by Mel Starr
“Why did you take my silver?”
Tears coursed down both of Lady Anne’s cheeks. She bit her lip, and then answered.
“I did not plan to do so.”
“Then why?” Lord Gilbert said.
“I went to the screens passage to seek the butler,” she sniffed. “Lady Margery wished an ewer of wine in her chamber and her ladies were all about other duties. I saw the pantry open, and a box there with silver, and no other person about.”
“So you took the opportunity to seize m’lord’s silver,” I said, “but a page saw you leave the pantry.”
“Aye,” she agreed.
“You were found out. Why did you not return my silver then?” Lord Gilbert asked.
Lady Anne hesitated. “Thought as he who saw me was but a youth, and I a lady, he might not be believed if he did accuse me. I was ready to charge him with the theft.”
“Why did you not do so?” I asked.
“My conscience troubled me. If Lord Gilbert was like my father, the page would hang if I was believed.”
“If you thought Lord Gilbert might be like your father, why risk such a theft?”
“I am a knight’s daughter, but have nothing. I once owned jewels. Not many, but I had some. Father sold them all to pay against his debts. Since the great death, crops fetch little and tenants demand reduced rents. I’ve had no silk or linen for a new gown these two years… nor even wool.”
“Your want overcame your fear of discovery?” I asked.
“Aye. I’d no sooner returned to my chamber with the silver than I regretted the deed. But I did not know what I was to do.”
“So when Walter told you that your theft was discovered, and the silver must be returned,” I said, “you were not surprised that your guilt was known?”
“Nay. I expected so.”
“You wrapped the spoons and knives in a portpain and left them in the screens passage, as Walter told you to do. I had promised that no man would be present to see you return the silver, and none was.”
“Nay,” she said. “’Twas not like that.”
I looked to Lord Gilbert, and he returned my gaze, one eyebrow lifted, as is his custom when puzzled.
“How was it, then?” I asked. “How did you come by Lord Gilbert’s portpain? Don’t deny it. One of his portpains is missing from the pantry.”
“I did not return the silver. Walter did.”
“Ah,” I said. “But there is yet the matter of the portpain the silver was wrapped in. How did you have that?”
“I had no portpain. When Walter told me I was found out, and if the silver was returned the matter would end, I begged him to return it for me. He refused at first, but Lady Margery heard us quarrel and demanded the cause. I said I wished Walter to perform some service for me and he would not. Lady Margery demanded that as he valued his position, he do as was required.”
“Lady Margery did not ask what it was you desired of Walter?” I asked.
“Not at first.”
“When, then?”
“She did not leave us. Stood planted, hands on hips, waiting for Walter to do as I wished. We stood thus until I could bear it no more. I went to my chest, withdrew the silver, and gave it to Walter.”
“‘What is this?’ Lady Margery demanded of me. ‘Whose spoons and knives are these, and what is Walter to do with them?’”
“I told Lady Margery all; that I had taken the silver in hopes that I could sell it for enough to buy silks and fine new shoes, but must return it as I had been found out.”
“What did Lady Margery then say?” Lord Gilbert asked.
“Called me foolish.”
“I don’t often agree with Lady Margery,” he said, “but she spoke true. ’Twas foolish indeed to steal my silver. Could you not guess the stuff would be missed?”
Lady Anne did not reply for some time. When she did her words stunned us both. “She said if I wanted to take Lord Gilbert’s chattels I should be certain of not being discovered.”
“She was angry that your theft was revealed, rather than that you had stolen goods from your host?” I said.
“Aye.”
“What then?” I asked. “Did Walter then do as you wished?”
“He did. Took the silver from my hands, but dropped a spoon. ’Twas then Lady Margery told him to wait.”
“For what?”
“She left the room. Don’t know where she went. Returned soon enough with a length of linen cloth. Must have gone to her chamber for it. Told Walter to wrap the silver in it so no one would see what it was he had when he took it to the screens passage. Lady Margery did not know that no one was to be nearby to see the return of the silver.”
Here was an interesting tale. The missing portpain in which the silver was returned had been in Lady Margery’s possession. Had the bloody fragment in the squires’ chamber also been in her hands before it was used to absorb Sir Henry’s blood?
If so, was it to Sir Geoffrey that she had given a scrap? Or did Sir Geoffrey have the linen first, and give the remnant to Lady Margery?
The more I learned the more confused I became. I began to wish that I had never seen the small drop of blood on the floor of Sir Henry’s chamber. Had I not, I would never have examined Sir Henry’s ear and discovered a murder. I would have, for want of any contradictory knowledge, proclaimed the death as common to a man of Sir Henry’s age. Lady Margery’s accusation that my potion was at fault would have gone unchallenged.
Even I might have thought the accusation just.
I dismissed the thought. What kind of man am I to accept injustice if to struggle against it brings inconvenience? Is a calm, peaceful life worth such a price? Can a man see harm done to another yet go to his bed and rest easy of a night? Mayhap some men can, but I would be loath to think myself one of them. Where would men be if the Lord Christ had decided that being nailed to a cross was too inconvenient, and rather than offer His life for the salvation of all who believe, preferred a life free of sorrow and pain?
Lord Gilbert studied me in the silence which followed Lady Anne’s revelation. An eyebrow, as usual, was raised.
“You will speak to no one of this interview,” I said.
“But the chamberlain drew me from Lady Margery. She will ask where I went.”
“Very well,” I sighed. “If she asks, tell her all. Tell her I know of the portpain, and how a fragment of it was used. Tell her I know of her dalliance with Sir Geoffrey. Tell her I am about to seize a murderer and take him to Sir Roger to appear before the King’s Eyre.”
Lady Anne curtsied to Lord Gilbert, backed to the door, then fled from our presence. I heard her footsteps echo in the corridor as she hastened from the scene of her discomfort.
“What do you make of that?” Lord Gilbert asked. “The daughter steals my silver and the mother – well, stepmother – steals my linen. Find a murderer, so I may be rid of them. Lady Petronilla’s jewels may vanish next.”
“Perhaps Lady Margery did not take the portpain.”
“Why, then, did she have a part of it? Did some other steal it and give part of it to her?”
“Perhaps… or ’twas the other way round. She took the portpain and gave a fragment to another.”
“To Sir Geoffrey? To wipe away her husband’s gore when murder was done?”
“Mayhap.”
“Well, then, you told Lady Anne that you were about to arrest a murderer. Do so.”
“I did not tell Lady Anne that I was ready to seize a murderer. I told her to tell Lady Margery that I was. There is a difference.”
“Oh… aye. You play games with me.”
“Nay. I attempt to do right. When felons use trickery to escape the penalty due them, it is sometimes needful to use deception to trip them up.”
“Who do you deceive? Sir Geoffrey?”
“Aye. If he is the murderer, and is told that I am soon to arrest him, he may attempt some deed to avoid capture, or perhaps try to flee. I am going to find Arthur and Uctred and
set them to watch at the marshalsea. Sir Geoffrey may send a page to saddle his horse, as if to go riding in the country. If he does so it will be another bit of evidence for his guilt. He will likely be attempting to escape capture.”
“Be careful. If he believes you are ready to accuse him, the deed you speak of may be a third murder… if ’twas he who plunged a dagger into Sir John. A man cannot be hanged three times for three murders.”
“I believe he did so, and I will heed your warning.”
I found Arthur and told him to seek Uctred and together keep watch over the marshalsea. I hoped, when Lady Margery learned from Lady Anne what I knew, that she would go to Sir Geoffrey and set him to flee, or do some other thing which might confirm his guilt. I told Arthur to keep the marshalsea under close study, but not to appear to be doing so. He rolled his eyes at this instruction, being directed to do a thing whilst appearing to do another.
I wandered about the castle for the remainder of the afternoon, awaiting some incriminating act from Sir Geoffrey after he learned from Lady Margery what I knew. Lord Gilbert’s grooms began to erect tables in the hall, but there was no sign of Sir Geoffrey. I walked to the marshalsea to question Arthur, and learned that the knight had not been near the stables, nor had any of Sir Henry’s pages, either. Had he hidden himself away in his chamber? Or already fled castle and town? I entered the stables and went to the stalls where his beasts were kept. They were both present, his page evidently having returned them from the meadow for the night before I set Arthur and Uctred to watch the place. If Sir Geoffrey had fled to save his neck he did so afoot, which no knight would do.
Lord Gilbert must have thought it unseemly to serve an elaborate supper on such a day. The removes that evening were simple, even though ’twas not a fast day. His cook prepared capons farced, cormarye, rice moyle, and cabbage with marrow. And parsley loaf with honeyed butter. For the subtlety a simple chardewarden sufficed.
I had spent many hours in the past week watching Sir Henry’s household at their meals in the hall, seeking, but not finding, some sign of guilt in expression or behavior. Why should this supper be any different?
It did seem to me that most of Sir Henry’s retainers and family had little appetite, but that could not mean that they were all felons. Perhaps they worried that another death might be expected, and they might provide the corpse.
Lady Margery, who in the past had not hesitated to glare at me frequently from the high table, did not look even once in my direction during the meal. At least, not when I was observing her. She spoke little to Lady Petronilla, and seemed often to glance at the empty place to her right where Sir John had taken his meals.
Sir Geoffrey, to my surprise, took his normal place at the high table. Like all in the hall that evening, he was quiet and ate sparingly. But he did not look away when our eyes met. Either Lady Margery had not told him of my words to Lady Anne, or he believed he had nothing to fear, or he was a skilled player.
When the meal was done I joined Lord Gilbert in the solar, and together with Lady Petronilla we reviewed the week past, seeking some insight which had escaped us. We failed.
Lady Petronilla complained of feeling unwell, called for one of her ladies, and went to her chamber. I could think of nothing more to be done this day, so bid Lord Gilbert a good evening and departed for Galen House.
But before I left the castle I called upon William. The squire had not appeared this day for dinner or supper, and I wished to reassure myself that his nose was mending as should be.
The door to the squires’ chamber was open, allowing a breeze to cool the room on this warm summer evening. I found William seated at his table, which he had drawn to the window, writing upon a sheet of parchment. The fading light was yet enough to illuminate his work and at a glance I saw that he wrote well, with a hand as skilled as any monk’s.
The squire’s eyes were yet purple, beginning to turn to green and yellow. The effect was quite loathsome, together with his swollen nose, and I understood why the youth did not wish to present himself to Lady Anne in such a state.
It was no business of mine to whom William wrote, but my eyes fell upon the document and I saw that Lady Anne’s name was inscribed across the top of the leaf in a large, flourishing hand, easily readable from where I stood.
William had turned from his writing when he heard me enter his chamber, but returned for a moment to his work, completing a thought before he stood to greet me.
“You did not take supper in the hall,” I said by way of explaining my presence. “So I thought to see that all is well with you before I leave the castle for the night.”
“As well as might be,” William shrugged. “But I will be pleased when the linen plugs you thrust up my nose may be removed.”
I agreed that having to breathe through one’s mouth for a fortnight was not a pleasant prospect, but told William that he must resist the temptation to remove the wads before the time had expired. “If your nose should heal badly, skewed one way or the other,” I explained, “it might cause such an obstruction that you never again take a breath through your nostrils, and your nose may forever point to one side of your face or another.”
William said nothing while he contemplated such a fate.
“You write a fair hand,” I said, nodding to the parchment upon the table.
The youth would have blushed, I think, but for the pageant of colors which already marched across his face.
“Sir Henry’s chaplain taught us well,” he said.
“You and Robert?”
“Aye, and all who needed instruction.”
“Sir Henry wished his squires to be able to read and write?”
“Not only squires. Pages, grooms, valets, all in his service must be instructed. Sir Henry said times are not like as of old, when men needed only to work or fight, as their station demanded, and writing could be left to churchmen and scholars.”
“Was there no unlettered man in Sir Henry’s service?”
“Not that I know of. He’d not have it. Required Sir Geoffrey to learn when he entered his service.”
“I have heard that Sir Geoffrey was low-born,” I said. “Does he read and write with competence now?”
“Aye. Nearly as well as any man, though ’tis said learning letters is a thing best accomplished when young.”
“So ’tis said,” I agreed. “If you have no complaints I will leave you to your letter.”
William bowed, then turned back to his parchment, no doubt eager to complete his work before the light failed.
Here was perplexing news. The note Sir Roger found slipped under his chamber door was written in a poor hand. It was yet in my pouch, so I withdrew it as I crossed the castle yard and once again inspected it. The light was poor, but it was adequate to see that whoso wrote the message could not be said to write nearly as well as any man. Did Sir Geoffrey then not write this? Some man, or woman, did. Perhaps, if Sir Geoffrey was right-handed, he took quill in left hand to scrawl a message that would disguise its composer.
If ’twas not Sir Geoffrey who wrote Sir Roger’s note, who did so? Someone wished me to think Squire William guilty of Sir Henry’s murder. If Sir Geoffrey was the felon, why would some other try to set the sheriff after an innocent man? Would Lady Margery do so, perhaps being complicit in her husband’s death?
I studied the note again as I walked Mill Street toward my home. The letters were crude, and seemed to me not written in a feminine hand. They were large, square, and whoever had inscribed the letters had pressed the quill forcefully upon the parchment. I thought it likely a man had written the note, but if not Sir Geoffrey, then who? Surely the hand that held pen to this parchment also slew Sir Henry. Unless Sir Geoffrey commanded some other to write for him. This thought occupied my mind until I arrived at Galen House and Kate greeted me. Her embrace drove other considerations from my mind.
Bessie was tucked into her cot, and Kate’s hens had retired to the hen house, so all was quiet at Galen House. Kate cov
ered the coals upon our hearth and we sat upon a bench in the fading light of the toft in companionable silence.
But Kate was unwilling to remain ignorant of the day’s events, and so after allowing me a time with my thoughts, asked of the news. I told her.
“Sir Geoffrey is the murderer, then,” she said.
“So it seems. He used the note to Sir Roger to turn suspicion to another when he learned that I had discovered the cause of Sir Henry’s death.”
“You think Lady Margery knew of his felony? Perhaps aided it?”
“She had the portpain in her possession, and Sir Geoffrey used a fragment of it to wipe away Sir Henry’s blood.”
“Will you charge them both?”
“Probably.”
“Probably? You have some doubts?”
“I can understand Sir Geoffrey doing Sir Henry to death… and Lady Margery aiding in some way. But why slay Sir John?”
“Did not the squire say that Sir John was also fond of Lady Margery? Perhaps Sir Geoffrey wished to be rid of a rival.”
“’Tis the only answer which makes sense,” I agreed. “But if I knew or understood more, perhaps another explanation would also make sense. Or make better sense.”
“What more do you need to know?”
“I would seek it if I knew. There is the problem of ignorance. I do not know what it is that I do not know.”
“You speak in riddles.”
“This business has been a riddle from first to last. I will be pleased to place it in Sir Roger’s hands. He can lay Sir Geoffrey’s fate before the King’s Eyre.”
“Will he hang?”
“Probably. The King’s judges generally assume that if a sheriff seizes a man and presents him before the court there must be warrant for the accusation.”
“So Sir Henry will be avenged.”
“Aye, although the folk he wronged will never be so.”
“What wrongs did Sir Henry do?”
I told Kate about Sir Henry’s misuse of his office.
“Near Bedford there will be many folk, Isobel said, pleased to learn that Sir Henry now sleeps in St Beornwald’s churchyard.”
