorry to be rid of him, then, I think?”
“Nay. Well, not in…in that way.” The tenon cutter spoke, then hesitated as he understood what I might think. “I’d not wish any man struck down,” he continued. The others nodded agreement. “But ’tis a truth we’re pleased as not to ’ave ’Enry atte Bridge to deal with.”
“Should you see a man prowling Lord Gilbert’s wood,” I nodded toward the copse where Henry atte Bridge was found dead, “tell me of it straight away. Especially so if he carries a bow and arrows.” I thought it unlikely I would hear from the builders, but ’tis true, I’ve heard, that a miscreant will return to the scene of his crime.
Perhaps it is also true that a bewildered bailiff will also seek out again the scene of the crime he is bound to solve. I left the workmen and was drawn to the forest. To find what? I knew not: some thing which did not belong that might direct my steps toward a killer.
I found the stick I had used and discarded the week before. It was branched at the end, so I could stir through the leaves with it as with a pitchfork. I spent the next hour churning the forest floor. The Angelus Bell rang while I searched, and the shadows grew long. It would soon be too dark to see any object alien to the forest. I resolved to make one more pass between the road and the beaten place where Henry’s body had lain.
There was, between the road and the place we found Henry, a patch of brambles perhaps three or four paces across which had grown up where an opening in the wood permitted sunlight to strike the forest floor. Young nettles grew thickly among and through them. No man, be he ever so hurried, would willingly plunge through these brambles. But when Henry ran through the forest it was near dark. Perhaps he or his pursuer got into the patch.
I have enough experience of nettles that I made no attempt to penetrate the brambles. I contented myself with poking about the fringe, using my stick to push the stems apart so as to peer into the center of the brambles. It was enough.
A close inspection showed several places where the stems of the stinging vegetation were broken, the new leaves on these stalks wilting toward the ground. I pushed my stick under some of these and lifted the broken canes to the late afternoon light. On one of these stalks I saw a wisp of black. I flailed away with the stick until the stem I sought broke free of the soil and I could pull it to me.
At first I could not determine what it was I saw fixed to the bramble thorn. But when I drew it close I found myself inspecting a tuft of black wool. Henry atte Bridge, when he was found, wore brown and grey. No black. I had found, I was sure, some remnant of his killer. But perhaps not. There was a man in the wood that evening when Henry attacked me. He called out to him. Did this bit of wool come from that man; a friend and cohort perhaps? Or did another run headlong through these nettles and brambles and leave this mark of his passing? Were there two men in the wood that night, or three?
Before I left the wood I set myself another task. The new leaves of the nettle are a pleasing addition to a soup or stew. I plucked from the fringe of the patch enough to fill my pouch. The castle cook, I knew, would appreciate the gift.
After supper I retired to my chamber to ponder three scraps of wool; two of blue and one of black. I knew the origin of the blue fragments. Black wool is most often found draping priests and clerks and those who take holy orders. Why would such a one leave part of his robe stuck to a thorn in the forest? The color of a man’s garb has little to do with where he may be found. A man may stumble into a patch of nettles no matter what he wears. So had I a clue to the death of Henry atte Bridge or not? I could not tell. All I knew of a certainty was that I had found three woolen fragments. If they spoke, they whispered so softly I could not hear their message.
Chapter 8
Walking the parapet of Bampton Castle became a common evening pastime. The exercise settled my mind for rest. And as I walked I might puzzle out a solution to the mystery of Henry atte Bridge’s death, although, truth be told, compassing a pile of stone brought me no nearer an explanation of that business. I was but going round in circles, mentally and physically. If walking was to direct me to a murderer, I would need to choose a path outside the castle walls.
I questioned Thomas atte Bridge. The man could offer no reason for his brother’s death. Or would offer no reason, if he could. The man seemed resentful of his dead brother. A glance about at Thomas’ hovel while we spoke explained that sentiment. Why two brothers of similar circumstance should live so differently did not then occur to me.
I attended mass on Sunday no closer to discovering a killer than when Thomas de Bowlegh assigned me the task. I did not wish to explain my failures to the vicar, so hastened from the church when Father Thomas had recited the final prayers and Simon Osbern pronounced the blessing.
I was too slow. Thomas de Bowlegh hailed me from the porch as I walked through the lych gate. I had hoped to leave the churchyard unseen in the press of the retiring congregation.
“What news, Master Hugh?” the vicar panted as he hastened across the churchyard. I told him of the wisp of black wool I’d found in the nettles and watched his lip curl as I did. I wondered at this.
As I completed the tale Simon Osbern appeared at the porch, watching his departing congregation and basking in the spring sun. Father Thomas saw him there and called him to us.
“Simon…your cook flavored his soup with nettle leaves Monday when we supped together, did he not?”
“Aye, he did so.”
“Whereaway did he find them?”
“Oh, I sent him to the wood where we found poor Henry atte Bridge. There is a patch there, growing up through blackberry brambles. I saw it when we searched last week and thought then ’twould be worth gathering a sack full of the leaves for the table.”
“What does your cook wear?” Father Thomas then asked — a question which was surely not expected and brought a look of surprise to Simon Osbern’s rotund face.
“Why…an old robe of mine, cut down as a surcoat.”
“Black, is it not?”
“Aye. Why do you ask this?”
Father Thomas turned to me. He expected me to provide the explanation to Father Simon, so I did.
“I found a tuft of black wool caught on thorns in the wood you spoke of. And the nettle stems were somewhat broken and disordered. I thought it was a thing which might lead to a killer, but I see now ’twas but preparation for your dinner.”
“There is no other progress to report?” Father Simon frowned.
“None, I fear. Wait…there is the arrow.”
“Arrow?” the vicars chorused.
“Nothing to do with the crime, I think. I found a new-broken arrow in the wood last week, near where Henry’s body lay. Some poacher escaped the verderer’s watch and took a de
er, is my guess.”
“So near the town?” Father Simon asked skeptically.
“What better place?” Father Thomas replied. “The verderer would not expect a poacher in such a wood.”
“And I can find no better explanation,” I agreed. “An arrow plays no part in this business, and I can discover no other reason for one to be found lying broken on the forest floor.”
The discovery of that would come sooner than I might have guessed.
Father Ralph sauntered up as I took leave of the vicars. I saw them standing by the lych gate, deep in conversation, as I turned from the churchyard to make my way down Church View Street. Father Simon glanced up in my direction as I turned the corner, met my eyes, then turned again to his companions. I was too far from them to hear their conversation but I suspect my failure to find a killer was significant in their discussion.
The castle cook provided a dinner worth remembering that day. The parsley bread was filled with currants, there was duck with milk and honey, pork in spiced syrup, and a cherry pottage made from the last of the cherries dried after the harvest last year. I lingered over the meal and so was nearly late for archery practice.
There were fewer competitors this day than the week earlier. The novelty of renewed shooting wore off quickly, I think, and as the Treaty of Bretigny had brought war with France to an end — temporarily, I am sure — many saw no need to perfect a skill which might go unused.
The archers who needed practice least were most numerous this day. They enjoyed showing off their skill and besting others equally talented. Those who performed poorly the previous Sunday, and were most in need of drill, were less likely to appear this day. I understood. No one likes to be seen as incompetent before wives, children and neighbors.
A tenant of the Bishop of Exeter appeared this day, alert and eager for competition. He was a large, strong fellow, with forearms as large as my bicep. Strictly speaking he should not have been allowed to participate; the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church should have scheduled their own contest. But I saw Lord Gilbert’s men welcome the fellow warmly, so I ignored his imposition and allowed him to participate. And, indeed, he drank little of Lord Gilbert’s ale, contenting himself with the flight of his arrows.
