by Mel Starr
With my left hand I pressed the sides of the wound together, then set Kate to her work. She may have trembled while preparing needle and thread, but when she plied the needle upon the wound she was all fierce determination and her hand was steady. I saw in the light of the cressets Kate’s brow furrowed and her lips drawn tight in concentration. I wished as small a scar as possible, so instructed Kate to make many tiny stitches. She nodded silently and bent to the work. Twelve stitches later she had closed the larger of the lacerations upon my arm. I dabbed a few remaining drops of blood from the wound, then raised my arm so that she might repeat the process upon the wound under my arm. As this injury was smaller, and would be invisible to most folk, I told her five stitches would suit. The work was soon completed.
There remained but the small gash across my ribs, where the point of my assailant’s dagger had blessedly stopped short after puncturing my arm. Kate closed the wound with three small stitches, brushed a stray wisp of hair from her forehead, and raised her eyes to mine.
“I know,” I admitted. “You warned that the visitor might not be a fox.”
“You think it was he who slew Thomas atte Bridge?” she asked.
“Who else have I angered recently? I think Sir Simon Trillowe is snoring in his bed in Oxford at this hour, and I know of no other who holds a grudge against me.”
The cressets provided little light, but I thought I saw Kate blush as I spoke. Sir Simon had sought Kate’s favor, and lost, which defeat he had taken badly and plotted to do me much harm for interfering with his suit.
“Could you see who it might have been?”
“Nay, but I know who it was not.”
Kate peered at me from under raised brows, awaiting an explanation.
“Hubert Shillside is left-handed. The man who came upon me in the toft held his dagger in his right hand. He would have driven it into my back, but I turned as he swung, intending to return to the house and my bed. This he did not see for the darkness, but my kirtle was white and so he had a fair target for his stroke.”
“If the man is the same who murdered Thomas atte Bridge,” Kate mused, “then Shillside is innocent of the death.”
“Just so. I must take care he never learns I once considered him.”
“He was determined that you see atte Bridge’s death as a suicide. Was he guilty that would be a sign… that he wished to turn you from a path which might lead to him.”
“Well, he was not, and my heart is eased.”
I yet held the torn and bloody kirtle in my hand. The hour was now well past midnight, and I shivered from the cold and the realization that, but for good fortune or the hand of God, Kate might now be a widow. She saw me quiver, took my left arm and pressed it close to her cheek. I felt a dampness there. Kate had begun to cry. She was strong when duty required it of her, but now the crisis was past and her mind could wander through the event and other potential outcomes, she yielded to the emotions which came upon her.
My assailant’s dagger, as I believed, had glanced from the bone of my upper arm as it passed through to my ribs. The ache I first felt grew to a pain which throbbed fiercely. Kate sensed this, I think, and drew her damp cheek from my shoulder.
“You have herbs and potions for others when they are hurt,” she said. “I will pour a cup of ale and you must take a dose of your own remedy.”
I searched through my instruments chest in the dim light of the cressets and found pouches of pounded hemp seed, ground seed of lettuce, and willow bark. When Kate returned to the table with a cup of ale I poured a large measure from each pouch into the brew and drank it. De Mondeville, whose teaching I follow, taught that wounds heal best when left dry and uncovered, with no ointment applied, but in my chest I had a vial of oil of St John’s Wort, which can dull pain and help cleanse a wound in the absence of wine. This oil I applied to my cuts.
When in the past I had prepared such a concoction for patients who had done themselves some injury, or upon whom I worked some surgery, I had assured them the potion would alleviate some of their distress. Perhaps I lied. Kate and I climbed the stairs to our bed, where I lay through the remainder of the night, unable to sleep and reviewing in my mind the attack. Kate’s rooster announced the dawn but had no need to awaken me. Nor Kate. Each time I turned in our bed she peered at me closely. I assured her twice that an arm wound was not likely to send me to meet the Lord Christ, but I would have been more certain of this had I been able to bathe the cuts in wine before Kate worked the needle upon them.
When the Angelus Bell rang from the tower of St Beornwald’s Church I left my bed. If I could find no rest in the night it was sure I would find little in the day.
Kate arose before me, and when I appeared at the base of the stairs turned to observe me with worried expression. Evidently my appearance did not calm her fears. Her forehead remained lined and her lips were pale and drawn.
I smiled a greeting. This had little effect upon her features. I pretended hunger and sat at our table, where Kate had readied a loaf and a wedge of cheese. I managed to stuff a sizeable portion of the bread and cheese past my lips and saw that this brought Kate more comfort than any words I might employ to assert my health. I am seldom found without an appetite no matter the circumstance, which Kate knows.
Kate saw how cautiously I moved and suggested a solution. She had in her chest a length of linen, left from some past stitchery. This fabric she brought to me, measured and cut a section, and fashioned a sling for my aching arm. I had decided against such an aid, for I intended soon to go upon the streets and did not wish to advertise my wounded condition. The sling brought such relief, however, that I reconsidered.
Chapter 10
At the third hour I left Galen House, right arm supported in Kate’s sling, and sought John Prudhomme. The beadle lived on Rosemary Lane, near to Peter Carpenter, and it was his custom to rise late from his bed as his duties enforcing curfew kept him from slumber when other men lay snoring upon their pillows.
The beadle was not at home. I found him tending to a field of dredge between St Andrew’s Chapel and Shill Brook, where he had a yardland of Lord Gilbert. Weeds in John’s furrows were few, but even few were too many for the fellow. He looked up from his labor as I approached, and I saw his eyes dart to my wounded arm.
Had the beadle seen any man upon the town streets after curfew he would have told me of it, as was his obligation. So I did not expect to learn from him a name, but I hoped he might recall some event or sight out of the ordinary.
“You have injured your arm,” he said by way of greeting.
“Aye. Well, I did not… some other did so.”
A puzzled expression furrowed John’s brow. I did not leave him in confusion, but explained my wound and asked if he saw or heard anything uncommon to a May evening.
John scratched his head and considered the question. “’Twas quiet, as always,” he replied. “Only man I was likely to find on the streets after curfew was Thomas atte Bridge, as you know, for I reported ’im to you often enough. Now ’e’s in ’is grave the town is more peaceful, like, of a summer’s eve.”
I had held little hope that the beadle could provide the name of someone prowling the streets after curfew, so was not much disappointed with his reply.
“I’m obliged to watch an’ warn ’til midnight,” he continued. “Was some fellow on the streets after that, who’d know of it?”
“I assign you no blame, John,” I assured the beadle. “’Tis as you say… the attack came in the dark of night, midnight or past. If you hear of any man speak of prowlers in the night, tell me straight away.”
Prudhomme assured me he would do so, and I left the fellow to his crop and weeds. He seemed agitated that some miscreant had been prowling the streets he was to see cleared, as if the man had done injury to him rather than to me. John would be alert for any odd events for the next weeks, I knew, and for this I might sleep more securely. So I thought, until I returned to Galen House.
Kate stood at
the open door, awaiting my return. I assumed her worried expression had to do with concern for my injury. Not so.
“Come to the toft,” she whispered when I was near the open door. “See what I have found there.”
I followed Kate through the house and out the door to the toft. She turned to her left, walked a few paces, then halted and pointed to the soft ground near a shaded corner of the house. I saw there an object which at first I could not identify.
A length of broken branch near as long as my arm and as thick through as my wrist lay on the earth beside Galen House. At one end of this stick was wrapped many turns of hempen cord, much like the rope used to hang Thomas atte Bridge. In the dark and confusion of the night neither Kate nor I had seen this club.
“What is it?” Kate asked. “And how has it come to be here?”
I picked up the stick with my good left hand and with this closer inspection knew what it was I held. Bits of earth stuck fast to the wrapped cord at the end of the branch. I lifted the winding to my nostrils, and touched it with my fingers. They came away greasy.
“A torch,” I replied. “Someone has made a crude torch of this broken branch. The cord wound about the end has been soaked in tallow.”
“A torch? Did the man who attacked you last night plan to light it so as to see what he was about?”
“Nay, I think not. He carried flint and steel so as to light this, I think. Then it was his plan to toss it to the thatching above our heads. Whoso carried this into the toft wished to burn Galen House down upon our heads as we slept.”
“But… the hens? Did he not wish to draw you into the toft to attack you?”
“I think not. The hens saved us. The man made some sound we did not hear, but the hens did, and were vexed. When I opened the door to the toft the fellow saw he was found out. ’Twas too late then to do as he intended. Piercing me with his dagger was not part of his plan, I think.”
“Would a man murder two to save himself?” Kate asked.
“Who can know what a man might do if he believed his life forfeit?”
“But Hubert Shillside was not responsible?”
“Nay. I would not have believed such a deed of him, but as he is left-handed he is eliminated from suspicion.”
“And the others? Peter Carpenter? Arnulf Mannyng?”
“I do not wish to believe it, although I know little of Mannyng. Would Peter murder you in your bed to silence me? I cannot think it of him.”
“A carpenter works with chisels,” Kate said. “Perhaps the blow which pierced your arm was delivered by a hand which held a chisel, not a dagger.”
“You do not know the carpenter,” I protested.
“Perhaps you do not know him either, or not so well as you believe.”
“Must I suspect all men of wishing me ill?”
“Are all men pricked by evil?”
“Aye, soon or late. Else why did the Lord Christ die in our place?”
“You take my point, then,” Kate replied with a wry smile.
“Aye. Trust no man. Is this a way to live?”
“Perhaps, until you discover who it is who wishes you… us to die.”
My eyes fell to the mud of the toft. Kate and I had trod the place twice, but among the footprints there was the mark of a man who would have slain my Kate to halt my pursuit of him. The print of Kate’s tiny foot was clearly discernible among those made by two men. Of the male footprints one set was long and narrow, the other shorter and broad, with a higher heel. The narrow marks were mine. The man who assailed me in my toft wore shoes seemingly made to increase his stature. Would a carpenter or tenant farmer wear such shoes?
I left Galen House and sought Roger Waleton, Bampton’s cobbler. Roger is a sociable fellow, much given to conversation, which he can continue while repairing a man’s shoes or making new. I found him alone, stitching a sole to the upper portion of a boot. He was eager for a visitor, but not so pleased when I requested he leave his shop and accompany me. The boots he toiled over were to be readied for a customer on the morrow, he explained. And what, he asked, had I done to my arm?
I explained to the cobbler that some unknown assailant had stabbed me and left behind footprints in the toft behind Galen House. I told Roger that I wished for him to view the marks made in my toft, for the imprint seemed unusual, and I hoped he might be able to identify the owner of the shoes, did he recognize the footprints as made by work from his own hand.
Roger willingly then left his bench and walked with me to Galen House. We passed into the toft and Kate appeared at the door, having heard our conversation as we approached. I pointed out the imprint of my attacker’s footsteps and the cobbler put hands on knees and bent to peer more closely at the muddy print.
I saw Roger reach out a finger and gently prod the footprint, then move to another print to inspect it.
“A horseman,” he said. “The heel is meant to catch a stirrup. See here, just before the heel, something has worn a cross groove into the leather of the sole. A stirrup, I think.”
“These are not heels to make a man appear taller than may be?” I asked.
“I think not… ’though they be some higher than most. These prints were made by the boots of a horseman.”
“You are sure of this?” I asked, bewildered.
Roger chewed upon his lower lip before responding. “Sure of it? Nay, but ’tis likely.”
“Have you made boots like these?”
“In times past, for knights an’ squires who serve Lord Gilbert… but ’tis a waste of leather to make a heel quite so tall as that which left this mark. Such a heel would not much help a rider keep ’is seat, an’ might hinder ’im when ’e walks about.”
I thanked Roger for his opinion, and when he left the toft I turned to Kate, who had heard all while standing in the door.
“What man who bore a grudge against Thomas atte Bridge owns a horse?” she asked.
“Hubert Shillside does not. Peter Carpenter owns a runcey to draw his cart. I’ve never seen him atop the beast. Arnulf Mannyng may, but if he does possess horses they will be for plowing, not for riding.”
“There must be some other man atte Bridge angered,” Kate said thoughtfully. “A man you do not suspect of murder, but who has learned of your doubt that atte Bridge took his own life, and believes you in pursuit.”
“And wealthy enough to own and ride about upon a horse. A short, wealthy man, who may wish to appear taller than he is.”
“Perhaps not,” Kate objected.
“What? The man does not own a horse?”
“I meant that he may not be short. Gentlemen may be as vain as any lady. The villain may be as tall as you, yet wish to be thought taller yet.”
Kate ended her conversation abruptly, wrinkled her nose, then darted for the door and disappeared into Galen House. I followed, and found her at the hearth, where she drew an iron pot from the coals. The contents of the pot, my dinner, had boiled over and the scent told Kate something was amiss.
Small harm was done. Kate had prepared coney in cevy, which was so tasty I nearly forgot the pain in my arm. I attempted to bring food to my lips with my right hand, but gave up the experiment and consumed my meal left-handed. I laced another cup of ale with hemp seeds to complete my dinner, then moved to the toft and sat upon a bench there in the sun to consider my wound and the man who made it. The hemp seed did its work. I sat with my back against the warm west wall of Galen House and was soon drowsing under the effect of the sun, the herbs, and a full belly.
I spent several hours pursuing nothing but my own comfort. This I only partially achieved. A man may more readily advise patience and endurance who has never suffered pain. I will be more tolerant of the ill and injured who seek my care henceforth.
Kate’s hens clucking about my ankles and the renewed throbbing of my arm drove lethargy from me and at the ninth hour I entered Galen House to prepare another cup of ale with hemp seed. Kate halted her work to observe the procedure, then came to me and clasped h
er arms about me, careful to avoid my aching arm.
“What are we to do this night?” she asked. “Mayhap the villain will return and this time succeed in burning us in our bed.”
I had considered the possibility, but had not wished to alarm Kate while I thought on it. “Would a man who failed in his purpose try again so soon after discovery?” I asked, speaking more to myself than Kate.
She provided the response: “One so filled with anger or hate or fear, whatever it was drove him to the attempt last night, will not think clearly.”
I agreed with my bride. The thought brought much unease. But if such a felon was so driven as to make another attempt, perhaps the man might be surprised at his work and apprehended. The position of bailiff to a great lord often brings with it onerous obligation, but also some privilege. I told Kate I would assign three grooms from the castle to watch, hidden in the toft, so as to seize any man prowling about Galen House after curfew.
At the castle I found Arthur and told him of his duty for the night. I told him to seek two others to accompany him, and arrive at Galen House at sunset. With three keeping watch, one might sleep while two kept vigil. I would spend part of the night with the grooms, although with my aching arm I would be of little use in apprehending a felon should one appear.
I next visited John Thatcher at his home and workshop on Broad Street and made provision for Arthur to remove from John’s yard several armloads of reeds which, when strewn upon the mud aside the hen coop, would keep the sentinels dry and hidden in that dark corner of the toft.
Arthur was at my door before the sun had set, and had with him Uctred and Anketil Mere, a youth new to Lord Gilbert’s service who was fleet of foot. I saw the lad win a footrace a few months past. If someone bent on mischief approached Galen House this night, and escaped Arthur’s bear-like grasp, Anketil would surely run the man to ground. I was well pleased.
