by Mel Starr
“You said that Peter was older than you,” I said. “How old might that be?”
“Not sure. We was wed the year the old king was done away with.”
If it was Edward II of whom she spoke, she had married in 1327. If she was then twenty years or so, she would now be past sixty years of age. Her husband, she said, was older. Old enough to have lost some teeth, likely.
“Was Peter a tall man, or short?” I asked.
“Short… but strong, an’ a hard worker was Peter, ’till ’e began to cripple up.”
“What of his teeth? Had he lost many?”
“Oh, aye, like most folk what live so long as us. Why’d you ask was Peter tall or short?”
Herleve’s description of her husband did not fit the bones found in the Midsummer’s Eve blaze. But who else from Bampton and the Weald was gone missing? Perhaps I interpreted the tale told by the bones incorrectly? I have been mistaken before.
I looked to Father Thomas, who is senior of the three vicars assigned to the Church of St. Beornwald, and nodded toward Herleve. She was the bishop’s villein. It was the vicar’s duty, more than mine, to explain to the woman that her husband might be dead. He did so.
“A man was found yesterday,” he said.
“Where? Was it Peter?” Herleve asked. “Where is he?”
“No man can be certain who it was… he was found in the ashes of the St. John’s Day fire, when the ashes were all that remained.”
“’E was burnt up?”
“Aye,” Father Thomas said softly. “Master Hugh has told us that the man was short, much like your Peter.”
Herleve crossed herself, looked down at the bench, then spoke.
“Couldn’t watch ’im every minute. When I seen ’im wanderin’ off I’d fetch ’im home, or sometimes other folk in the Weald would see ’im walkin’ away an’ bring ’im back to me. ’E had enough wit to know when I might see ’im leave the toft an’ when I might not. Was’t really Peter found in the ashes?”
The vicars looked to me to corroborate Father Thomas’s words. I decided to speak plainly.
“Only bones remained when the fire had died, but the man consumed in the blaze fits your husband’s description but for two things. He was missing but one tooth, and I saw no sign of the disease of the bones which can cripple an old man. But no other man is missing from his home.”
“Knew one day ’e’d not return,” Herleve sighed. “When ’e’d go off I’d fret ’till someone brought ’im home. No need for that now. Where is he? His bones?”
“There is a small box before the church altar,” Father Thomas said. “We held the bones there until we knew who it was who had died and whether or not he had been baptized, so we might then bury him in the churchyard was it so.”
“My Peter was a Christian man.”
“We will bury him tomorrow, now that we know who rests before the altar,” Father Simon said. “Return at the third hour tomorrow with your son and others who will see Peter to his grave.”
The old woman stood, swayed briefly, from age or grief, then walked from the porch.
“’Tis surely Peter Mirk who was in the ashes,” Father Thomas said when Herleve was beyond hearing. “You think he crawled into the woodpile and perished there?” The question was addressed to me.
“Mayhap he was lost, and when night came he saw the pile and thought to burrow into it for warmth,” I said. “But why, then, did he not leave the pile when dawn came?”
“Nights last week were chill,” Father Simon said. “Perhaps too cold for one so frail as Peter. If he entered the woodpile, then died of the cold, who would know? Men came next day and piled more limbs upon the stack, so no man would see him buried there.”
“Or if he did awaken in the pile,” Father Ralph added, “with more wood placed above him he could not shift himself and crawl from his trap.”
“Even so,” I said, “he might have cried out when he heard men approach the pile with more wood… if he yet lived.”
“I hold with Father Simon,” Father Thomas said. “There is no felony here. Peter was full of years, and his mind overthrown. He knew not where he was, somehow crawled into the pile at night, and because ’twas cold and he unwell, he perished. When men placed more wood upon the pile next morn he was not noticed, and so nothing but bones of him were found when the fire was reduced to ashes.”
“We forget the skull,” I said.
Blank faces stared at me, as if to say that I was needlessly complicating the matter.
“Someone delivered a blow to Peter’s head strongly enough to crush the bone behind his ear. And Herleve said that her husband had lost teeth, but the skull in the ashes was missing but one.”
The vicars were silent, each contemplating how these overlooked facts might be made to fit an accidental death.
“Mayhap a stout limb was dropped upon the man whilst he lay hidden in the woodpile,” Father Simon suggested. Father Thomas and Father Ralph nodded agreement, clearly willing to accept any explanation which did not complicate the matter nor include a felony.
“A man’s skull is strong,” I said, “even in one so full of years. I saw the woodpile before it was set ablaze. In it there was no limb much larger than a man’s arm. For such a stick to crush a man’s skull ’twould have to be dropped on him from atop the spire of St. Beornwald’s Church.”
This was not a welcome thought. The vicars were again silent, considering other ways in which a man might suffer a broken head.
“No doubt Peter was unsteady,” Father Thomas said, “being of great age. Mayhap he stumbled in the wood to the north of the tithe barn, cracked his skull in the fall, yet managed to rise again and totter to the field where the fire was to be before he collapsed.”
Once again I saw nods of satisfaction from the other vicars for this new interpretation. I do not enjoy dissolving other men’s beliefs, but if the opinions are flawed, someone must do it.
“If a man catches a toe upon a root in the wood,” I said, “will he not fall forward?”
Silence followed, until Father Thomas said, “’Twas the back of Peter’s skull was smashed?”
“Aye. Is it likely he would stumble and fall backward?”
“He might,” Father Simon said, unwilling to abandon a plausible explanation which did not include murder.
“Then there is the matter of force,” I said. “What is there in a wood which, if a man toppled backward onto it, would leave such a dent in his skull?”
“Oak roots are tough,” Father Ralph said.
“Aye, so they are. But the oak puts down deep roots. Seldom are they found near the surface, and even so, is an oak root tough enough to crush a short man’s skull if he should fall against it? I think not. And, if so, the blow would render him senseless, if not kill him outright. How would he then find strength to rise and seek the woodpile?”
“Are you sure,” Father Thomas asked, “that the fracture was severe enough to perhaps end his life, or destroy what wit he yet retained?”
“Nay,” I said. “Of this I cannot be certain. I have rarely treated such an injury but for Gerard, Lord Gilbert’s verderer, who stood in the way of a falling oak and received a crack in his skull. His sons brought him to me senseless, and I repaired the fracture.”
“I remember,” Father Thomas said. “You were newly come to Bampton then. Was the blow Gerard received much like the dent in Peter’s skull?”
“Not so bad as Peter’s, I think,” I replied.
“Then if Gerard had to be brought to you unconscious, ’tis unlikely Peter would have risen from such a fall,” Father Thomas said, and folded his arms as if to conclude the matter.
I could see that Father Ralph and Father Simon did not wish to accept Father Thomas’s conclusion, but neither could think of a rejoinder. Eventually Father Ralph said, “Who would want to slay a witless old man, harmless to all but himself?”
“’Tis what Master Hugh must set himself to discover,” Father Thomas said, now eviden
tly convinced that murder had been done.
“Peter Mirk was the bishop’s villein,” I said. My intent was to require the vicars of St. Beornwald’s Church to accept responsibility for discovering who had slain Peter Mirk, if ’twas the old man whose bones were found in the ashes. I had doubts. Many doubts. But this hint did not succeed.
“The man died and was burned upon Lord Gilbert’s land,” Father Simon said. “If you believe a felony was done, and Peter’s death no accident, ’twould be your duty, as Lord Gilbert’s bailiff, to seek out the murderer.”
Father Thomas and Father Ralph nodded agreement. If asked, Lord Gilbert would likely have agreed. I know when I am defeated. No sense in prolonging a losing fight.
“I must have your cooperation, and that of all the bishop’s tenants and villeins in the Weald.”
“You shall have it,” Father Thomas said. “What will you do first to discover a murderer?”
“Return to Galen House and have my dinner,” I said, and departed the porch to do just that.
Chapter 3
Kate had prepared a leach lombard for our dinner, but the flavor seemed off. I attributed this to the image of a soot-blackened, dented skull which continually appeared in my mind’s eye.
I resolved to begin the search for Peter Mirk’s murderer next day, after his funeral. Most folk of the Weald would attend. So would I. Perhaps some man might seem pleased with the death, rather than saddened. And I had other business upon a Sunday afternoon. King Edward requires that all able men practice at the butts, and Lord Gilbert has assigned this matter to me. Uctred and Arthur, two of Lord Gilbert’s grooms, prepare the targets. All I need do is distribute Lord Gilbert’s pennies to the winners of the competition.
Henry Warner won the contest this day. He usually does. Henry is no larger or stronger than other men. Why he is so successful with a bow and arrows no man knows. I awarded the fellow his six pence while Arthur and Uctred dismantled the butts.
Father Simon had told Herleve that her husband’s funeral would be Monday at the third hour. As that time neared I heard the sound of wailing approach from the south. I went to my door, opened it, and peered down Church View Street to see a small procession appear.
Father Simon and his clerk walked before, then two men carrying a small box. Here, I thought, was the container of Peter Mirk’s bones. Sometime Sunday afternoon or evening what remained of Peter Mirk had been taken to his house. For a proper wake, no doubt.
Herleve and two younger women followed the box, howling in grief, as expected of a bereaved spouse and other female family members at such a time. A dozen or more men and women followed the weeping women, likely the son of whom Herleve had spoken, and neighbors from the Weald. A few of the women gave vent to an occasional wail, but their hearts seemed not in it. I closed Galen House door and followed the procession to the church.
The company halted at the lych gate and the mourners fell silent while Father Ralph prayed over the box containing his bones. When he had done, the box was lifted and taken to the church for the mass. I followed.
When the mass was concluded the two fellows who bore Peter Mirk’s bones carried them from the church and followed Father Simon to a place near the north wall of the churchyard. Here two villagers stood, leaning upon spades. Father Simon sprinkled holy water upon the grass and the two men set to work digging a grave whilst Father Thomas read a psalm. This was read in Latin, of course, so few who listened knew what was said. How this was to bring consolation to Herleve Mirk I cannot tell.
The grave-diggers’ work was not so great as usual, for what remained of Peter Mirk did not require a large hole. The task was soon completed and the box lowered into the small grave. Herleve began again to wail, we others who stood about the grave crossed ourselves, Father Simon spoke the final collect for forgiveness, and the earthly remains of Peter Mirk, villein of the Bishop of Exeter, were interred. Well, someone’s earthly remains were interred. I yet had doubts. The grave-diggers began to shovel earth into the pit before I reached the lych gate.
I thought to wait a decent interval, then visit the Weald and speak to Herleve and her children. How many of these she and Peter had produced I knew not, so could not know when I might return to Galen House. Kate prepared a pease pottage for our dinner, and after the meal I set off for the Weald, little expecting what I found there.
There are several vacant houses in the Weald, much like Bampton itself. Some of these are the result of plague, now returning for the third time in twenty years; others are empty because their inhabitants fled to other manors offering lower rents. The Statute of Laborers has fixed rents, and the Bishop of Exeter will not allow his stewards to reduce these in violation of the statute. So three of the bishop’s tenants have absconded in the past two years, their now-decaying houses forlorn aside the path.
The first man I saw in the Weald was repairing the leather hinge of his door. He directed me to Herleve Mirk’s hovel, which was at the far end of the way, against the wood which had given the Weald its name long ago.
I was yet a hundred paces or more from the dwelling when I saw four men appear from behind a barn which lay across the path from Herleve’s house. Two of them bore a pallet. I was not near enough to see what burden these men carried, but such a litter is oft used to transport an injured man.
And that was my first thought. Here was a man wounded at some labor being assisted by his fellows, and likely in need of a surgeon. I had no instruments with me, but could send one of the four to Galen House to fetch them whilst I dealt with whatever injury had put a man upon a pallet. First impressions are often faulty. The man upon the pallet did not need the services of a surgeon.
I did not know this, of course, at that moment, but soon learned it was so. I arrived before Herleve Mirk’s door at the same time as the men who carried the pallet. As these fellows approached I heard one call out for Herleve, and she stood in the door as we came near.
This puzzled me, and I held back, curious as to why an injured man should be set down before Herleve Mirk. I thought perhaps ’twas a son who lay upon the pallet.
The figure upon the pallet did not move, and as those who bore it entered Herleve’s toft I saw one hand fall to the side and dangle unsupported. The pallet was set down before Herleve and I watched her approach it slowly, then shriek and throw herself upon the motionless form at her feet. I was near enough that her words were plain. “Peter… Peter,” she cried.
’Tis common enough for a lad to be named for his father. I thought the woman was distraught because that day she had buried a husband and now saw a son injured so grievously that he must be carried to her door.
Not so. I came near Herleve’s toft and when close to the pallet I saw that no injured man lay upon it. A dead man was there, and he was not young. A beard white with years covered the man’s chin and his head was as hairless as a pig’s bladder.
The corpse was white and bloated, the skin of face, neck, and hands pale and wrinkled. ’Twas then I saw that the dead man’s clothing was wet.
The four men who brought this corpse were known to me, even though they were the bishop’s tenants and not of my bailiwick. I approached the nearest and asked who it was upon the pallet, although I was nearly certain that I knew already.
“’Tis Peter Mirk,” he said with much disbelief in his voice. “Him as who we buried this morning… thought we buried.”
“This is sure?” I asked. “His features are distorted.”
“Aye. Found ’im in the brook.”
“Shill Brook? Who found him?”
“Some lads was playin’ in the stream, splashin’ about as boys will do on a warm summer day, an’ found ’im face down in the water. Gave ’em a fright. My lad was one of ’em. Came runnin’ to tell what they’d found. Didn’t know who ’twas then.”
“Did not men from the Weald search for Peter along Shill Brook some days past, when he first went missing?” I asked.
“Aye. I was one. Never saw ’im. The lads f
ound ’im under the bank, where the brook has cut a deeper channel an’ bushes an’ such grow out over the water. Deeper there, an’ the lads like to swim an’ plunge about. A fallen tree is there also, an’ we found Peter caught fast against it.”
From the corner of my eye I saw Herleve wobble to her feet. Her sobs had subsided. I walked to her side and spoke.
“’Tis truly Peter… your husband?” I asked.
She did not answer for some time, as if struck dumb by events, but eventually said, “Aye… Peter, sure enough. Found ’im in the brook, they say.”
Herleve had been staring at her husband while she spoke, but raised her eyes to mine and said, “Who’d we bury this mornin’, then?”
I had no answer. Prayers had been said for Peter Mirk. Some other man had been interred. But the Lord Christ would know for whom Father Simon prayed even if we did not.
“Liked to sit by the brook an’ watch the stream,” Herleve said softly. “Likely fell in.”
The woman’s explanation of events seemed as reasonable as any other. I had already one unexplained death to bewilder me; I needed no other. Unless something untoward was found when Peter Mirk’s body was bathed and prepared for burial I would not trouble myself with this additional corpse. And Mirk was the bishop’s tenant and had not met his end upon Lord Gilbert’s land. Well, probably not. If the vicars of St. Beornwald’s Church wished an investigation of Mirk’s death they could themselves conduct it. I set off for Father Thomas’s vicarage to tell him so.
Father Thomas’s first thought was much like Herleve’s. “If Peter Mirk lays dead upon a pallet in the Weald, who did we bury this morning?”
I shrugged in reply for want of a better answer.
“Must we dig the fellow up, so you may again inspect the bones?”
“To what purpose? I have learned all I can from them. Enough that I had doubts that an old man’s bones were those found in the St. John’s Day fire. Allow the man to rest in peace ’till the Lord Christ calls him from his grave.”
“I must go to the Weald and comfort Herleve,” Father Thomas said. “Will you tell Father Simon and Father Ralph of this?”
