Ashes to Ashes

by Mel Starr

  The palfrey dozed in the warm sun where I had left her, tied to a post before Galen House door. I poured water into a bucket so the beast might drink, then mounted and set off for Clanfield, Black Bourton, and Alvescot. Somewhere a man must be missing.

  Chapter 5

  Lord Gilbert’s verderer, Gerard, lives in Alvescot, to be nearer to the forested lands of Lord Gilbert’s extensive demesne. The old fellow walks with a limp, and has since an oak fell upon him. I patched his broken skull only a few months after I assumed the post of bailiff upon Lord Gilbert’s Bampton manor. A verderer, even one who totters while upon his rounds, knows every man’s business in his parish and also the business of most of those in the parishes bordering his own.

  No man had disappeared from Clanfield or Black Bourton, or Alvescot either. So said Gerard. But the bailiff of Kencott was missing, the verderer said.

  “How long past?” I asked.

  “Heard of it Sunday,” Gerard replied. “Don’t know how long afore that ’e went missing. Don’t think ’twas many days past. Kencott’s less than a mile from ’ere. Whatever happens there is known ’ere right soon.”

  ’Tis indeed but a short way from Alvescot to Kencott. The village is small, so every man there would likely know every other man’s business. The men likely to know most about a missing bailiff would be the lord of the manor or the village priest. I guided the palfrey to the Kencott church, dismounted, and fastened the reins to the lych gate.

  A priest may not always be found in his church late of an afternoon, but the priest of St. George’s Church was this day. I found him standing in conversation with his clerk before the altar. When I opened the door from the porch, they stared at me, as men will when they see a stranger in an unusual place.

  Neither man moved or spoke as I approached. The declining sun sent shafts of light through the tall, narrow windows which illuminated the church and the dust motes that floated in the still air.

  “I give you good day,” I said. “I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his manor of Bampton.”

  “I am Kendrick Dod, vicar of St. George’s Church,” the priest replied. “How may I serve Lord Gilbert’s bailiff?”

  “I am told that the bailiff of Kencott is missing. What can you tell me of him?”

  “Randle? Gone from the village, is Randle, but I’d not say ‘missing.’”

  “What would you say?”

  “Why does the bailiff of Bampton manor want to know of Randle?”

  “A man has been found dead in Bampton. I seek to discover who he might be.”

  “When?”

  “St. John’s Day morn.”

  I saw the clerk peer from the corner of his eye at the priest. He began to speak. “Randle…” he said.

  But the priest interrupted. “Randle often travels, especially in midsummer, when roads are dry, the work of planting is done, and the harvest is yet to begin.”

  The clerk looked to the priest and said no more. When I caught the man’s eye he quickly looked away. There was something odd about the clerk’s behavior.

  “Where does he go?” I asked.

  “Visits a brother near to Banbury, so I’m told.”

  “And this journey would cause a rumor to reach Alvescot that the man has gone missing? If he often travels to Banbury, why would his absence from Kencott cause men to believe he was missing?”

  “Men seek trouble when they have already worries enough to plague them,” the priest said.

  “When may the bailiff return?” I asked.

  The priest shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  “Who is lord of this manor? Surely he told his employer when he would return.”

  “Sir John deMeaux is lord of Kencott.”

  “Does he reside on the manor?”

  “Aye.”

  “His house is nearby?”

  The priest motioned toward the setting sun and said, “Two hundred paces beyond the church.”

  I thanked the priest, retrieved my palfrey at the lych gate, and as the vicar promised, I soon came to a large house of two stories, one end of the dwelling freshly whitewashed and well thatched, the other end not so well cared for, as if the lord who lived within had decided ’twas too costly to renew his entire house and was content with the work half done. I saw several uninhabited and derelict houses in the village, as in most places in the realm. And each time plague returns more houses fall to decay. I spoke a silent prayer that Galen House would not become one of these.

  A servant crossed from barn to manor house as I drew the palfrey to a halt before the place. He glanced my way, continued toward the house, then turned and walked toward me as if it had just then dawned upon him that a well-garbed stranger approached his master’s house.

  The man tugged a forelock, bowed, and spoke. “How may I serve you?”

  “Is Sir John within?”

  “Nay, sir. Gone a-hawking.”

  “When will he return?”

  “Dunno. Soon. Doesn’t like to miss ’is supper.”

  “I have heard that your bailiff has gone to Banbury… to visit a brother.”

  “Randle?” the servant said, with a question in his voice.

  “Aye. Does the village reeve live nearby?”

  “Just there,” the man said, and pointed to a long, well-kept house.

  I thanked the fellow and turned my beast to the reeve’s house. It was across the road and but a few paces from the manor house.

  The door of the reeve’s house was open to the pleasant summer evening. I shouted a “Hello,” and stood awaiting a reply. It was not long coming.

  A young man left the dim interior of the house, blinked and frowned in the low sunlight which temporarily blinded him, then finally focused upon me.

  “I give you good day,” I said. “I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his manor of Bampton.”

  I forget me how many times that day I introduced myself with the same words. I have learned since joining Lord Gilbert’s service that mentioning his name, he being one of the great barons of the realm, can loosen tight lips. Folk would rather not run afoul of such a man’s bailiff.

  The reeve bowed slightly and I continued.

  “I am told that you are the reeve of Kencott Manor.”

  “I am. How may I serve you?”

  “Your bailiff, Randle, is away, I am told… off to visit a brother near to Banbury.”

  “Aye. If you seek ’im, you’ve missed ’im by a few days.”

  “When did he depart?”

  The reeve hesitated, scratched the stubble upon his chin, then said, “Wednesday last, it was.”

  “When will he return? I am told he often travels to Banbury in midsummer.”

  The reeve shrugged his shoulders and said, “Dunno when ’e’ll return. A fortnight, mayhap.”

  “Sir John is agreeable to these absences?”

  “Aye.”

  “Does the brother live in Banbury, or some village nearby?” I asked.

  The reeve hesitated. “Uh… nearby, I think. Don’t know the place.”

  “He never named it?”

  “Not to me. Brother has a yardland an’ more of some abbey, so Randle has said.”

  I saw the reeve look over my shoulder, turned, and followed his eyes. A corpulent man upon a horse had halted his beast before the manor house. He held the reins in his left hand, and upon his leather-gloved right hand a hooded hawk was perched. Two younger men, one a beardless lad, followed close behind. As I watched, one of the youths dismounted and took the hawk. Servants appeared to lead the beast away, and the two remaining men dismounted and entered the manor house.

  “Sir John?” I asked the reeve.

  “Aye. He’ll know more of Randle, where ’e’s gone an’ when ’e’ll return.”

  The reeve did not ask why I sought knowledge of his bailiff. Perhaps he thought it best to show as little curiosity as possible to Lord Gilbert’s bailiff.

  I bid the reeve “Good d
ay,” although ’twas near to the time one should say “Good eve,” then led my beast across the road to the manor house.

  Sir John had conveniently provided a rail to which mounted visitors might tie their beasts. I wound the palfrey’s reins about this rail, approached the manor house door, and rapped my knuckles against the oak.

  The door opened instantly. One of the youths who had appeared with Sir John stood in the opening. His apparel said here was no servant. He wore green chauces, fine linen, a tan cotehardie, and his green cap was complete with a long liripipe wound fashionably about his head.

  The lad did not greet me or in any way acknowledge my presence but to stand in the open door staring at me. The silence grew oppressive. I finally spoke, identifying myself and my employer and asking to speak to Sir John. Lord Gilbert’s name again worked its magic.

  “Please enter,” the youth said. “My father is within. I will tell him of your request.”

  Sir John appeared but a few minutes later. Both of the young men walked behind him, curiosity writ upon their faces. The two lads were not yet men. Although one labored to produce a beard, the effort was mostly a failure. But they were no longer boys. They were nearly as tall as me, broad-shouldered, with a frank look in their eyes which spoke of privilege and self-esteem.

  “Alan has told me you serve Lord Gilbert Talbot,” Sir John said. “How may I serve Lord Gilbert?”

  “Early on the morn of St. John’s Day men discovered bones in the ashes of the Midsummer’s Eve fire in Bampton. I have come here seeking information of your bailiff. I am told that he has gone missing, and no man knows whose bones have been found in the ashes.”

  I had also been told that the bailiff was visiting a brother who lived near to Banbury, but I decided to wait for Sir John to corroborate that. I cannot say why. Perhaps I did not trust the fellow. Or perhaps I did not trust the priest or the reeve. ’Tis unfortunate, but bailiffs learn to mistrust most other men. Fair enough, I suppose, as most men mistrust bailiffs.

  “Missing?” Sir John said. “Nay. Randle often visits his brother in midsummer. For several years he has done so.”

  “Whereabouts does his brother live?”

  “Near to Banbury. ’Tis a half-brother, actually,” Sir John added after a brief hesitation.

  “Did you see your bailiff depart? Was he mounted?”

  “Aye, to both your questions.”

  “When will he return?”

  “I required of him that he return by St. Swithin’s Day.”

  “If ’twas not your bailiff whose bones were found in the ashes, it must be some other. Have you heard of any man gone missing from any neighboring village?”

  Sir John scratched at his beard and pursed his lips. “Nay, but should I learn of such a thing you would like to know of it, I suppose.”

  “Indeed. One other thing. How tall is your bailiff?”

  “Hmmm. Not so tall as you. About my height, I’d say, ’though not so great of girth,” he chuckled.

  I bid Sir John “Good day,” and sought my palfrey. Unless I made haste I would not set foot in Galen House ’till night had come.

  I prodded the palfrey to a quick pace, and was soon passing the church, when I saw the clerk cross the road before me. I drew upon the reins and called out to the fellow. He stopped and turned to me. I cannot say why I asked the question of him which I did.

  “Did you find Sir John?” the clerk asked.

  “Aye, I did so. Your bailiff, Randle… was he a tall man, or short, or of medium height?”

  “Short, was Randle. Come up to my chin, no more.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and with a flip of the reins and a cluck of my tongue I continued my journey home.

  Here was an interesting disagreement. Sir John said his bailiff was of his own stature, which was about the same as the clerk’s. But the clerk described Randle Mainwaring as a short man. The bones found in the ashes were those of a short man. I had set out upon this journey to Black Bourton, Clanfield, and Alvescot to solve a riddle. In Kencott I had found another.

  And it was surely odd that the lord of a manor would allow an underling to leave his duties for a fortnight. Even when planting was done there was much to oversee on such a manor. Men would be making hay, shearing sheep, plowing fallow fields, and children and women would be weeding crops. The reeve could not be pleased to have responsibility for all of this with the bailiff away.

  My Kate has become accustomed to my odd hours. She had prepared for supper that eve a charlet, which may be consumed cold, and so was ready with both supper and a kiss when I entered Galen House.

  Bessie and Sybil were abed, so when we finished the charlet I quietly carried a bench to the toft where we might sit in the quiet of the summer evening and watch the stars appear as darkness ended the day.

  “Bailiffs are not esteemed,” Kate said when I told her of what I had learned in Kencott. “But for in Bampton,” she added with a smile. “Few bailiffs can mend a wound or set a broken bone. Perhaps that Kencott bailiff departed for his brother’s village but was set upon by some man he had defrauded. ’Twould not be so far, then, to bring a corpse here to Bampton, and every village has a Midsummer’s Eve fire, so a felon might pick any village to dispose of his victim. Bampton would do as well as any other.”

  “’Tis odd,” I said, “that Sir John said his bailiff was as tall as he, but the clerk said that the man was short.”

  “Could be that a man’s stature is relative to another’s. A tall man believes most men to be short, whereas a short man thinks most men tall.”

  “Perhaps,” I agreed.

  “Will you travel again tomorrow, seeking a missing man?”

  “Aye, to Witney and Burford and villages thereabout.”

  ’Twas again near dark when I arrived home next day. No man was missing from Witney, but a man had disappeared from Burford some weeks earlier, before Easter. The man who told me this had also an explanation. The man’s wife, he said, was a shrew. I thought it unlikely that a man who had been missing since April would be found in the ashes of Bampton’s Midsummer’s Eve fire, but sought the man’s wife to learn more of his disappearance. I learned that the informant spoke true. The woman was a termagant. I heard her scolding a child while I was yet thirty paces from her door. Ten minutes of conversation convinced me that her husband was missing for good reason. Had I made the mistake of wedding such a woman, I might have departed as well. Even the cold winters of Scotland would seem appealing to a man who was the target of this woman’s hot tongue.

  Once again I carried the bench to our toft and told Kate of the day.

  “Is there any place else you might travel to seek a missing man?” she asked.

  “I cannot think of any other. None nearby. A murderer would not haul his victim many miles, I think. If I expand my search to Oxford or Abingdon or some such place, I might be upon the roads ’till Michaelmas seeking a missing man.”

  “What, then? Will you quit the search?”

  “It has been fruitless so far, and I see no sign of success if I continue.”

  “What of the bailiff from Kencott?”

  “His lord said that he would return in a fortnight. Perhaps I will travel there about Lammastide. That will give the fellow plenty of time to return. If he has not done so, then mayhap they are his bones we buried in St. Beornwald’s churchyard. If he has returned, then I will put this incident in my mystery bag.”

  “Mystery bag?”

  “Aye. When something untoward happened which seemed beyond explanation, my mother would say that she was putting the matter in her mystery bag, and when she met the Lord Christ in heaven she would open the bag to Him, and He would explain all.”

  “How many items have you in your mystery bag?” Kate asked.

  “A few.”

  “Tell me of them,” Kate smiled. “Which is the greatest?”

  “Hmmm. The greatest? That, I think, would be the mystery of how a slender village bailiff with a large nose won the h
and of the most beautiful maid in Oxford. A lass who had her choice of handsome, wealthy young burghers and scholars.”

  “I saw beyond your nose,” Kate laughed. “And saw behind it a kind man who would be a good husband and father.”

  “’Tis a wonder you could see past such an impediment.”

  “I will solve a mystery for you,” Kate said softly. “When I watched you deal with my father’s wounded back I was certain that you were the husband I wished for. When you departed for Bampton and did not return to Oxford for many weeks I thought I had lost you. My love is no mystery.”

  “Nor mine,” I replied.

  Kate rested her head upon my shoulder and our conversation ended. So also, reader, does this account of that evening.

  Chapter 6

  Haying was nearly done. Men had been in the meadows since before St. John’s Day, swinging their scythes, their wives and children following to turn the hay so it would dry evenly. Soon the dried hay would be gathered into stacks.

  No sooner was the hay cut than it was time for shearing. While men worked at this, women and children rid the fields of weeds, cutting dock and cornflower from fields of rye, and dead-nettle from pea fields.

  All this, of course, is a reeve’s business, and John Holcutt needed no advice from me. I have few duties in midsummer, so long as villeins and tenants meet their obligations to Lord Gilbert. Some do not, and must be persuaded. Robert Wroe sliced the heel of his hand whilst shearing and I stitched the wound. Remarkable how tough and calloused a man’s hand may become. I bent a needle attempting to pierce the skin of Robert’s hand. ’Tis a wonder the leathery hide would yield to any blade.

  The only remarkable event in the weeks after St. John’s Day was the arrival of two black-robed Benedictines from Eynsham Abbey. One of these carried a sack across his shoulders. In it was the Bible I had been promised for discovering the felon who had slain a novice of that house.

  “Abbot Gerleys begs pardon that the work was not completed by St. John’s Day, as Abbot Thurstan had promised,” one of the monks said.