Rest Not in Peace (The Chronicles of Hugh De Singleton, Surgeon #6)

by Mel Starr

  “He is a cruel lord?”

  “Aye,” she spat. “A few months past, jus’ before Candlemas, I b’lieve, Arnald Crabb set ’is goods in a cart an’ went off to another manor. Near to Wolverton, I heard. Sir Henry knew it must be that the lord he was to rent land from must’ve reduced rents to seek new tenants, so sent men to discover was it so, an’ bring Arnald back if it was true.”

  “Arnald was a tenant of this place?”

  “Since ’e was born. His kin live ’ere yet… uncle is smith in the village.”

  An alarm bell rang in my mind. Walter’s father had been a smith.

  “Smiths often seek better wages, I hear. Has your smith ever sought to better ’imself?”

  “Once, years past, it was. I was but a wee lass. Charged folks more for hinges an’ nails and such stuff than the statute allowed. Sir Henry put a stop to that, right enough.”

  “So this Arnald was fined for daring to take up lands of another for lower rent than permitted?”

  “Nay… ’e’s dead. Can’t fine a dead man. Sir Henry sent men to bring ’im back, but folks at ’is new place fought to stop ’em, so I heard. Arnald got hisself pierced in the fight an’ died next day.”

  “And his family lives here yet?”

  “Aye… well, not ’is wife. She wouldn’t return an’ Sir Henry thought it best to leave ’er be. Lots o’ cousins, though.”

  “These were not angered when Arnald died?”

  “Oh, aye. That’s why Sir Henry fled the place, you see. They was plottin’ to do away with ’im. Him an’ ’is knights an’ the two squires, as well, like I said.”

  “You said Sir Henry was visiting a place beyond Oxford? Was his name Sir Henry Burley?”

  “Aye,” she said, with some suspicion furrowing her brow. “How’d you know of ’im?”

  “He’s dead. We were in the town of Bampton a few days past, an’ learned of the death.”

  “He tried to flee the revenge of them he’d plundered, but didn’t travel far enough. Was ’e murdered?”

  “So men there said.”

  A look of satisfaction crossed the ale wife’s face, but this rapidly faded. “’Is wife’ll be as hard as Sir Henry ever was, an’ Sir Geoffrey’ll no doubt have the post Sir Henry had… an’ Lady Margery, too.”

  “Sir Geoffrey?”

  “One of Sir Henry’s knights, an’ a favorite of Sir Henry’s wife, if you know what I mean.” The woman winked.

  “Who else of Arnald’s kin live nearby, that they could plot against Sir Henry?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Why’d you want to know? Half the village knew of the plan, not just Arnald’s family. Only cousin what didn’t know of what was to happen was Walter, I’d guess.”

  “Walter?”

  “Aye. A valet to Sir Henry. Don’t think ’e knew of the scheme. Folks didn’t trust ’im, you see, bein’ Sir Henry’s valet.”

  I had consumed nearly half the ale from the crusted wooden cup, and thought I need drink no more. Walter was a cousin to a man slain by Sir Henry’s men. I knew that Walter had had opportunity to murder Sir Henry. Now I knew he had reason, as well.

  I thanked the ale wife for the drink, and nodded toward the door. Arthur saw and rose from his bench. Together we left the hovel and set off toward the decrepit manor house and the east end of the village.

  Arthur had heard all of the conversation, and spoke as we approached Sir Henry’s dwelling.

  “’Twas Walter, then, who did murder, an’ not Sir Geoffrey?”

  “It may be. But I have no proof of it, nor can I think of a way to confirm it to be so.”

  “It’s a long way back to Bampton. You’ll think of somethin’.”

  I might have wished for Arthur’s confidence.

  We had seen no village large enough to have an inn while on the way to Wootton, so were required to sleep that night upon piles of leaves in a wood nearby to a place called Cranfield. I discovered the name when, next morn, I smelled the village baker at his work and sought fresh loaves of him. We halted in the journey that day to allow the horses to feed in a meadow beside the road, but even with this delay we arrived at Chetwode Abbey while the sun was yet well above the trees. The abbot did not seem much pleased to see us again. We left the place next day at dawn, paused once again in Oxford to seek a meal, and entered Bampton shortly after the ninth hour.

  Arthur was correct. Whilst swaying upon my palfrey’s back a plan had come to my mind to discover if Walter the valet had slain his lord. If he had not, my scheme would tell that, as well.

  I halted my journey at Galen House and sent Arthur on to the castle with the horses. I had been four days away from my Kate and Bessie. Solving Sir Henry’s murder could wait another day. He would not mind.

  Next morning I rose early and arrived at the castle before Lord Gilbert’s chaplain had concluded mass. I waited at the entrance to the chapel, and when the service was done approached Walter as he departed the chapel with the other valets and grooms of Sir Henry’s household, following the folk of quality. I beckoned to the valet and nodded toward the hall, indicating that I wished for him to follow. He did so, and a moment later I sat upon a bench pushed against the wall and motioned for him to do likewise. In a voice barely above a whisper, so as to cause the fellow to believe us conspirators together, I told him that I had returned the day before from Wootton, and laid out a case against Sir Geoffrey.

  “I am not surprised,” Walter said when I had done. “The man was baseborn and baseborn he remains, for all his airs. When will you arrest him?”

  “Soon. Perhaps this day. But I would be well pleased to have more evidence against him. Testimony which might send the commons to a scaffold is often not enough to convince the King’s Eyre of a knight’s guilt.”

  “You wish my aid in the matter?” Walter asked, seeing where the conversation was going. Or thinking he saw its direction.

  “Aye. ’Tis my belief that Sir Geoffrey also slew Sir John. Sir John awoke and fought when his attacker pierced him, and this I know for his blood spattered upon the wall of his chamber. Some of that gore must have sullied Sir Geoffrey’s clothing when he did the murder, but although I’ve closely examined his cotehardie whenever he is near, I see no evidence that blood has ever spotted it.”

  “What, then?” Walter asked. “Has he another garment?”

  “Surely. But I think it more likely that he wore only chauces and kirtle when he stabbed Sir John.”

  “How will you discover this?”

  “With your aid.”

  “What must I do?”

  “When all castle folk are at dinner you must go to Sir Geoffrey’s chamber and seek a bloody kirtle. Look in his chest and under his mattress. It has been three days since Sir John died. Perhaps he has discarded the stained clothing, but if not, if your search is fruitful I shall have him. I ask you to do this because, as you are of Sir Henry’s household, ’twould not appear odd to see you enter Sir Geoffrey’s chamber, as it would for me or some other man in Lord Gilbert’s employ. You will miss your dinner, but ’tis a fast day and stockfish will be your meal. I’ll see that the cook holds some back for you.”

  “Aye,” Walter said without hesitation. “I have told you, Sir Henry was a fair master and I would see his murderer punished for the deed.”

  “Excellent. With your aid, before this day is done, I may have a murderer in hand. Now, you must not go near Sir Geoffrey’s chamber this morning. I would not have him see you loitering about and take fright.”

  “Does he suspect that you think him guilty?”

  “He may. I do not wish this bird to take flight and escape my snare.”

  “I will do as you ask,” Walter said, then bowed and bid me “Good day.”

  “And a good day to you, also,” I said. If my scheme succeeded, and my new suspicion was just, it might be the last good day the valet would ever know. Justice is a beautiful thing. Seeking it may be ugly.

  I sought Sir Geoffrey next. He and Lady Ma
rgery had followed Lord Gilbert from the chapel, so I thought perhaps they had joined him in the solar, there to await dinner in light conversation. As light as conversation may be with two corpses hanging over it.

  Lady Anne was present in the solar also, but not Lady Petronilla. Lord Gilbert sat with his back to the door, but when he saw Lady Margery glance in my direction and curl her lip in distaste he turned to see who it was who had annoyed her. Annoying Lady Margery does not require great effort. Nearly anyone is capable of doing so, but I have special talents in that regard.

  “Master Hugh,” Lord Gilbert greeted me, “I give you good day. How may we serve you?”

  That gentlemen and ladies might serve a mere bailiff is a fiction, but gentlefolk do have their pretensions of duty to the commons, and this serves, I suppose, to justify to them their position. Well, we all seek to vindicate our deeds. If we found that we could not, we might behave otherwise. But as men generally refuse to change their ways through many years, it must be that we have discovered means whereby to excuse ourselves for the evils of this world in which we share.

  “I would speak privily to Sir Geoffrey,” I said.

  The knight looked to Lady Margery and she rolled her eyes in disgust. What the woman thought of me was of no consequence. Another woman, whose shoes Lady Margery was unfit to lace, thought well of me, and that was all that mattered. But her display of disrespect did anger me, I must admit. The Lord Christ said that we will know the truth, and the truth will set us free, but mayhap knowledge of the truth may upon a time make us angry as well.

  Sir Geoffrey was not pleased to be asked to leave the solar, and of this his countenance left no doubt. He knew, I believe, that he was suspect in two deaths and surely had some concern that I intended to question him sharply. Five days past I would have done. I might yet.

  When we were safely away from the solar I stopped to face the knight, who had followed me from the chamber. The corridor was dim, but I could see Sir Geoffrey’s lips drawn thin below scowling brows.

  “What’s this about?” he said.

  “I wish to inspect your chamber,” I replied.

  “What? Absurd. What do you expect to find?”

  “If I knew that I wouldn’t need to examine the room, would I? Actually, it is what I do not expect to find that should concern you.”

  “You wish to inspect my chamber for something you believe is not there? Bah, you speak in riddles.”

  “I have been told this before.”

  “Just what is it you think you will not find in my chamber?”

  “Evidence of murder,” I said.

  This concentrated Sir Geoffrey’s thoughts and I saw his jaw work as he clenched his teeth.

  “Whose murder?” he said after a pause.

  “Sir John’s.”

  “So you will inspect my chamber for things you do not believe you will find?”

  “Exactly. Shall we go?”

  I turned from Sir Geoffrey and led the way to his chamber where I stopped and waited for him to open the door and enter. He did so.

  The space was well lit, the window admitting the morning sun, now bright and warm over Bampton Castle’s south wall. Sir Geoffrey’s face was full of anger as he stood aside his door and waited for me to enter the room.

  “You believe I slew Sir Henry and Sir John?” he asked. “Many do, I know. Lady Margery has heard the talk.”

  “Nay. A week past I thought differently. Today I believe you to be foolish, greedy, and corrupt, but no murderer.”

  “Then why seek evidence of murder here, in my chamber?”

  The knight made no defense of my accusation that he was foolish, greedy, and corrupt. Perhaps he thought these were minor infractions when compared to murder, which he had worried might be the charge against him. Or perhaps he agreed with my judgment.

  “Because what is not here now may be so before this day is done.”

  Sir Geoffrey’s mouth dropped open. “You will find no evidence of murder in my chamber, now or later, this day, or any other.”

  “I believe that you are mistaken. But we shall see. Will you open your chest?”

  The chest was grand, as one might expect of a knight, more than a yard long, made of polished oak, and bound with iron. Sir Geoffrey sighed, drew a key from his pouch and unlocked the chest. When he opened it I said, “Do not lock the chest when we are done here.”

  I had not considered that he might own a chest with a lock, and that he might keep it locked. My plan might be tossed askew if no man could gain access to the box.

  Sir Geoffrey stood back and folded his arms while I examined the contents of the chest. There I found extra kirtles and braes, as one might expect, and a fine new green cotehardie reserved, I suppose, for special feasts and such. Two caps were there, one red, the other green, with fashionably long liripipes as young men like to wear. Although Sir Geoffrey is no longer young.

  I was surprised to find amongst the clothing a book of hours. It was a thing of beauty, and worth thirty shillings, I think.

  Sir Geoffrey watched as I examined the book. “A gift,” he said.

  “From Sir Henry?”

  “Nay. He’d not give up a thing so fair as that. Sell it, more likely.”

  “From some gentleman, then? A man you would have taken to Sir Henry charged with demanding too little of his tenants in rent for their lands in order to keep them in their place?”

  Sir Geoffrey looked as if I’d swatted him with the book. “Nay,” he said. “From the Black Prince himself.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve heard that you distinguished yourself in battle.”

  The knight did not reply, so I replaced the book and resumed a plunge to the bottom of the chest. I found a pair of shoes, old and well-worn, and a pair of riding boots of good quality. Two pairs of gloves were also there, one pair fur lined for winter use. All was as I expected. I did not find any garment with bloodstains upon it.

  I stood from the chest, faced Sir Geoffrey, and said, “Remember, do not lock your chest. ’Tis now nearly time for dinner. We will return here after the meal and see if your chest is then as ’tis now.”

  “Why should it not be?”

  “Because there is a man who will also seek evidence of murder in your chamber while we are at dinner. But unlike me, I believe he will find it.”

  “What? How so? What will he find, and where can it be?”

  “Unless I am much mistaken – which is surely possible, for I have much experience in being mistaken – he will find a bloodied garment in your chest.”

  “Bah. You have just now been in my chest. You saw for yourself there is no such thing there.”

  “Aye, so I did.”

  I saw the light of understanding flash in Sir Geoffrey’s eyes. “The man who will find bloody clothing in my chest will be one who has put it there.”

  “So I believe.”

  “And he will have such a garment because he slew Sir John?”

  “Aye. Sir John, surely, and likely Sir Henry as well. Sir John resisted his attacker and his blood spewed out upon the wall of his chamber and likely upon his assailant as well.”

  “Why not seek a bloody garment amongst the fellow’s possessions?”

  “It is likely well hid, and I do not want the man to know that I suspect him until I have proof of his guilt.”

  “Who is this man?”

  “Walter.”

  “The valet? But why… ah, I see.”

  “What do you see?” I asked.

  “Why the man would do these murders.”

  “Tell me. I believe him guilty, as a few days past I thought it likely you were the felon. But I would like to know why you think he may be the murderer.”

  Sir Geoffrey looked from me to his chest as if he expected to see some new thing there, then clasped his hands behind his back and spoke.

  “’Twas the fines, I think, and his kinsman’s death.”

  “Fines? Death? Sir Henry was charged with enforcing the Statute of Laborers,
which duty you, Sir John, and the squires assisted. These are the fines you speak of?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why should Walter be so angered about fines? He was Sir Henry’s valet and would not be charged with violating the statute… unless it is his father you speak of. And what of death?”

  I knew the answer to that question, but wanted to hear from Sir Geoffrey his account of what had happened to Walter’s cousin.

  “His father and cousin were accused of violating the statute.”

  “The father I know of. A smith accused of charging more for his labor than the statute permitted.”

  “Aye. Walter’s father was the only smith in Wootton an’ the villages nearby after plague returned seven years past.”

  “And Sir Henry charged Walter’s father for violating the statute,” I said, “demanding more for his labor than the law allowed?”

  “Aye.”

  “What was his penalty?”

  “Don’t know. Sir Henry sent me an’ Sir John to collect ’im, and take the fellow back to his home when Sir Henry was done with ’im.”

  “I am told that Sir Henry levied heavy fines, and sometimes awarded penalties when none was warranted, no law broken.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “No matter. What of Walter’s cousin?”

  “He was a tenant of Sir Henry’s lands at Wootton. Bein’ a Commissioner of Laborers, Sir Henry wouldn’t reduce rents, as many gentlemen do, so Arnald went elsewhere. Took ’is family off to a manor near Wolverton, where so many folk had died of plague the lord was willing to reduce rents to attract tenants. By half, I heard.”

  “Permit me to complete the tale,” I said. “When Sir Henry learned where the fellow had gone – perhaps he stole away in the night – he sent you and Sir John to fetch him back, and levied a great fine as well.”

  Sir Geoffrey did not reply.

  “If I am wrong, what did happen?”

  “Arnald would not come. We seized ’im, but he fought us, and raised such a tumult that other tenants soon gathered. We were overmatched three or four to one, though we had swords and Arnald and his friends had but spades and scythes and clubs. One had a dagger, I think.”