by Mel Starr
The valet made no reply for a moment, I think trying to invent some reason whereby my accusation might be impeached, or, failing that, to find some way to avoid the task I had laid upon him.
“Aye,” he said finally, and I nodded toward the hall, releasing him to his dinner and his duty. He would appreciate neither this day.
I followed the valet, sought Humphrey, and told him that one hour after dinner ended neither he nor Andrew must be near the screens passage, nor the hall nor the kitchen, either. I did not tell him why I asked this of him, for fear Lady Anne would resist and the precaution would be for naught.
I took my meal in the hall again that day. It was a fast day, so Lord Gilbert’s table featured baked herring, viand de leach, brydons, blancmange, sturgeon, salmon in syrup, and a void of sugared apples, wafers, and hypocras.
I once again sat at the head of a side table, from which place I could observe Lady Anne at the high table and Walter, far down the opposite side table. Walter appeared to have little appetite, and it is true that he did not enjoy the delicacies which we of higher estate consumed, but I believe his abstinence due more to the task I had assigned him than to the quality of the stockfish and maslin loaf before him.
The Lady Anne ate well and conversed freely with Lady Petronilla, beside whom she sat this day. I noted that several times Lady Anne’s eyes met those of squire William, although when this occurred they both looked quickly back to their meal. And was it my imagination, or did a winsome pink blush spread across Lady Anne’s cheeks after one of these exchanges?
It seemed sure that Walter had not yet presented my demand to Lady Anne. He had no opportunity to do so before dinner, and when the grooms and lesser folk had finished their meal he left the hall with the others.
But as we who remained finished the void I saw him peer from the screens passage and knew he waited to deliver to Lady Anne the requirement that Lord Gilbert’s silver be returned. There was nothing now for me to do. I departed the hall and left Walter to the onerous task I had assigned him.
One hour passed slowly. When the time was nearly gone, and I was about to seek the screens passage, I saw Walter walking toward the marshalsea and hastened after him. He feared I would challenge him about Lady Anne, I think, and so when I came within earshot he said, “I repeated your words to Lady Anne. Does the silver not appear as you wish, ’twill be no fault of mine.”
The valet was defensive, but in his place I might have been as well.
“There is another matter I wish to speak to you of,” I said.
Walter’s face, already somber, fell even more as he imagined other disagreeable labors I might assign him.
“Sir Henry,” I began, “lay awake nights. I was asked to provide a potion which would help him sleep. When I asked you what caused his wakefulness you did not reply. It is now time for you to do so. You cannot be charged with betraying your lord. He is in his grave.”
The valet did not answer at once, but looked about, and beyond my shoulder, as if to see if some man might appear who could extricate him from an uncomfortable place. No man did, so he finally spoke.
“S’pose can do no harm to Sir Henry now. He was penniless. Had debts ’e couldn’t pay, an’ gentlefolk an’ bankers he’d borrowed from who wanted their coin.”
“Could he not sell lands from his manor?”
“Tried. But others knew of ’is embarrassment an’ thought to gain from him cheap. Wouldn’t sell to such folk. Said ’e’d not give his house or lands away to any man.”
Sir Henry was not the only gentleman to suffer financial reverses these past years. Since plague took so many lives, grain has declined in price, and with it the value of the land upon which to grow it. A knight who needs money will raise little from his lands.
“His debts were greater than his worth?”
“Probably. Didn’t speak of such things when the common folk was about. Heard ’im arguin’ about it with Lady Margery once. Shoutin’ at each other, they was… not like I was tryin’ to hear.”
“What was Lady Margery’s complaint?”
Walter’s mouth twisted into a crooked grin. “What does most ladies want of their husbands? Silks an’ furs for new gowns, an’ shoes an’ such, an’ more servants to care for it all.”
“Sir Henry could not afford these?”
“Nay. Said he’d told her before there was not a shilling to spare for new clothes, an’ why would she not accept that.”
“What was her reply?”
“Said if she’d known he was so poor she’d not ’ave wed. Wealthier men had sought her hand, an’ still would was she free of him.”
“Lady Margery spoke of being free of Sir Henry?”
Walter’s eyes were downcast, and he moved a pebble with his toe, then said, “Aye… she did.”
Holy Church permits no divorce. The only way an unhappy wife may be free of her husband is through his death, or annulment of the marriage. But annulment requires the good graces of a bishop, generally gained by a liberal contribution to the bishop’s purse. Walter knew this well. I had another question.
“Did Lady Margery have any new husband in mind, you think, if she was free of Sir Henry? Was that another reason for Sir Henry’s wakefulness?”
The valet was again silent for the space of a dozen heartbeats before he said, “Not for me to say.”
“But you have, all but the man’s name. Was it not so you would not have hesitated. Who is it who has caught the lady’s eye?”
“Don’t know,” he protested. “Just talk.”
“You’ve heard gossip, but are unsure ’tis true?”
“Aye.”
“What does gossip say? What name is tied to Lady Margery?”
“More’n one.”
“She’ll bring little estate to any new husband. But more than one man is rumored to have an interest in Lady Margery if she were free of Sir Henry?”
“So I’ve heard. An’ even a small estate is of value to ’im as has none.”
“What names, then?”
“Haven’t heard that.”
“No names? From whence do these rumors come?”
“I speak to Lady Margery’s servants. Hear talk from them… but never names.”
“What do these women say? Was Sir Henry a cuckold?”
“May be. Isobel Guesclin, what’s Lady Margery’s companion, said as much.”
Worries about money and a faithless wife might cause any man to stare at the ceiling of a night. I remembered then the reddened cheeks of the Lady Anne, and asked Walter what he knew of the lass.
“Children may sometimes cause a man to lose sleep. Lady Anne is a thief. Has she done other mischief which might have brought distress to her father?”
Walter’s face twisted into a sardonic grin. “What lass don’t cause ’er father worry? ’Specially be she as pert as Lady Anne.”
“How did she bring worry to Sir Henry?”
“Wanted to wed, I heard.”
“Who?”
“William, the squire.”
This explained the stolen glances and pink cheeks I’d seen at table. “Sir Henry objected?”
“Aye. Wished her to wed another.”
“Who?”
“Dunno. A wealthy knight of Sussex, is all I know. Needed money, did Sir Henry, an’ thought to use ’is daughter to get ’is hands on some. So I heard.”
Where Sir Henry would gather funds to provide a suitable dowry for his daughter was another question, but one Walter could not be expected to answer.
The valet, who had been at first reluctant to speak of his employer’s family, had become loquacious, as if he found it a release to unburden himself.
“If any other reason for Sir Henry’s sleepless nights occurs to you, I would hear of it,” I said.
Walter touched a forelock and I bid him “Good day,” confident that an hour had now passed since dinner had ended, and that I knew better how matters stood in the family and household of Sir Henry Burley, deceased.
The hall had long since been cleared of tables, and stood empty and silent. My footsteps echoed from the walls as I crossed the great room to the screens passage and looked toward the pantry door. The space is dark, even on a bright day, for the only light which penetrates there comes from windows in the hall. But when I looked toward the pantry I saw a white parcel upon the flags. A piece of linen cloth was wrapped about two spoons and four knives. Lord Gilbert’s property was returned.
I set out to seek Humphrey, and found him a moment later, where he sat before the oven gossiping with John Baker, a groom nearly as ancient as the pantler.
I held the returned silver out to Humphrey and told him to replace the items in the locked pantry forthwith. “And perhaps count Lord Gilbert’s spoons and knives more regularly in the future,” I said.
Humphrey rose, took the silver from me, and hobbled off toward the pantry. I bid John “Good day,” and set off for the solar where I might find Lord Gilbert to tell him that his property was recovered. ’Twas then I glanced to the white linen cloth which had been wrapped about the silver. It seemed to me much like the bloodstained fabric which I had plucked from under the fireplace mantel of the squires’ chamber.
My route to the solar took me back through the screens passage and the hall. I stopped in the empty hall, withdrew the bloody linen from my pouch, and spread it upon the ewerer’s table. I then took the cloth which had been wrapped about the silver and unfolded it next to the stained fabric. When I placed the two side by side I saw readily that they were parts of the same piece. They had not been sliced square, across the warp and in line with the woof, but on a slight angle, as if whoso wielded the blade which had divided the portpain had slashed through the fabric hurriedly. The angle of the cut on the two cloths matched perfectly.
Here was a perplexing discovery. Would a lass murder her father? What else was I to think? Lady Anne had taken Lord Gilbert’s silver and was a thief. Would such a person find it troubling to add murder to a felony already committed? And if the lass would steal silver she would not balk at making off with a portpain. Perhaps she took linen and silver at the same time and Andrew overlooked the cloth when his eyes fell upon the knives and spoons.
’Twas sure that Lady Anne was the thief who made off with the silver. Walter spoke only to her to relay my demand that the silver be returned. Or did he mention the command to another?
No, that was unlikely. If some other thief had Lord Gilbert’s silver in his possession and thought I suspected only Lady Anne, he would not return the stolen goods, but rather would allow me to continue in my error and accuse the lass.
But would the maid be so foolish as to return the silver wrapped in the same portpain she had used to wipe away her father’s blood, a bloody fragment of which I was intended to find, so as to place blame for the felony upon a squire? Which squire? Not William Willoughby. ’Twas him she wished to wed. So said Walter. Robert de Cobham, then, was to fall victim to the plot, but how was I to know that when the only evidence I had against any man was the bloody linen and the bodkin embedded in the lampstand? I might pursue William as readily as Robert. Would Lady Anne, and her accomplice, had she one, risk that? Especially if aid came from William?
My confusion was complete. Either Lady Anne was uncommonly stupid or she thought I was. How else explain her use of Lord Gilbert’s portpain in the commission of two felonies? Another answer suggested itself: she did not know of the bloody fragment, and so thought nothing of returning the purloined silver in cloth which could entangle her in her father’s murder.
The door to the solar was open, and when I entered the chamber I found Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla laughing over some witticism of Sir Roger’s. My appearance reminded them of more somber events and they fell silent. “Your silver is returned,” I said to Lord Gilbert.
“Ah… well done, Hugh. Well done. With no fuss and feathers?”
“Nay, perhaps not.”
“Perhaps?” Lord Gilbert raised one questioning eyebrow, as he does when puzzled.
“Aye. Perhaps there will be no fuss come of the theft, but the business may bear on another, more disquieting event.”
“What is this about theft and silver?” Sir Roger asked.
I explained the matter to him, and repeated that the theft seemed a part of a greater felony.
“Sir Henry’s death?” Sir Roger asked. A reasonable assumption, since the death was the most disquieting thing to happen under Lord Gilbert’s roof in many years.
Lord Gilbert’s eyebrow rose higher, an astonishing feat. “How so?” he asked. “What could silver spoons have to do with Sir Henry’s murder?”
There is a table in the solar where Lord Gilbert occasionally works at accounts, being unlike most nobles, who prefer to allow their stewards and bailiffs to keep the manorial ledgers. Of course, most of Lord Gilbert’s class cannot cipher well and so must leave the tallying of sums to folk like me and Lord Gilbert’s steward, Geoffrey Thirwall. This is perhaps why stewards and bailiffs have a reputation for embezzling their employers’ funds. It is easy to do, and unless the manor should become insolvent, their theft is unlikely to be detected.
I took the two pieces of linen, one pure white, the other stained with blood, and laid them side by side upon the table. Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger stood as I did so and approached to peer over my shoulder.
“What is here?” Lord Gilbert asked. “We’ve seen the bloody cloth, but what of the other?”
“See how they match?” I said. “This fragment, unless I am much mistaken, was used to mop away what blood came from Sir Henry’s ear when ’twas pierced. And the unspotted remainder was used to wrap Lord Gilbert’s stolen silver when it was returned not an hour past.”
“Ah, then whoso took the silver also did murder,” Sir Roger said triumphantly. “Catch a thief and we’ll have the man who has slain Sir Henry, eh?”
“Perhaps, but I think not.”
“Oh?” Sir Roger seemed dismayed at my response. No doubt he wished the matter resolved so he might return to Oxford.
“Would Lady Anne murder her father?” Lord Gilbert muttered.
“Lady Anne?” the sheriff said. “What has she to do with this business?”
“’Twas she,” Lord Gilbert said, “who made off with my silver.”
Lady Petronilla had also risen from her chair and crossed the chamber to see the two pieces of linen. She spoke next.
“Lady Anne seems most eager to leave Bampton and return home. The matter has arisen often when we are together, and she continually urges Lady Margery to be away.”
“No wonder,” Sir Roger growled, “if she did murder and took silver spoons as well. I’ll take a sergeant an’ arrest her this minute. Where will she be? Where is her chamber?”
“Not yet,” I said. “We might learn more of this if we allow Lady Anne to roam free. She may do or say something which, without this knowledge, we might overlook. With these scraps of linen we may have answers to questions not yet asked. If, in a few days, we discover nothing more, you may then arrest the lass. If she is guilty only of theft, then the murderer may reveal himself, perhaps to save her, especially if it is William Willoughby.”
“William? The squire?” Lord Gilbert said. “You do then suspect him of murder?”
“Sir Henry’s valet said that William and Lady Anne wished to marry, but Sir Henry would not permit it, being eager to see his daughter wed to some wealthy knight.”
“To help fill his empty purse, no doubt,” Lord Gilbert said. “Though where he’d find coin for a dowry I cannot think.”
“Are we then but to wait and watch for some man to do or say that which will incriminate him?” Sir Roger asked. The sheriff is a man of action. Patience is not his strong virtue.
“Lady Margery knows I have discovered the bodkin,” I said. “She saw it in my hand yesterday. Whether or not she knows it might have been used to slay her husband we do not know. But I believe she does. When she saw it in my hand she took fri
ght.
“No one yet knows we have found this bloody linen, unless the man who hid it has searched to see if it is gone from the fireplace. It might be good to spread the word now that these objects have been found and watch to see who seems uneasy at the rumor.”
“Will we say where they were found?” Sir Roger asked.
“Nay. Should we do so, folk will wonder why one or both of the squires are not arrested.”
“Wonder about that myself. The squires and Lady Anne seem mixed together in Sir Henry’s death. Put the lot of ’em in Oxford Castle dungeon and soon one will tell who is guilty, so to free themselves.”
“They will implicate each other, and we will be no nearer to discovering a murderer than we are now,” I replied, “or William will play the man and take blame to save Lady Anne, whether he is guilty or not. We must be patient and alert.”
“Not too patient,” Lord Gilbert said. “Lady Margery wishes to return to Bedford and I wish the matter resolved to be rid of her.”
Murder and stolen goods vexed my mind as I left the castle. I stopped at the bridge over Shill Brook to gaze into the stream, but this wool-gathering did nothing to clear my thoughts or suggest a solution to my problems.
Kate greeted me with an embrace and a supper of arbolettys and a maslin loaf. Bessie watched her mother clasp me close and lifted her arms to me to do the same. The babe was beginning to cut teeth, and so slobbered upon my shoulder as I held her close. This did not trouble me. There are fathers who would give much to have a babe drool upon their cotehardie rather than occupy a small corner of St Beornwald’s churchyard.
I told Kate of the day’s events while we ate our supper, and concluded by saying that, unlikely as it seemed, Lady Anne may have had something to do with her father’s death.
“Perhaps she stuffed the portpain up a sleeve, before taking the spoons and knives,” I said. “When the page saw her with the silver his attention was drawn to the utensils and he did not notice the bulging sleeve.”
“You think she then gave the cloth to the squire… what is his name?”
“William. It may be. The sheriff believes it so, but ’tis all too simple, and who else would have known of their conspiracy?”
