by Mel Starr
I thought that perhaps the village priest or a clerk, trusting his office to protect him, might have remained behind when his flock fled. There was little light in the church. Candles had long since sputtered out, there evidently being no one to tend them, and the few small windows gave scant illumination. So I nearly missed seeing the crone who crouched behind the font.
The woman wore a ragged cotehardie and threw her bony hands up before her face as if to defend from a blow when she saw that I had discovered her hiding place. There followed a raspy flow of words in some Gascon dialect which was nearly indecipherable to my English ears. I had spent a year in Paris studying surgery, and knew the French language well – or as well as any Englishman can comprehend the tongue – but the rapid utterances I now heard bore little resemblance to the speech of Paris.
After a minute or two of this the old woman fell silent, exhausted, and huddled close to the base of the font, as if the holy water within might protect her if I had felonious designs against her.
“What did she say?” Arthur asked.
“I know not,” I shrugged.
I knelt beside the woman and spoke slowly and softly. Slowly so she might understand my French, and softly so that she might be reassured that I had no wish to harm her. “Where are the folk of Couzeix?”
The crone’s eyes darted from me to the porch door and back again, as if she considered fleeing. I thought mayhap she did not understand French spoken by an Englishman, so was about to repeat the question when she replied, slowly. I understood most of her words.
Villagers, she said, had fled before the approach of Prince Edward’s army. Some who had kin in villages far enough from Limoges to think themselves safe, but near enough to flee to, had gone to seek refuge with these relatives. There were few who did so. Others, not so fortunate, were hiding in the forest. All, wherever they had gone, had evidently taken with them whatever of value they owned, for the houses we had entered before reaching the church were stripped clean.
“If all have deserted the village, why are you here?” I asked.
I believe the woman understood me better than I did her. She answered without requiring that I repeat the question.
Her son was dead of plague twenty years, she said. Her daughter-in-law had allowed her to remain with the family, but the two women did not enjoy a harmonious life together. So when the younger woman fled the town with her children, she refused to take her mother-in-law with her. The family had no cart in which the older woman could ride, nor a beast to pull such. One so aged and infirm would slow the escape.
The church, she was told, would be a sanctuary. Even the barbaric English would not slay an old woman in a church and defile it so. The woman was left with water, a wooden porringer of barley pottage, and a promise that her family would return for her as soon as they could safely do so. I looked beside the woman and saw that the porringer was nearly empty, and what remained was coagulated to the consistency of lard. The woman would starve before Prince Edward’s tin miners could collapse the wall of Limoges, unless more pottage was soon brought to her. It would be. The woman had evidently not been abandoned. Someone would bring her food soon, though the crone did not divulge this.
Beside the porringer I saw a wooden cup of water. Where could this have come from? The well was poisoned and I was unsure if the old woman could have tottered to it even had the water been pure. I asked her of the source.
A cistern, the crone said, behind the reeve’s house, held rainwater. Each night, well after darkness had fallen, she hoisted herself to her feet using a crude crutch which lay upon the flags beside her, went to the reeve’s privy, then filled the cup from the cistern and returned to hide behind the font. Given her feeble condition, I thought that such an excursion would take her an hour or so, depending upon the distance she must hobble.
“Which house?” I asked, and when she described it I sent Uctred to learn if the tale was true – if there was indeed a cistern where rainwater could be had.
Whilst Uctred was away I asked another question: “How could you see to find a cistern in the dark of night?”
“Waited till moon was up,” the crone said. Which meant that she had not departed the church the previous night until past midnight.
“Did you see men about the well this morning? Or hear them speak?”
She had, but claimed the disease of the ears, and feared discovery, so did not peer from a window to learn what had brought men to an abandoned village. The church was a fair distance from the well, so their voices were faint, and in any case, even had she heard them well, she spoke no English. I wondered if the men whose voices she heard might have been French, natives from nearby villages, come to loot what little remained in Couzeix. The crone said, “Nay. They was close enough to hear was it my tongue they spoke.”
“You have but little pottage remaining,” I said. “I will send more.”
I did not know what else to do for the woman. I could not return to the camp with her, and she would not return to her house to be discovered, perhaps, by bored soldiers seeking sport.
The woman spoke again. The men who had entered the village shortly after dawn, she said, might be the same who had come in the night.
At that moment Uctred returned and verified that there was indeed a cistern behind the house the crone had described. ’Twas the most substantial dwelling in the village, and behind it was a shed with a board roof which funneled water to a cask. So Uctred said.
“Men came in the night?” I said. “How many?”
The woman could not say. They spoke softly, she said, as if the village was inhabited and they did not wish to awaken it.
“Was there an argument? A fight?” I asked.
The crone pled ignorance, due to faulty ears. I thought it reasonable that, if she heard men speaking softly, she would have heard a dispute which resulted in one man smiting another with a bucket. If the woman did not hear such a brawl, perhaps Sir Simon’s death happened elsewhere, or the bucket had nothing to do with it. Or perhaps the crone’s hearing was so weak that what she took for a whispered conversation was a heated argument.
If a blow was not delivered in the night near to the well, whence came the smear of blood on the bucket? Perhaps ’twas not blood. What, then? And if blood, mayhap not from a man but of a beast. Why would the blood of a beast stain a bucket used for a village well? The visit to Couzeix was producing more questions than answers.
I could think of no more questions for the woman. However, I knew where she could be found if I thought of more later. In her frail condition she would not travel far.
We returned to camp, and I found a kettle, filled it with pease pottage which had been over a fire so long ’twas nearly as thick as the stuff in the crone’s porringer, and sent Alfred to Couzeix with the meal. He returned, with the kettle, less than an hour later.
“Ain’t there,” he said.
“Did you seek her in some other place in the church?” I asked.
“Aye. Not much of a church. Wasn’t behind the font or anywhere else. I even climbed the ladder to look in the tower.”
I could not reprove Alfred for being lax in the search. The crone could barely walk, even aided with the crutch. She could surely not ascend to the tower, even as low and squat as it was, but Alfred had explored the space nevertheless. Perhaps the woman, fearing others might also discover her, had changed her refuge to one of the abandoned houses in the village, or set off alone for some nearby village where she might find succor, or was now wandering through the forest seeking her family. This troubled me. ’Twas my discovery of her hideaway which likely led to her fleeing the church.
“Odd, though,” Alfred said. “That porringer was there, beside the font, and her crutch. There was yet a bit of pottage left in the bowl.”
Why would the woman not take with her what little food she possessed, or consume it before she left the church? And how far could she travel without her crutch? Perhaps her family, suffering an attack of conscien
ce, had returned to Couzeix for her. But why not take the porringer and crutch? The porringer was crude, to be sure, but even objects of little value have worth in a poor village.
While I considered this puzzle a page appeared with unwelcome news. Prince Edward wished my attendance upon him. Sir John had likely spoken to the prince.
Chapter 7
Prince Edward was not a happy man. The Cornish miners were not progressing as rapidly as he wished. When I approached the prince’s tent a valet told me that his affliction had worsened. And now a suspicious death had been presented to him.
The prince had roused himself from his pallet and was seated upon an elaborately carved chair. If he was in discomfort he hid it well. His face showed more anger than pain. I suppose it is a kingly virtue, to remain enigmatic before one’s subjects.
Then I considered that the scowl which shaped his brow was directed at me. A few days before he had thought me an honest surgeon. I hoped that when this interview was past he would yet do so. If he did not, I was in dire trouble.
I removed my cap, bowed deeply to the prince, and tried to assume an expression of curiosity and innocence. I am uncertain as to my success. I would be a poor player, I think, although it should have been easy for me to manage a blameless countenance, since blameless I was. I was not, however, curious. I knew why I had been called before the prince.
“Sir John Trillowe has lodged a charge against you,” Prince Edward began. “Do you know of it?”
“Aye. He went first to Lord Gilbert, early this morn.”
“What have you to say of the accusation?”
I explained briefly the unfortunate history I shared with Sir Simon, addressed the accusation, spoke of the moon, the cloudy night, and Lord Gilbert’s admonition that I discover the cause of Sir Simon’s death so as to vindicate myself. I then told the prince of traveling to Couzeix and finding the crone hunched behind the font, and concluded by telling him that the woman was apparently no longer in the church.
“There was blood upon the bucket?” Prince Edward said.
“Aye, but how it came to be there I cannot guess. It seems an odd weapon. The woman claimed to have heard no brawl in the night, when Sir Simon is thought to have been slain.”
“Then why would he go to such a place alone?” the prince mused. “There to be slain by some enemy. Has any other man been found slain, or gone missing?”
“Nay … not that I’ve heard.”
“So unless he traveled to that village alone, some other man must know how he came to be in that well.”
“If he was taken there against his will,” I said, “there may be several men who would know of the business.”
“But you are not one of them, eh?”
“Nay, m’lord.”
“Then why does Sir John accuse you?”
I explained about Kate and the burning of Galen House, which tale I had earlier omitted.
“Sir John said you had reason to hate his son. I see now he spoke true.”
“’Twas Sir Simon who was filled with hate, m’lord. He lost a beautiful maid, he was required to pay ten pounds to replace my house, and his ear was misshapen, although I did my best to repair the injury.”
“What injury?”
I was required to tell the prince of Sir Simon’s fight in the streets of Oxford some years past and my work to sew his sliced ear back to his skull. Perhaps I became too precise in describing the difficulty of stitching an ear to its proper place.
The prince waved a hand and said, “Very well … I see. Wondered about the way he wore his cap.”
As he spoke a valet entered the tent. Prince Edward looked from me to him and the fellow spoke.
“Lord Gilbert Talbot would speak to you, m’lord.”
The prince looked to me with a quizzical expression. “Admit him,” he said.
Perhaps Lord Gilbert had seen me follow a man wearing the prince’s livery, or had been told that I was sent for. Whichever, he knew what my presence before Prince Edward likely meant.
Lord Gilbert entered the tent, removed his cap, and bowed. He pretended surprise to see me there, but I knew ’twas a pretense. He carried the subterfuge well.
“Ah, Hugh, here you are. Have you learned more of Sir Simon’s death? I am told you sought the place where he was found.”
“Aye, m’lord. Couzeix is abandoned but for a crone I found hiding in the church. What happened there, whether Sir Simon was slain or fell into the well in a drunken stupor, I cannot say.”
“Sir John accuses your surgeon of murder,” Prince Edward said.
“Aye. He came to me early this morn with the charge. Nonsense. But if felony was done, Master Hugh will sniff it out. He has done me good service, seeking out malefactors.”
“Sir John says that this fellow was seen, along with a groom of yours, with Sir Simon whilst he was yet alive.”
“Sir Simon hated me,” I said. “How likely is it that he would go off with me and another of Lord Gilbert’s men in the dark of night?”
Prince Edward pulled at his beard. I was pleased to see that his frown had faded and had been replaced by an expression of puzzlement.
“Oh … aye, just so. I see. Found out malefactors, has he?” This to Lord Gilbert.
“He has. And if you grant him authority he will soon tell you if Sir Simon was slain, and if so, by whom.”
“You will vouch for your surgeon? That he will be found here in the camp, and not flee.”
“Aye,” Lord Gilbert said.
“It may be necessary to return to Couzeix,” I said, “or seek evidence in some other nearby places.”
“Oh … hmm.” The prince pulled again at his beard, then seemed to blanch, clutched at his gut with his left hand, and leaned forward in his chair.
For a moment I thought Prince Edward might topple from his seat, but the wave of pain passed, or he conquered it.
“Follow where the evidence leads,” Prince Edward said through lips and teeth clenched tight in pain. “Lord Gilbert stands your surety?”
This last, voiced as a question, was spoken to my employer, who nodded and said, “I will do so.”
The prince dismissed us with a wave of his hand – his right hand, for his left was yet gripping his belly. As I left the tent I saw a valet assist him from the chair, no doubt to lead him to a pallet where he might rest till the hurt in his gut passed. If it ever did.
“Where will you seek more knowledge of Sir Simon’s death?” Lord Gilbert asked after we left Prince Edward’s tent.
“I intend first to return to Couzeix.”
“You believe there is more to learn there?”
“Mayhap. It is likely there would be much to learn amongst Sir John’s men, but he will not permit me to ask anything of them, I think. So if I am to discover anything new of this matter, it will be in Couzeix.”
“He wishes you guilty, even though you are not.”
“Aye.”
“Prince Edward has authority over Sir John,” Lord Gilbert smiled. “If you believe it necessary to inquire of his men, the prince might be persuaded to exert his influence to make it so.”
Lord Gilbert departed with Sir Walter Parmenter and Sir Henry Tawney to learn how the tunneling proceeded, all being hopeful that the Cornish miners would complete their work in another day or two.
I found Arthur and Alfred and told them we must return to Couzeix. They peered at me quizzically. Alfred perhaps assumed that I thought him incompetent. I explained:
“If you had done murder, and learned of an old woman who had sought refuge in the village church and who might know of your felony, what would you do?”
“Wouldn’t take much to slay her,” Arthur said. “Might just drop ’er in the well. ’Twas done once already.”
“And did you ever wonder,” I said, “how it was that Sir Simon disappeared last night, and was found dead in that well this morn? And why a man would peer into a poisoned well seeking Sir Simon?”
“Someone in Sir Joh
n’s camp knows somethin’,” Arthur replied.
“Aye, and we must find the man and gain his knowledge. But first we will make haste to Couzeix. Mayhap if the woman was not pitched head first into the well, she may yet be alive, hiding somewhere other than the church. There was a tithe barn behind the priest’s house, I remember.”
I went first to the church to assure myself that the crone had not returned since Alfred had visited the place. She had not. ’Twas as Alfred had said – the crutch, cup, and porringer were hid behind the font, and no sign of the old woman.
Because of the shed erected over the well, little light was reflected from the surface of the water, so when I gazed into its depths I did not expect to see much of a reflection, and did not. I called into the well, trusting that if the crone was there and alive, she might respond.
No cry for help came from the well, but I thought I heard something, such as a person shifting their position. I looked to Arthur and Alfred for confirmation that some sound had come from the well in response to my words.
“Somethin’s in the well,” Alfred said, his ears being better than Arthur’s.
“Could be a rat,” Arthur said, “feastin’ on whatever was tossed in there.”
Just then I heard a faint splash from the depths of the well. Alfred heard it also. “Don’t think rats dive into wells,” he said.
I spoke again into the well, asking for some reply if a soul in the abyss could respond. Again no words came, but another faint scuffling was heard.
The bucket lay, with its hempen rope, where we had left it a few hours earlier. I picked it up and Arthur spoke.
“If someone’s down there an’ too weak to speak, they won’t ’ave strength to hang on to that bucket whilst we haul ’em up.”
“Not what I intend,” I said. “You and Alfred must lower me into the well. I’ll have a foot in the bucket.”
“I’ll go,” Arthur said.
“Nay. You may be too fleshy for the rope. ’Tis worn. And you’ll be needed here, with Alfred, to haul me up. Me and the old woman, if she is down there.”
