by Mel Starr
Philip obeyed and I went to my work. I was pleased to see a clean wound. The stitches held well. There had been some bleeding and pus issue onto the wrapping, but not for some days. The residue was dry and hard. The egg poultice had done its work. And perhaps the hot iron which caused the injury had cauterized it as it sliced through flesh.
A door opened as I inspected the wound. No doubt the man’s wife had re-entered the bakery. Shortly after I heard footfalls on the steps leading to the living quarters on the upper floor. Philip said nothing, but his eyes swung wildly, as if he expected to be impaled upon a bread knife at any moment.
“We may leave off the dressing now. The hurt heals well. Whatever,” I asked casually, “did Edmund do to cause you to swing a hammer at him? That’s a poor contest for any man to enter against a smith.”
I waited, but there was no answer. Philip moved a hand cautiously to his neck, and said finally, “No dressing? You will not dress my hurt?”
I explained, as I find myself obliged often to do, that I follow the practice of Henry de Mondeville. That learned surgeon taught that wounds heal best when left dry, open to the air. I had wrapped Philip’s wound only to retain the poultice, and to protect the cut from further injury. Healing had progressed so that there was no longer a need. But Philip’s injury was ugly and left a red streak down his neck, from jaw to kirtle. I think he wished it covered for appearance as much as healing. All who saw the wound would remember that Edmund had bested him.
When I finished my explanation of his treatment I ventured again to the cause. “Do you wish to charge Edmund with assault at hallmote?”
Philip hesitated. “Nay…’twould do no good.”
“What good will be done should no charge be brought?”
“No good,” he muttered, “but perhaps less harm.” And with that he turned to deal with his loaves, a sign of dismissal. But I was not to be put off so easily.
“My fee for saving your neck is four pence.”
The baker shrugged, left the room for a moment through a passage next to his oven, and shortly returned. He held out a hand to me, and when I raised my own he dropped four silver pennies into it. Silently.
I cannot now explain why I did not feel sympathy for Philip. He deserved it, heaven knows, although at the moment, ’tis true, only heaven knew why. I did not, but might have guessed. Then, had I been more gentle with the baker I might not have learned the truth. At least, that part of the truth he knew.
I placed the coins in my pouch and moved to the door but did not leave. I turned back to the baker and said, “Your wife seemed much aggrieved but a little time past.”
Philip stiffened as if a dagger had pricked him between the shoulders. My remark was not a question, so Philip did not answer. I continued.
“It seems you have angered both smith and wife.”
“Edmund is known for ’is temper,” the baker mumbled, “an’ no man lives who has not sometime offended ’is wife.”
As he spoke his shoulders drooped, like a scarecrow with the support pole removed. “Then why,” I countered, “swing a hammer at a strong man known for his rage?”
“’Twas done in heat,” the baker replied softly, but would say no more.
I left him, crestfallen, toying with the scar on his neck. There was a matter here I did not know. Perhaps I had no need to know of it. But I am Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. Any business which might lead to blows exchanged on his demesne becomes my business. So I must concern myself with the dispute between baker and smith as well as search out a murderer. The death of Alan the beadle, how so it may have happened, was receding from my thoughts. It should not have, for these three incidents were entwined, although I had no clue yet that this was so.
Chapter 9
Many hours that week I spent prowling the darkened parapet of Bampton Castle. This perambulation helped order my mind, but no matter how I sorted and arranged what I knew, I was no closer to identifying a killer. Few in Bampton or the Weald seemed much disturbed by my failure. Even Thomas de Bowlegh mentioned the matter but as a passing comment when we met on the street on Thursday.
And the normal work of May occupied my thoughts so that with little effort I was able to forget Henry atte Bridge. Until Sunday. No sooner had I passed from porch to church than I saw the three vicars and their clerks preparing for matins. I imagined that Simon Osbern peered reproachfully at me. Perhaps it was not my imagination.
Then during the mass Father Thomas read from the Epistle to the Romans: “Christ died for us while we were yet sinners.” He lifted his eyes while he read and seemed to gaze at me. This passage I knew well. Perhaps I needed to be reminded that the Lord Christ died for Henry atte Bridge as well as for me. And to take his life was as great a sin as to murder King Edward. Perhaps not in the eyes of men, but if I wished to be weighed in God’s balance and not be found wanting I must amend my ways and see men as God sees them.
These thoughts tumbled through my mind at dinner and into the afternoon, when once again archers, their families, and spectators, lined the castle wall to practice their skills and drink Lord Gilbert’s ale.
Onlookers came and went as the sun sank toward Lord Gilbert’s forest to the west of the castle. One of the late arrivals had not attended the previous competitions. John Kellet made his way to the cask and drew a mug of ale, then stood in conversation with others who had temporarily put bows aside to quench a thirst.
I paid the newcomer scant attention until I noted from the corner of my eye a figure being pushed to the mark. It was the rotund, black-clad form of John Kellet.
Others at the mark made room as the priest was thrust, with much laughter and jesting, to the mark. One took his empty cup, another placed a bow into his hands, and a third brought forth a quiver of arrows and a glove.
The priest of St Andrew’s Chapel held the bow comfortably, notched an arrow, grinned at his audience, then drew the bowstrung across his expansive belly. I watched in amazement as the parson took careful aim and loosed the arrow. He missed.
Much hooting and laughter followed. Kellet grew red in the face. He drew another arrow from the quiver, notched it and drew the bow. No smile played about his lips; they were drawn tight across his teeth. His audience grew silent, awaiting the arrow’s release. When it came all heads turned to follow its flight. The arrow struck the center of the butt with a solid “thwack.”
Cheers and merry exclamations followed, subsiding only upon the release of the third arrow, which also found its mark. The priest launched twelve arrows at the target that day and missed but twice. He left the mark, the quiver empty, with many clapping him on the back and complimenting his eye.
Hubert Shillside had attended the competition this day, perhaps to inspire his son, whose competency surely needed encouragement. I saw the man leaning against the castle wall, watching with his son, as John Kellet sent arrow after arrow thudding into the butt.
I sauntered through the crowd to where Shillside and his son were propped against the wall. “A surprising performance,” I said.
But the haberdasher did not seemed over-surprised, although he did agree with me. “Aye…he missed twice. Lack of practice, surely. And a strange bow.”
I was taken aback by this remark until I understood that the astonishing thing about Kellet’s performance was not that he had hit the target ten times, but that he had missed twice.
“Before he took holy orders he’d not have missed once at twice the distance,” Shillside remarked by way of explanation.
“He was skillful as a younger man?”
“Few could best him.”
“I have not seen him at the mark, or even in attendance, before this day.”
“’Tis said he was warned away. The vicars of St Beornwald’s Church thought it unseemly for a man who chose a vocation to disport himself so of a Sunday afternoon.”
“They will not be pleased, then, to learn of his lapse this day.”
“If they are told,” Shillside winked. “All he
re know the tale, but I think none would see poor John come to grief for a few arrows on a pleasant afternoon.”
“Poor John?”
“Aye. He has but a thin living from that chapel, and no kin since his mother died…and that many years past.”
“How did he come to be at the chapel?”
“He was left an orphan. Father Simon was new at St Beornwald’s Church, from Exeter. He took ’im in as servant an’ made place for ’im. John was quick an’ soon learned the words of holy office, though he could not read, of course. A great mimic, ’e was. When St Andrew’s Chapel fell vacant the rector could find none willing to accept so slender a living. Kellet volunteered. Was made clerk one day and ordained the next.”
“He seems adequately rewarded for his exile there,” I commented. “He has missed few meals of late.”
“Aye,” Shillside agreed. “There is that. Does well from confessions, ’tis said.”
“I have heard he does not assign a rigorous penance.”
“So ’tis said. An’ there be those willing to pay a priest well for his…uh, understanding.”
“And the vicars of St Beornwald’s? They are not troubled?”
“Who can say? If they saw him removed, who could be sent to replace him? An’ as ’tis, he lives without taking much of the bishop’s purse. I think our vicars know they would not have the good bishop’s ear should they complain. ’Tis a sleeping dog best left to lay as is.”
“It was while he served Father Simon that he learned to handle a bow?”
“Nay. As a tyke he’d follow his father of a Sunday afternoon. Odo Kellet was skilled. He was at Crecy. John practiced with a bow ’is father made for ’im when he was but a wee lad.”
“And when he went to Father Simon he was allowed to continue his practice?”
“Aye. War with France meant all who could must learn the use of the longbow. ’Twas not ’til he went to the chapel he was pressed to give it up.”
“He has kept his skill.”
“Aye. An’ he enjoyed that bit of showin’ off, I’d say.”
I had not noticed that during my conversation with Hubert Shillside his son had wandered off. But as I turned to survey the departing archers and spectators (there was practice only this day, no competition; I did not wish to be too free with Lord Gilbert’s purse), I saw the youth approach the gatehouse. Alice atte Bridge stood there, her back against the sun-warmed stones, smiling shyly at his approach.
She could do worse. Much worse. The youth had two sisters only. He would inherit his father’s business as Bampton town’s haberdasher. And I knew Alice well enough to know that Will Shillside could do worse, also. Although whether or not the coroner would agree to his son’s choice was another matter. Alice could bring nothing but herself to such a union. That, for most men of means – and their sons – was not enough.
I supped that evening on cold beef and wheaten bread, then walked the parapet until the last gleam of twilight faded beyond the Ladywell and the forest. I reflected on the day, and whether or not I had learned a thing important to the mysterious death of Henry atte Bridge. Only a man of suspicious nature would think so. John Kellet was skilled with a bow and wore black wool. Was this enough to cause me to suspect him a murderer? And he knew the dead man, for Henry had often, it seems, used his confessional.
But would the fat priest hide along a dark road in company with a man who wished me harm? I had no quarrel with John Kellet. Would he then kill Henry atte Bridge for his failure? This seemed not credible. I put it out of my mind and sought my chamber and bed.
Before he departed Bampton for Goodrich and Pembroke, Lord Gilbert had given instructions for the enlargement of the marshalsea. While he resided at another place the stables at Bampton were quite large enough. But like most of his class he thought himself a connoisseur of horses and never seemed to have enough palfreys for his wife and son, coursers for the hunt, or dexters for the list and war.
Lord Gilbert went to Goodrich for Christmas, as was his custom, then on to Pembroke for St David’s Day. This holy day is observed only in Wales, and Lord Gilbert desires to be present should Welsh enthusiasm get out of hand. He planned to return to Bampton by Lammas Day and expected the enlarged marshalsea to be ready for his return. In early November I had sent to Alvescot for the verderer and told him of the beams I would require. He and his sons were to cut and hew them over the winter and bring them, with sufficient coppiced shoots for wattle, to the castle before Whitsuntide. As Lammas Day was but nine weeks hence I thought it wise to seek the man and assure myself that timbers were cut and shaped and ready for transport to the castle.
Anxiety overtook me as I mounted Bruce and set off through the forest for Alvescot and the forester’s hut. It was not the forest which caused my unease, although the last time I rode Bruce through a wood I was attacked. Rather, I worried that Gerard had been lax and had not prepared the beams, or was just now doing so. I had directed the fellow to cut the trees in the autumn and winter, when they would be dry of sap. If he was just now toppling them he might have the beams hewn and ready by Whitsuntide but they would be green. As they dried they would twist. Lord Gilbert’s new stable wall would not be plumb, nor the roof tree true. Lord Gilbert is a particular man. Even his marshalsea must be orderly though none but horses and grooms dwell therein.
’Twas Rogation Day when I rode out to Alvescot. I knew well the limits of Lord Gilbert’s manor, and saw little need to walk the countryside beating the bounds of Bampton with willow branches. As I approached the hamlet I heard its residents a ganging, marching about the limits of the village behind Walter de Notyngham, the priest. A bell rang incessantly, and small boys yelped as they were bounced off trees and posts and rocks to help them memorize the village limits.
As I entered the village from the east I heard the marchers to the north and saw their banners beyond St Peter’s Church as they trailed priest and cross. A shriek then punctuated the general commotion and as I drew near I saw a youth pulled dripping from the chilly waters of Shill Brook. Doubtless he would not forget that the stream, much reduced here upstream from Bampton, formed the northern boundary of the village.
I tied Bruce to a post of the lych gate and waited by the churchyard wall until the marchers completed the circuit of the village. This did not take long. Alvescot was small before plague struck. Now there were barely a dozen families to serve this forlorn forested fragment of Lord Gilbert’s manor of Bampton.
Alvescot’s inhabitants completed their march around the hamlet and broke apart to attend to their own business. Gerard possessed a cottage near the churchyard and soon I saw him approach, limping slightly, favoring his left leg and foot.
The verderer had walked in such manner since I put his head together nearly two years earlier. He and his sons had been felling an oak in the forest between Alvescot and Bampton. A limb of the tree smashed his pate when he failed to move quickly enough from under the falling tree. He complained also of feebleness in his left arm. Why this should be so I cannot tell, for it was the right side of his skull, just above his ear, which suffered the blow.
I greeted the man, and he smiled warmly, as a man might to another who has saved his life. He guessed the reason for my visit. “You’ve come about beams, eh?”
“Aye. Will they be ready to transport to the castle by Whitsuntide?
“Ready now. Hewed, stacked, an’ dryin’ since Candlemas.”
“Excellent. And how does your head? Are you troubled yet with headaches?”
“Oh, not so much. ’Tis not me head that gives trouble…’tis the weakness in me arm an’ leg.”
“This does not improve?”
“Nay. Same as has been since you patched me up.”
This condition puzzles me. Mondeville wrote nothing about such a phenomenon, nor has any other surgeon so far as I know. That a man might lose some function of his body from a thump on the head is well known, but why the loss would be opposite to the place of injury I cannot guess.
>
“I’ll send carts to haul the timbers to the castle. How goes Lord Gilbert’s woodland? Did many trees fall over winter?”
“Nay…no but one, an old beech come down just after Twelfth Night. ’Twas too bitter to do aught ’bout it then. But after the Feast o’ St Edward we hewed it to timbers. They be stacked along wi’ the oak, if Lord Gilbert needs more than planned for ’is new stables.”
As we talked we walked across the muddy lane to Gerard’s hut. He led the way to the toft, where in a wood yard behind the house he showed me the pile of oak and beech awaiting transport to Bampton. All was done as required. No fault could be found with the forester’s work, although for the frailty of his left hand and leg I assumed his sons and assistants had done most of the work under his direction.
Beside the beams was a rack of pollarded poles drying under a thatched shelter. Gerard followed my gaze.
“Rafters…got to cut ’em when they’re the right size, or there’ll be no use for ’em. Wait ’til they be needed an’ they’ll be grown too large. I’ll send a stack w’ the beams. No use for ’em here, since plague.”
At the rear of his hut, between the building and the wood yard, I saw a heap of wattles ready also for the new stables. Gerard saw my eyes move to the pile, and spoke. “Cut ’em just three days past, so they’ll be green-like an’ bend easy. Poplar. They’s best for wattle.”
As I walked past the pile of wattle sticks I absently grasped a wand and flexed it, as if to try the forester’s opinion. The twig bent readily, indeed. I replaced it and strolled on.
The door to the rear of Gerard’s cottage stood open to the warm spring day and I glanced in as I walked past. A bench occupied the doorway, placed so as to catch the sun. On it were a dozen or so of the straightest poplar shafts, a knife, and a scattering of goose feathers.
Gerard again noted the direction of my gaze and spoke. “Can’t shoot arrows now, since me eyes is gone cloudy an’ me arm’s too weak to hold a bow steady, but nobody makes a truer shaft. All say so.”
