by Mel Starr
I passed the woods where, earlier in the day, I had found the cotehardie. I wished to be home, out of the blast, and safe from the sleet or snow I thought likely before morning. But my curiosity was too strong. I had yet an hour before darkness. I tied Bruce to a sapling while he gazed at me with a wounded expression. He wished to be home and out of the storm as much as I. Cotehardie in hand, I penetrated the underbrush. It took a few minutes of casting about before I found the place where the cotehardie had lain.
The wind was quiet here, its gusts broken by the forest. As I studied the ground, and kicked through the leaves searching for more clothing, I heard from the distance a dull thud. Then, a few seconds later, another.
It was difficult to tell, with the wind and dense vegetation, from which direction the sounds came. And when I determined the source, it was not an easy matter to work my way through the undergrowth and coppiced saplings toward the sound.
I came to a place where the coppiced trees thinned to an older growth of forest just as a final thud brought the sound of a falling tree crashing through the branches of its still-standing neighbors. I had heard the sound of an axe laid against a tree — woodcutters were at their trade.
I followed the sound of axes lopping limbs from the fallen tree and found three men at work in the gloom of a gathering twilight. One of the three was conspicuous for the white cap he wore, which marked him from his companions in the dim light. It was the man whose skull I had repaired, who I had told to remain in bed for a week, and to do no toil for a month. Here, but seven days later, he was at his labors.
One of the three took that moment to rest on his axe — no doubt they had been employed at their task all day — and saw me approach. He spoke to his fellows and they ceased their labor to observe me as I picked my way through limbs cast off from trees felled earlier. My patient seemed to recognize me first — not that he could have remembered the time he spent in my surgery — and he spoke as I neared the group.
“You’ve come for your t’uppence, then?” he asked.
“No. You’ve a week before I want to see the wound and change the wrapping. You were to remain in bed until tomorrow. This,” I looked past them to the fallen oak, “could kill you. Your condition is brittle, and will remain so for many weeks.”
“Aye…so you told ’em,” he nodded toward his companions. “But,” he continued, “if I do not my share of the work I’ll not have fare to last t’winter. Then me an’ my household may starve. I take a risk, whether I work, or no.”
I saw his point. Left to his choice, I think I would have done the same. “Do you suffer…from the wound?” I asked him.
“Aye,” he shrugged. “Now an’ again.”
“When?”
“If I turn me head, quick like, or bend to me feet, then rise…mostly times like that.”
“That’s to be expected. You feel no other constant affliction?”
“Aye…me left hand an’ leg is weak, like.”
“Let me have a look.” I approached and peered at the bandage I had wrapped about his head. The wound seemed to be healing well, with little oozing to discolor the fabric. “I must change the wrap in a week.”
“I’ll bring yer pay,” he muttered.
I considered the man’s station, and my own diminished supply of firewood, and struck a bargain. In a week’s time he would bring twopence worth of firewood to me, in payment of the portion of my fee still due. In concluding this agreement I nearly forgot my mission, but another of the woodmen cast his eyes toward the cotehardie I held in my left hand and returned me to my senses.
I held the garment out before me and asked if they’d seen anyone wearing it. They hadn’t. I thought an explanation in order, so told them of the discovery. I left them with the admonition to seek me if they found more clothing. I did not think it a promising possibility that they would do so. I thought it more reasonable that they would wear what they found, or sell it, be it beyond their station, like the cotehardie. As I took leave of them I caught, in the shadows, an exchange of glances which suggested they knew more about the blue cotehardie than they wished to divulge.
It was dark before I found Bruce, and sleet pelted my back before I left the animal at the castle and made my way back across Shill Brook to Galen House. I don’t remember my supper that night. Whatever it was, it was cold. I ate, and crawled into a cold bed, hoping the woodmen would not long delay delivering the promised firewood.
Chapter 7
Sleet turned to an early snow, heavy and wet, during the night. The gale from the north continued to rattle my shutters even after the thin light of dawn penetrated the cracks between them. I had carefully banked my fire the previous morning, but there was not a coal left to reignite the blaze, and little wood for fuel when I managed to start it anew. I hoped the woodman would soon resolve his debt.
I had in my larder the remains of a maslin loaf I had purchased from the baker two days before, the heel of a cheese, and a small keg of cider. Of such was my noon meal. This simple fare seemed a banquet, for this day was Sunday and I ate no breakfast, as was my custom. Other than attendance at mass, I spent the day reading my copy of the Gospel of St John, beside my meager fire. There was no archery practice to observe because of the miserable weather, and no other reason to venture out. The town was silent.
Wretched as the weather was, the next dawn I could no longer hesitate. I garbed myself in my heavy cloak and, the blue cotehardie over my shoulder, made my way to the castle. This journey was becoming tiresome, especially on such a wet, cold, gray morning. I could be sitting before my fire, such as it was, keeping warm, waiting for paying patients. Instead I prowled the country for Lord Gilbert, to his benefit, not mine.
No, I decided, that was not entirely correct. It was Lord Gilbert who gave me my position, and he charged little enough rent for my lodging. And justice — would that not benefit all of God’s creatures? It would, if I, or anyone, could deliver it.
I hesitated at the bridge over Shill Brook to consider these thoughts and admire the stream as it made its way down from the mill between snow-covered banks. There is beauty in even the harshest of things, although it is difficult to appreciate esthetics if one’s feet are wet with congealing slush, one’s stomach is nearly empty, and one’s back is bent under a heavy load — as was, I suspect, the case with the old man who crossed the bridge behind me, heading toward town and the market square under a large sack of something I expect he hoped to sell.
Wilfred greeted me with a puzzled expression, due, no doubt, to the elaborate cotehardie I had hanging from my shoulder. John was called, and the chamberlain took me to the solar. I was barely in time. I had heard hounds barking with excitement as I approached the castle. Lord Gilbert had guests, and was about to go hunting. If he and his friends succeeded, a stag would be added to the fare at their table this evening.
“What, then, Hugh? You have news?” Lord Gilbert spoke to me, but his attention was given to his chamberlain and sartorial preparations for the hunt.
“I found this yesterday.” I held the cotehardie before me. “Have you seen a gentleman wearing such a garment?”
Lord Gilbert peered over his shoulder, then, eyes wide, turned to me and grasped the cotehardie. “How came you by this?’ he asked as he inspected the stained fabric. I told him of the foraging hogs, and the accidental uncovering of the cotehardie.
“It is Sir Robert’s,” Lord Gilbert declared softly. “Some harm has come to him…as we feared. He would not have discarded this for the heat, or forgotten it in such a place as you describe.”
I agreed with his assessment, showed him the small slit in the front of the garment, and told him then of the woodcutters and my charge to them. “But I have other news as well, regarding Margaret…the girl found in your cesspit.”
“Ah…have you found a killer in our midst?”
“No. Not yet.” I told him of my interviews in Burford.
“Hmm. I believe the suitor the most likely assailant,” Lord
Gilbert grunted. “He had cause and occasion.”
“This is so,” I agreed. “But this is little enough to hang a man.”
“Perhaps,” Lord Gilbert frowned.
“If we hold our peace,” I added, “some other fact which now escapes us may be introduced which will assure an accurate charge, either against Thomas Shilton, or another.”
Lord Gilbert scowled in my direction. “You suggest we do nothing, then?”
“I do…for now. Although there seem to be grounds for suspecting Thomas, I do not wish to be party to a trial on such tenuous evidence.”
“You think the fellow guilty?” Lord Gilbert challenged.
“I am of two minds. The circumstances point to him above others, but I have met him, and cannot view him as capable of such as was done to the smith’s daughter.”
“Perhaps you are too trusting.”
“Perhaps. But I view that as a better fault than being too cynical.”
“Hmm. Perhaps. You have done well. I will trust your judgment in the matter. But what,” he held out the cotehardie, “of this?”
I suggested he dispatch men to search the woods where I found the cotehardie.
“I shall go. The hunt can wait.”
“What of your guests?”
“They may come, as well. Sir John knew Sir Robert…although I cannot say they were friends. He may find this quest an interesting diversion from pursuit of a stag.”
Lord Gilbert commanded, and it was done. A short time later four horses and twelve men gathered at the gatehouse. I was pleased to see Bruce among the horses. His presence meant, I presumed, that I would not walk. I am no aristocrat, but I would not go to the search afoot with the commons.
Among the villeins and tenants gathered for the search, I recognized Alfred. He touched his hat and bowed as if I were a duke.
“How do you do?” I asked. “Are you well?”
“Oh…aye. I can do a day’s work well as any man. Though, mind you, ’tis well I’ll walk today.” He nodded toward the horses, stamping their impatience near the gatehouse, blowing steamy vapor into the cold morning air. “I am not suited yet to ride a horse.” He chuckled at his own expense.
“That will pass. It has been, what, five weeks since the surgery? I think by Candlemas your restoration will be complete.”
“’Tis well enough as is. For that I am much in your debt.”
“You must thank God also. He it is who gave me the skills to aid you. He is the Lord of healing, for when we poor surgeons have done our best, recovery is in His hands.”
“Aye. That I do. Every day.”
Lady Petronilla and Lady Joan appeared at the entrance to the castle screens passage and walked toward the assembly. Richard, Lord Gilbert’s two-year-old son, toddled along in their wake, accompanied by his nurse.
“Master Hugh will guide us,” Lord Gilbert nodded toward Bruce. The old horse had caught some of the sense of excitement, and stamped his forefeet with as much enthusiasm as he was able. “Lead on, Master Hugh.”
I managed to mount with some grace. I was becoming accustomed to the solid platform Bruce provided. I glanced toward the women to see if I was observed. I was. The fair Joan dipped her head in acknowledgment. I smiled — raffishly, I hoped — however, I do not do raffish very well. I have never been accomplished in courtly uncourtliness. One must, I think, be born to it.
I turned my attention to Bruce and the open gate. As I did I caught, from the corner of my eye, the broad face of Lord Gilbert, his gaze fixed upon me. He had certainly observed my wandering eyes. Well, he must know that Joan had caught more eyes than mine, and in his presence as well. I led the troupe out the gate, across Shill Brook, and north on the road toward Shilton and Burford.
I found the coppiced woods, where Lord Gilbert exercised the rights of nobility and directed the search. This investigation was made more difficult by the crusty layer of sleet and snow now covering the fallen leaves and forest floor.
The band of searchers swept north, then south, penetrating with each sweep deeper into the forest. As we drew away from the road I began to hear the dull thuds of distant axes. This sound grew louder, then abruptly stopped.
Lord Gilbert’s crew was a noisy bunch, breaking through thickets, scattering leaves and snow with poles broken from coppiced stumps, and shouting back and forth across the advancing line whenever an object of interest appeared. I theorized that, between blows, the woodcutters heard our approach and decided to pursue their work in some other part of Lord Gilbert’s forest.
Then, through the trees, which were beginning to open as we left the coppiced area and drew closer to native growth, I caught a glimpse of white against the gray and brown background of thick oak trunks. My patient, I guessed.
Lord Gilbert was in the midst of the pack of searchers, wet to the knees — as were we all — when I approached him.
“What, then, Hugh? Have you found something?”
“No. Listen — ” He stopped his exploration of a hummock of leaves and snow, which he had been vigorously prodding with the point of his sword.
“I hear nothing,” he replied after a brief silence.
“That’s it; did you not hear the woodcutters a short time ago? They have ceased their work.”
Lord Gilbert caught my meaning. “Heard us, have they?”
“No doubt.”
“You think they may have knowledge of this matter?”
“I do…but they will hesitate to say so. They might have found other garments and fear an accusation of theft.”
“They have no doubt vanished,” Lord Gilbert shrugged.
“I think not. I saw one observing us through the trees but a few moments ago. If we go around that copse,” I pointed to a thicket to the south of our search, “we may come up behind the fellow. He’ll not see us coming, or hear us, if that lot,” I nodded toward the search party, “persist in the noise.”
They did persist, and but a few minutes later we rounded the copse and found our quarry hunched behind the stump of a great fallen oak, watching with rapt attention the overturning of the forest floor.
“Good day,” Lord Gilbert announced our presence behind the fellow in a booming voice. Lord Gilbert was well-practiced at a booming delivery. Most nobles are.
The man jumped and turned so quickly, his feet left the ground. His head, I thought, will ache after that move, for the man was indeed my patient.
“Why, it is Gerard, my forester,” Lord Gilbert exclaimed in a friendly tone. “You see us engaged in a search of the forest,” Lord Gilbert continued conversationally, as if unaware that his greeting had nearly caused the man’s heart to fail him. “Perhaps you may assist us.” Lord Gilbert’s tone shifted slightly at this last remark. The message was clear: “You had better assist us, if you can.”
Gerard stood silent, shaking, from cold, or fear, or both. I thought he might remember more if he feared less, so I sought to allay his concerns. “I showed you a cotehardie on Saturday,” I said, and pointed to the garment swinging from Lord Gilbert’s left hand. Lord Gilbert still held his sword in his right hand. Certainly this contributed to Gerard’s unease. “Have you remembered finding any other clothing in the woods hereabouts since then?”
“Nay…no clothes.”
I detected his meaning, and I think Lord Gilbert did as well, for he turned quizzically to me as I spoke again. “What, then? Have you found other than apparel?”
The woodcutter looked about him as if he sought some refuge, or a path of flight through the forest. “What, then?” Lord Gilbert echoed. His voice had gone to booming again.
“A…a dagger, m’lord.”
“A dagger!” The booming intensified, doing the woodman’s headache no good, I thought. “Why did you not tell Master Hugh of this Saturday?”
“I did not ask him,” I interceded. “I asked if he had found other clothing. Had you?” I turned to Gerard and tried some booming myself. Not being practiced, I was not so proficient as Lord Gilbert. “
The truth, now!”
“Nay…nothing…just the dagger.”
“Show us,” Lord Gilbert demanded, “where you found this dagger. And where is the weapon now?”
The woodcutter nodded in the direction of the search party, the raucous exploration drawing ever nearer. “Over t’the coppicing.”
“Show us,” Lord Gilbert ordered.
Gerard peered about him once more, then turned and led toward the searchers and the road. Lord Gilbert’s men quieted as first one, then another, saw us approach, following a stranger with a bandaged head. The forester strode through the line of searchers to an area already covered — not far, I saw, from the general area where I had recovered the cotehardie.
He stopped twice to get his bearings, then walked in a serpentine pattern, scanning the ground before him and to either side. A few more twists and turns and he stopped. By this time the entire search crew, gentlemen and villeins, had stopped their work to follow, either bodily, or with their eyes, our progress through the fringe of coppiced woods.
“Here,” he said finally, pointing to the ground.
“You are sure?” Lord Gilbert asked.
“Aye. We was cuttin’ poles from the coppice. There.” The forester pointed to a stump where half a dozen poles had been sliced from the new growth.
“We was draggin’ t’poles away an’ seen somethin’ shine. ’Twas a dagger. Right there it lay.”
“Where is it now?” Lord Gilbert returned to booming. “Walter it was who saw it first. He’s got it.”
“Walter? Was he one of those who brought you to me with a smashed head?”
“Aye, me son.”
“Was he cutting wood with you just now?”
“Aye.”
“Where will we find him?”
“We didn’t know who t’owner was…didn’t know ’twas important.” The woodcutter’s voice wavered as he spoke.
“Calm yourself, man,” Lord Gilbert responded. “But I’ll have that dagger. Where is your son?”
“He’ll have gone home.”
