by Mel Starr
That Thomas atte Bridge might have owned things his wife knew not of I did not doubt. But it seemed unlikely he would keep possession of a hempen rope from her. He might, however, borrow such a cord from another and Maud know not.
If I displayed the rope, and asked if any owned the length it was cut from, word would soon find its way through Bampton and the Weald. Was Thomas murdered, as I believed, a guilty man would surely then hide any remnant. I decided to forego questioning neighbors in the Weald.
Kate was right. I fell readily to sleep that eve, and the next, but awoke two days later well before the Angelus Bell. In the pale light of early dawn, Kate’s steady breathing beside me, I pondered the slashed ends of hempen rope. In my bed, before even Kate’s rooster discharged his duty, it came to me where I might seek a fragment of rope like that which brought death to Thomas atte Bridge. Did I find nothing, I would know no less than I now did, but if I found a length of hempen cord it would go far to confirming my suspicions.
I rose from my bed, descended the stairs, and prodded coals on the hearth to life. I sat on a bench and fed sticks to the growing blaze until the room was warmed. Kate appeared soon after. She produced from our cup board a maslin loaf and cup of ale for me, but declined to break her fast. She complained of an uneasy stomach.
I told her then of my plan to search for a short length of rope. Kate, for all her unease, would not consider remaining behind at Galen House. So when the sun was high enough to allow inspection of even a shadowy forest we set out for Cow-Leys Corner.
But six months past Kate had searched with me outside the wall of Canterbury Hall, in Oxford, for a broken thong. She had found the bit of leather, and now she prowled with me through the wood to the north of the road, seeking a length of hempen cord. She found it.
The rope segment was as long as my arm. It lay upon a compost of rotting leaves and broken twigs, its color blending with the forest floor. Kate knew what I sought, but not why. She held the length of hemp above her head and shouted success while I was kicking through fallen, rotting leaves twenty or so paces from where the cord lay.
“What means this?” she asked when I took the rope from her to inspect it.
“Stand here,” I replied, “where you found it.”
I walked to stand under the limb where Thomas atte Bridge hung in death. I wound the cord to a ball in my hand, then threw it toward Kate. The hemp uncoiled in flight and fell at her feet, or near so, perhaps one pace beyond where she stood watching, puzzled by this exercise.
“I found a small abrasion on Thomas atte Bridge’s wrist,” I explained, “as if perhaps his hands were tied before he died.”
“Then Maud speaks true, and your suspicion is valid; her husband did not take his own life.”
“I fear so.”
“Fear?”
“Aye. Many will resent me seeking the murderer of one like Thomas atte Bridge from among their friends.”
“But you will do so?”
“Aye,” I sighed. “Some man tied Thomas by the neck to that oak, then threw away the cord he used to bind his wrists. ’Twas two men, I think. The man who carried his feet dropped them, hence the mud upon atte Bridge’s heels and the grooves in the road yonder.”
“Did they bind his feet also?”
“Nay, I think not. The tracks in the road are a hand’s breadth and more apart.”
“Did he not struggle and cry out?”
“He could not, I think.”
“Why so?”
“I found a great welt upon his lip when he was cut down. Beneath it a tooth was broken. Maud knew nothing of these injuries. He was knocked senseless, I think, then brought here and hanged so all would believe him a suicide.”
“You told no one of his injury?”
“Nay, and I will not, I think.”
“Not even Hubert Shillside?”
“The coroner is convinced that Thomas did away with himself… or is convinced that is what should be so and is what all men must think.”
“He will be of no assistance to us, then.”
“Us?”
“A wife’s duty is to be always at her husband’s side. And I found the rope,” Kate laughed.
“It is your duty to feed me, which now interests me most.”
“I have a leg of lamb ready to roast,” Kate replied. “After dinner we must consider how to find a murderer.”
“Such a discovery will require some effort. The man who did this planned well.”
“But he did not consider the mud,” Kate rejoined, “and he should not have cast aside that length of cord.”
“Aye. No felon considers all the ways his crime might go awry. We have found two misjudgments already. There may be more to discover.”
We returned to Galen House past fields where men worked with dibble sticks, poking holes into the newly turned earth to plant peas and beans. Kate set to work upon our dinner, and shortly after Peter the Carpenter knocked upon our door. He had taken a gouge out of his wrist with a chisel and required my service. It was a serious wound and bled greatly. I stitched him, bathed the wound in wine from the castle buttery, and collected tuppence. I follow the practice of Henri de Mondeville, who taught that such injuries heal best when uncovered, left open to the air. I instructed Peter to keep the wound free of dirt but placed no salve or wrapping upon it. He seemed skeptical of this treatment, but I assured him good success was sure to follow, and that I would remove the stitches in a fortnight.
There was another matter I must soon raise with Peter. His daughter was heavy with child, and unwed. It was my duty to levy fines for leirwite and childwite. I resolved to await the birth. If the babe did not live I would levy leirwite only.
The leg of lamb sizzled on a spit over the coals, but Kate was not to be found. Odd, I thought, that she would not attend the spit to keep our dinner from singeing. Grease dripped to the coals and sputtered there. The smell of roasting meat caused my stomach to growl with anticipation.
Then I heard, through the open door, Kate retching in the toft behind Galen House. She had taken no loaf to break her fast, and now seemed unlikely to enjoy her dinner. I was much concerned, but when we sat to our meal Kate assured me that her belly was much improved and I was pleased to see her take a portion of lamb and wheaten loaf.
Four days later was May Day. Youth of the town were out of their beds before dawn, gathering hawthorn boughs and wildflowers from the forests of Lord Gilbert and the Bishop of Exeter. Indeed, many, as is the custom, spent the night gamboling in forest and meadow, bringing in the May. Garlands of greenery decorated windows and doors before the third hour of the day. Hubert Shillside’s son, Will, was chosen Lord of the May. His lady was a lass of the Weald whose father held a yardland of the bishop. Kate and I watched as the couple was paraded down Church View Street with singing and laughter. I would have joined the procession, but Kate was again unwell and I did not wish to celebrate the May and its carefree joy while she was afflicted so.
Hubert Shillside also observed the revelers. He watched with pride as Will, crowned with a circlet of bluebells, led marchers past his shop. The lad was becoming a man, no longer an assemblage of knees, elbows, and overgrown feet. His form was growing to fill the gaps between those adolescent enlargements.
Walking close behind the Lord and Lady of the May I saw Alice atte Bridge. She was subdued, and I knew why. No castle scullery maid would be chosen Lady of the May, no matter her comeliness. I had seen Will Shillside giving attention to Alice in the past, but this day the maid from the Weald supplanted her.
Hubert Shillside was Bampton town’s haberdasher. He would want his son courting a lass who might bring a substantial dowry to the marriage. He had probably already had conversation with fathers of suitable maids in the town, and perhaps from Witney and Burford as well. The lass walking beside Will would have suited Shillside, but Alice, for all her beauty, would not.
Alice was half-sister to Thomas atte Bridge. Her father, a widower, had remarried late in li
fe and Alice was the only offspring of that union. Near three years past the old man slipped on icy cobbles and broke his hip. I could do nothing for him but ease his pain as he made his way to the next world.
I could, however, help Alice. I found a place for the child at the castle, free of the hatred and jealousy of her brothers. Henry and Thomas seized all of their father’s few possessions after his death. Alice escaped to the castle with what she might carry, no more. Her father’s hut now mouldered, derelict, in the Weald, beside the houses of Emma and Maud, the widows of Henry and Thomas.
I followed the merrymakers to the Broad Street and Cheapside, where they busied themselves raising a maypole at the marketplace. I found Hubert Shillside there, observing the youth of Bampton with a proud smile upon his face.
“Will is well chosen,” I congratulated him. “And the lass also. Her father has a yardland of the bishop, does he not?”
“Aye. She has two brothers.”
With four words the haberdasher had told me neither he, nor Will, I assumed, was interested in the maid. The lass might bring coin and some possessions to her marriage, but the land would stay with the older brother. And should he die, another heir was in place.
“Bampton has several comely maids.”
“Hmmm. ’Tis so. But most will bring little to their husbands. You did well with Kate… a house in Oxford.”
“Aye, but measured against her other virtues the house is of scant value.”
“Hah. So you say now. When you are wed some years such a dowry will loom larger. Beauty does not last, houses and lands will.”
“Perhaps.”
Shillside must know of his son’s attraction to Alice atte Bridge and be displeased. I thought to bait him on the matter. “Will seems more interested these days in pleasing his eye than his purse,” I laughed.
Shillside peered at me and frowned.
“I have seen him in company with a comely maid who will bring nothing to her husband but herself.”
“Ah,” the haberdasher smiled. “You speak of Alice atte Bridge. ’Tis true… Will is smitten with the lass. But she is not so poor as all think.”
This was a surprise to me. When three years past I sent her to the castle I thought she owned nothing. Indeed, Alice believed so as well.
Shillside saw my astonishment and continued. “Alice’s mother, Isabel, was second wife to the elder Henry atte Bridge, as you know. Isabel’s dowry from her first husband was a half-yardland in the Weald. When she died, an’ then Henry, the land came to Alice.”
“Alice did not speak of this.”
“She was but a child… perhaps she knew nothing of it.”
“Isabel had no children of her first husband?”
“None,” Shillside smiled.
“Henry and Thomas atte Bridge claimed their father’s lands when he died.”
“Aye, so they did. But not all of it was theirs to have.”
“How did you learn this?”
“Isabel’s sister is wed to William Walle. His brother Randall is haberdasher in Witney. We do business.”
“Does Alice know?”
“Aye, she does.”
“And the vicars of St Beornwald? Disputes in the Weald are their bailiwick. Do they know of this?”
“Aye. The matter is to be brought before hallmote.”
“Thomas atte Bridge will not attend to defend his taking.”
“Nay,” Shillside smiled again. “Alice will gain her due, I’ve no doubt.”
“And her husband, whoso that may be, will add a half-yardland and pasture rights to his holdings.”
“Just so. Alice will not stand in the church porch so penniless as many would think of a scullery maid.”
“Did Thomas atte Bridge know of Alice’s suit to regain her mother’s dowry lands?”
“Aye, he did. And was ready to dispute the matter, but I think Maud will not refuse Alice her due as Thomas would.”
“’Tis convenient, then, for Alice and whoso she may wed, that Thomas hanged himself at Cow-Leys Corner.”
“Aye, it is so.”
Revelry continued that fine spring day but I felt no wish to join it. My Kate was unwell, and distasteful images flashed through my mind. As I retreated to Galen House I saw in my mind’s eye Hubert Shillside prowling about in Thomas atte Bridge’s toft, intentionally disturbing his hens. I saw atte Bridge stumble from his hut to investigate the uproar, and saw Shillside swing a cudgel to deliver a blow to the back of Thomas’s head. I saw Thomas catch a glimpse of movement in the darkened toft, and turn so that Shillside’s blow caught him in the face, upon his mouth.
I envisioned Shillside and his son binding Thomas by the wrists, leaving a strand of hempen cord upon atte Bridge’s frayed sleeve, then taking him by shoulders and heels to carry him off to Cow-Leys Corner. I imagined the lad losing grip of Thomas’s heels, allowing them to drag briefly in the mud. I saw the youth sneaking in to atte Bridge’s hut some days earlier to make off with the stool, which would prove then to all that Thomas atte Bridge took his own life.
These images caused me much distress, for Hubert Shillside was my friend.
I entered Galen House in somber mood. What I found there did little, at first, to improve my dour outlook. Kate heard me enter and left our bed, where she had withdrawn. She was half-way down the stairs, coming to greet me, when she grew light-headed and fell. It was my good fortune that I heard her descending, so was at the foot of the steps when she stumbled. I caught her before she could do harm to herself, and carried her to a bench.
Kate came quickly to her senses, although I admit I did not. I took a cup of water from the ewer upon our cup board and splashed it into her face. She spluttered and protested and demanded I cease, which I did.
Kate dried her face with her apron, then began to giggle. I thought my wife had come unhinged. I found no humor in the scene. I sat beside her upon the bench to comfort her, and put an arm about her shoulder to support her should she again swoon. I did not wish to apply my surgical skills to repair her broken scalp should she fall back upon the flags.
“You are unwell,” I said. “I will take you to bed, where you may rest.”
“I have just come from there,” she said. “I rose when I heard you enter, and did so too quickly. ’Tis why I became giddy on the stairs.”
“You have not been well for many days.”
“I am very well, or would be did you not dash cold water in my face. My illness is but what is common to women.”
I am a surgeon, not a physician, and in surgical training I had learned nothing of swooning being customary female behavior. I said so.
“I will be quite well in a fortnight, or perhaps a little longer,” she assured me. “This sickness which now afflicts me will pass, as it does with all womankind who are with child.”
Chapter 3
Kate’s announcement caused me to forget for a time what I had learned from Hubert Shillside. When thoughts of his conversation returned I attempted to excuse the knowledge. What had the fellow told me? Only that Alice atte Bridge might inherit a smallholding from her deceased mother.
I might wish ignorance of the matter but this was not given to me. I knew of Will’s interest in Alice. I knew of the haberdasher’s desires for his son. And now I knew of a reason Thomas atte Bridge might die at the hands of another. The thought brought bile to my throat.
Kate saw that my joy at her disclosure had faded, along with my appetite for dinner. She mistook my anxiety.
“I will soon be well, Hugh. I do not fear bearing a child… since Eve women have borne babes.”
She did not say that her mother died in childbirth, and the babe with her, when Kate was but a wee lass, and so I did not speak of it either. But surely such apprehension must occasionally cloud her thoughts. Now that I knew of her condition such dark reflections would, I knew, come unbidden to me.
“Should our child be a boy,” she continued, “shall we name him for his father?”
“Perh
aps,” I shrugged. “But when you summon him from the door of Galen House I would then think you called for me. And it would confuse the neighbors. Robert, for your father, would serve, I think.”
“He would be well pleased. If the child is a lass I should like her named for my mother, have you no objection.”
“Elizabeth? A fine name. I should enjoy my little Bessie playing about my ankles.”
“You do not seem joyful.”
“For your news I am much pleased. I have some worry… for you and the babe, but I know well the good in life is oft accompanied by sorrow. Woe is often the coin by which we pay for bliss.”
“Then why have you left some custard in your bowl?” Kate had begun to serve me my dinner while we talked, and noted my lack of appetite, a thing highly unusual for me.
“I have learned a troubling thing.”
“Do you wish to speak of it?”
“Aye. Perhaps you may discover some mitigating consideration. I have just come from speaking to Hubert Shillside. You will remember that I told you of Alice, the scullery maid? Shillside has told me she is not so penniless as I thought – or as she thought, I am sure.”
“A cotter’s daughter with two rapacious brothers?” Kate frowned. “How could such a maid be aught but a mendicant?”
“Her mother died when Alice was but a child. She brought to her marriage to Alice’s father a dower of a half-yardland. The property fell into the hands of Henry and Thomas atte Bridge when their father died.”
“Did they know it was dower land?”
“I am sure of it. But Alice was too young to understand such things, and all others who knew were dead, but for Henry and Thomas.”
