by Mel Starr
Hornsey’s bailiff, the man’s wife said, was somewhere about the village carrying out his duties. What these obligations were upon a Sunday, and where they took him, she knew not. So she said.
“Will he return for his dinner?” I asked. The scent of a steaming pottage told me that he would, and soon.
The woman glanced over her shoulder to her kitchen, realized that the fragrance of a pease pottage had come to my nostrils, and agreed that her husband would soon appear.
It was past the fifth hour when I rapped upon the bailiff’s door, so I knew I would not need to wait long for his return. The agreeable smell of the man’s dinner, however, made the time pass slowly. The woman had invited me to await her husband’s appearance in the hall. My stomach would have made less protest had I returned to Arthur and the palfreys outside her door.
I peered about the bailiff’s hall while seated upon a bench opposite the entry door. Beside this bench was a fine cupboard, and within it I saw three pieces of plate displayed, along with a half-dozen silver spoons, a supply of pewter utensils, and eight pewter cups. One of the hall windows was of glass, although this glass was of the meaner sort, each diamond pane having much distortion. This was the home of a prosperous man, and his wealth was surely due to pleasing Sir Thomas, and before him Sir William. If the bailiff’s lord required of him that he dissemble when asked of murder in the street I had no doubt he would do so. Truth might cost him his position, his house, and his income. How, then, was I to learn from the bailiff what Sir Thomas Jocelyn did not want me to know? And why was I not to know it?
Henry Attewood is a small man, with a chin always pointed out as if daring some other to strike a blow at it. He reminded me, when I first saw him, of a small dog seeking to antagonize an alaunt. Not that I consider myself such a mighty foe, but the bailiff seemed poised to challenge me before I said a word. Perhaps he was warned that I would seek him. And what I would ask of him.
The bailiff entered his house through a kitchen door. I heard him greet his wife and ask of his dinner. The woman then spoke softly, advising him, I am sure, of my presence in his hall. A moment later he appeared, chin thrust forward, scowl upon his brow. He offered no greeting.
I introduced myself and decided that mentioning the names of the men I served might persuade the bailiff to be helpful. My first impression of the man was that he had little interest in assisting any man at any time for any purpose.
So I announced to the fellow that I, like him, was a bailiff, and made the point that I served a greater lord than he. Lord Gilbert Talbot far outranks a mere knight. Henry Attewood’s demeanor moderated even more when I touched a finger to Prince Edward’s badge and disclosed that I was in Hornsey upon the prince’s business. Unlike the tenant I had spoken to an hour earlier the bailiff had wit enough to understand the precarious footing he would be upon were he uncooperative. I did not assume, however, that all he said would be truth. It wasn’t.
“I have just come from speaking to a tenant of Hornsey Manor. The man resides just across the road from Sir Thomas. I asked the fellow questions he was reluctant to answer.”
“What questions?”
“About a man slain in the road before his house. The dead man was Arnaud Tonge, valet to Prince Edward. The tenant told me that you commanded his silence. Why so?”
“Wasn’t a command,” the bailiff said.
“What, then?”
“More like a request.”
“From you? Every tenant and villein in the realm knows that a bailiff’s request is a command. Why would you, the man whose duty it is to seek out felons here, request silence of a man who had knowledge of a murder?”
“Why did the prince’s valet attempt to enter Sir Thomas’s house in the night?” the bailiff asked.
I had thought the claim that Arnaud was caught in the act of hamsoken was a subterfuge, but the bailiff’s question seemed genuine. Whatever the truth of the matter, he seemed convinced of what he had been told of Arnaud’s actions in the night. The bailiff would not have been present when – if – Arnaud had attempted to enter the manor house in the night. He would have been sleeping in his own bed until awakened to search for Arnaud.
“I am told the man was seen about the village the day before, and spent time at the alehouse,” I said.
“It wasn’t me seen ’im,” Attewood answered quickly.
“You had no knowledge of any strange man in Hornsey three days past until he tried to enter Sir Thomas’s house?”
“That’s right.”
“If you knew nothing of the man, why charge that tenant with silence about his death? Why should you care if any other man was told of the slaying?”
The bailiff pursed his lips and shrugged. “Don’t care, myself… I was told to require Watkin’s silence, and any other’s who may have heard the struggle in the night.”
“Watkin is the tenant before whose house the man was slain?”
“Aye.”
Only one man in Hornsey had the authority to order others to silence regarding a death in the village.
“Did Sir Thomas give you reason for his command that the death of Arnaud Tonge be hid?”
“Said the man was caught in the act of hamsoken and he had the right of infangenthef.”
“So why then demand silence? Everyone in Hornsey would know Sir Thomas had the authority to do away with a thief caught in the act of his felony. To what purpose would he not want it known?”
“Don’t know. Best ask him.”
I thought that a good idea. I left the bailiff to his pease pottage and, my stomach growling, Arthur and I retraced our steps to Sir Thomas’s manor house. We interrupted his dinner. The knight was not pleased to be drawn from his table a second day in a row, nor was his disposition improved by my questions.
“Yesterday,” I began, “you told me that you heard no struggle in the night when Prince Edward’s valet was slain in the road before your door. Others said the same at first, but have since collected their thoughts and are now persuaded that they did hear conflict in the night.”
The stocky young knight shrugged. “Some men,” he said, “can be persuaded to speak what is not true if goaded to do so.”
“And persuaded to keep silent about what is, if commanded. The valet was slain before your door. This I know. Do not deny it. What puzzles me is why he was in such a place after curfew, why you claim not to have heard a murder which other folk did hear, and why you demanded of your tenants that they say nothing truthful of the matter.”
“The man did hamsoken,” Sir Thomas sighed with exasperation. “He was in the duke’s employ. It would, I thought, displease the prince if he learned that his servant was slain upon my demesne.”
“Slain by your squire, I was told.”
“Aye.”
“As he ran from the village.”
“Tried to. John caught him. I have right of infangenthef.”
“If your squire chased the valet down and slew him, why was the man stabbed in the heart? Seems to me he’d be wounded in the back. Where is your squire? Consuming his dinner, I’d guess. Fetch him.”
The knight turned to a groom standing behind him and relayed my request. While I awaited the squire’s appearance I considered Sir Thomas’s words. He claimed to have ordered all of his manor to keep silent about Arnaud’s death because he feared Prince Edward’s wrath if the duke knew that his valet was slain in Hornsey. Did Sir Thomas know that Arnaud was a valet to the prince that night, when he was slain? How so? I had not told him of Arnaud’s service to Prince Edward ’til the valet was buried, and when I did, it was because Sir Thomas claimed ignorance of the dead man and his murder.
I did not point out to Sir Thomas the discrepancy in his words on different days. Perhaps he would assume that I did not notice the variance. I have discovered in past dealings with miscreants that such men are less likely to be cautious of what they do and say if they believe me ignorant of their errors and villainies. This ignorance is often genuine.
Was Sir Thomas a villain? He was a liar, this I knew. But why?
Sir Thomas’s squire appeared as these thoughts passed through my mind. The lad gave the appearance of possessing a quick pair of heels. He was of my height, and as slender as I was before Kate’s cookery added somewhat to my girth. He looked to Sir Thomas as he stepped toward me and an unspoken message passed between them.
“I am told that you are quick on your feet,” I began. “Quick enough to chase down and pierce a man three nights past.”
The lad chewed upon his lip but did not speak. My words were not a question to which he must reply.
“What did the man say when you caught him? Did he speak? Did you slay him because he turned on you?”
“Aye,” the squire said. “When he knew I’d caught him he drew his dagger.”
“What did he say? Anything?”
“Nay. Spoke not a word. But in the moonlight I saw his dagger flash as he thrust at me. He was not skilled. I parried the thrust and brought my own dagger against him.”
“Did he then cry out? Did he then speak?”
“He said, ‘I am slain,’ or some such words, and tried to flee, but he stumbled only a few paces before he fell.”
“And he cried out for the pain of his wound?”
“Aye, he did so.”
“Who dragged the man from where he fell to where he was found next morn?”
“Henry and I did.”
“Sir Thomas told you to do this?”
“Aye.”
I turned back to the knight. “Why place a dead man in a ditch so far from where he died?”
“I told you, didn’t I?” Sir Thomas said in an exasperated tone of voice. “I didn’t want Prince Edward to hold me answerable for the death of his valet. If he was found far away from the village the prince might assume ’twas some highwayman who slew him.”
Again the knight had contradicted himself. If I could discover why, I might learn why he, or some other man, had wished Arnaud Tonge dead. And why Arnaud had tried to enter the manor house in the night. If he had.
“You may tell the prince what you will of this sorry business,” Sir Thomas continued. “But I have spoken truth. If Prince Edward does not believe it so, I can but say to him what I have already said to you. Now my dinner awaits and grows cold. I bid you good day.”
The knight turned away, disappeared through a doorway to his hall, and a groom and squire followed. One groom remained, to show me the door. As if I would not find it. More likely he was assigned to ensure my departure.
Chapter 11
I departed the manor house willingly. I had this day learned what I had previously suspected. Sir Thomas Jocelyn was a liar, and would exercise his power over the folk of Hornsey to prevent truth from being known.
If the knight had reason to slay or silence Arnaud Tonge, did this mean he had some association with the man who had hired Arnaud to poison Sir Giles’s wine? If I followed this thought, would the path lead me closer to the man who wished Sir Giles dead, or further away? There was no way to know this but to follow the track and see where it led. If I lived long enough to do so.
Hornsey had no inn, but a cup or two at the alehouse would relieve our hunger while we traveled to London and I considered on the way what next I might do in Prince Edward’s service. The basket remained atop the pole before the ale wife’s house, but the ale Rohese served was no longer fresh. ’Twas not yet gone stale, but in honesty she should have no longer displayed the basket. Was there anyone in Hornsey who could be trusted? Surely. I have become jaded. ’Tis, I fear, a feature of my position. Bailiff, I mean, not surgeon.
Arthur and I drank two cups each of ale, and I left a penny on the table – although we’d not come near to consuming a gallon. We mounted our palfreys, stopped where the road crossed a small brook for the animals to drink, then set off for London and a decent supper.
We were near to the junction where the road from London divided, at a place where a wood came within a hundred paces of the west side of the road, when I heard a sound of dry, dead branches upon a forest floor being trampled and broken underfoot. A heartbeat later, as I turned to see whence came this crashing and splintering, a mounted man appeared from the wood, followed by another. Before I could collect my wits, two more riders emerged from the wood, spurring their horses across a meadow, directly toward Arthur and me.
Arthur heard, and saw, the approaching horsemen and realized, as I did, that they meant us harm. I spurred my palfrey and shouted for Arthur to do likewise. He needed no further encouragement. Our beasts galloped furiously at our command, perhaps sensing danger, although the peril was not to them but to their riders.
Within fifty paces I could see that we had no chance of escaping the horsemen charging after us. Their animals were powerful and swift; they would soon be upon us. I glanced over my shoulder to calculate how quickly our pursuers would overtake us and saw that one of these, now waving a sword above his head, was garbed in a bright blue cotehardie.
This recognition registered in my mind, but the consideration of it took second place to thoughts of escape from the men and beasts thundering after Arthur and me. The road turned sharply and as we entered the bend I saw that two of our pursuers had departed the thoroughfare and guided their horses through the adjacent field, following the hypotenuse of the triangle created by the acute curve in the road, so as to cut off our escape.
This field was newly plowed ready for the autumn planting of wheat or rye and so made soft footing for galloping horses. I was about to call to Arthur that we must halt and fight even though the odds against us were terrible – two daggers opposing four swords – when I heard a shouted curse and glanced to the horsemen who were racing across the plowed field.
One of the beasts had stumbled and pitched its rider headlong into the soft earth. I heard him yelp as his shoulder made contact with the soil. The field was soft enough, I think, that his hurt was not severe. But as I watched, the other of the pursuers who had ridden across the field yanked back upon his reins in order to avoid his companion. He was not successful.
Another curse resounded as the second horse and rider struck the fallen man, and this rider joined his companion on the ground. The second man’s horse fell upon its rider, crushing him to the earth. I saw the frightened steed kick wildly as it tried to regain its feet. One of these blows struck the first fallen rider squarely in his gut as he tried to stand, and he flew through the air to make a second impact against the plowed field. This time he lay motionless where he fell.
Two of our pursuers now lay crumpled upon the plowed field. We are to do good to those who use us ill, so the Lord Christ commanded, but I felt no sympathy for the men who lay bruised behind my galloping palfrey and I did not stop to learn if either of the fallen men required my surgical skills. Besides, I had none of my instruments with me. Later that night, as Arthur snored, I thought upon Jesus’ charge that Christian folk must do good to those who would do evil to them. What had these pursuers intended? Likely they meant to slay me and Arthur. Men do not gallop after other men, waving swords above their heads, if they wish only discourse. No man can return good for evil if the evil has ended his life.
With their companions groaning in the field, the two horsemen who had remained upon the road behind us lost heart for the chase and reined in their beasts. I looked back again as the road curved once more and saw them dismounting to run to the aid of their fallen companions.
Our palfreys were winded and laboring, being unaccustomed to such usage, so I drew my beast to a walk and motioned Arthur to do likewise.
“What d’you suppose them fellows wanted?” Arthur said.
“Our lives.”
“Oh… why so?”
“Because someone fears that I am closer to finding who hired the murderer of Sir Giles Cheyne than I am.”
“Mayhap you are closer than you think also,” Arthur said.
His suggestion gave me pause. If I was closer to discovering a murd
erer than I thought, what fact was I overlooking which some other man – or men – thought I recognized?
Alan Tonge did not know of his brother’s death. His home was not far from the Aldersgate and it would be but a short detour to visit the man and tell him of the murder.
“’Twas that valet what argued with ’im,” Alan said. “The man must have discovered where Arnaud had hidden himself and found ’im out.”
“Nay,” I said. “This was done to silence your brother. I have no doubt of this. And to save the murderer a few shillings. Your brother was hired to poison a knight in Prince Edward’s service. Now he is dead he cannot name the man who employed him or collect his pay.”
“’Tis hard for me to believe that Arnaud did such a thing,” Alan said, a bewildered look upon his face. “He said…”
“Pay no heed to what your brother said. He used you falsely to flee London and has now met the Lord Christ with the death of another man on his hands.”
“I will pray for his soul,” Alan said.
“Such prayers will do him small service,” I replied.
“If I do not, his soul will suffer purgatory for thousands of years, so the priests do say. I’ll pay a vicar of St. Michael le Querne to say prayers for him as well.”
I did not reply. I have spoken unwisely of purgatory in the past, and came near to calamity when an archdeacon learned of my views. If the prayers of men can spring open the gates of heaven to admit a murderer, then no man need ever see hell. So Alan will pay his parish priest to pray for Arnaud’s soul, the priest will profit, and Alan will believe he has saved his brother. At least the money laid down will purchase some comfort for Alan, if nothing more.
London’s streets were raucous, as always, and caused me to think fondly of the peaceful calm of Bampton. But even there men will do mischief, else why would Lord Gilbert require a bailiff? If men were honorable I would be unemployed but for surgery, and even that occupation would decline as men would seek my service only for harm they had done to themselves, less so for harm others had done to them, in a world where no man sought to harm another.
