Ashes to Ashes

by Mel Starr

  I assured him that the delay was of no consequence and invited the fellows to share our dinner before they returned, with my thanks, to Eynsham.

  By St. Swithin’s Day Thomas Attewood was able to hobble about upon a crutch John Kellet had made for him. He seemed to have little pain, so to preserve my store of lettuce seeds I told the fellow his convalescence must continue without more of the physic.

  By Lammastide I found myself rarely thinking of the bones found in the ashes of the Midsummer’s Eve fire. Some days the matter did not cross my mind at all. But whilst Kate and I and our daughters marched with others of the village to St. Beornwald’s Church for mass to thank the Lord Christ for a good wheat harvest, I remembered that it had been my intent to return to Kencott at Lammastide to learn if the bailiff of the village had returned to his duties.

  Lammasday fell upon a fast day, but Kate provided a feast for the celebration even so. There were fresh wheaten loaves and a fruit and salmon pie.

  The day was warm, my stomach full, and I would have preferred to doze in the sun. But I needed to inform the marshalsea that I would require a palfrey on the morrow, and had not told Lord Gilbert of developments in the search for a missing man since I returned from my first visit to Kencott. There had been nothing to tell.

  So it was just as well that Lord Gilbert was, along with some visiting knights and gentlemen, out hunting. Fence month was but a fortnight past, and Lord Gilbert, who enjoys the chase, was surely eager to follow his hounds in pursuit of a hart or a buck.

  Perhaps, I thought, after visiting Kencott I would have more to tell of bones and a missing man.

  Kencott is but four miles from Bampton. There was no need to start early next day for the village. The sun was well up when I rubbed my eyes, washed my face, greeted Kate, Bessie, and Sybil, and consumed a loaf to break my fast. The apostle wrote that those who wed must not be unequally yoked together. By this he surely meant that Christian folk must not wed unbelievers. But Kate and I are unequally yoked in some small way. She rises with the dawn, or before it when winter comes, whereas I prefer to bury my head in a pillow ’till the sun illuminates our chamber.

  “You are off to Kencott today?” Kate asked.

  “Aye. If the bailiff has returned you will see me for dinner. If he has not, then there are folk of the place I must visit.”

  “If you find the bailiff, what then of him who was buried unknown in the churchyard?”

  “He will never be known, I think… but to God.”

  “You will be content with that?”

  “Nay, not content, not with ignorance. I am content with what I have and where I am, but I am not content with ignorance. Of any matter.”

  “Then you will continue to seek who was burned in the Midsummer’s Eve fire?”

  “I will not lay abed past midnight puzzling over the matter,” I replied. “But if some new clue appears I will follow where it leads.”

  “All depends, then, upon the bailiff of Kencott,” Kate said.

  “It does, which is why I must be away.”

  I kissed Kate and Bessie and hurried to the castle. Wilfred the porter had already lowered the drawbridge and raised the portcullis, so I was able to go directly to the marshalsea where a page had a palfrey ready for me. Less than an hour later I entered Kencott and saw there a disagreeable sight.

  A man dangled by the neck from a crude gibbet. This gallows had not been erected when I was previously in the village.

  Carrion crows had consumed the dead man’s eyes. He stared sightless over my head. The man had not been hanging there long, I thought, or the crows would have done him greater injury. Why is it, I wonder, that birds will feast upon a dead man’s eyes? At Lord Gilbert’s Christmas feast no man seems tempted to pluck out the boar’s eyes for a treat.

  My first thought upon seeing the corpse was that Randle Mainwaring had returned to his post and discovered some felon amongst his lord’s villeins. A free tenant may only hang with the sheriff’s consent and a finding of guilt by the King’s Eyre.

  I passed under the corpse and drew the palfrey to a halt at the manor house. Sir John could tell me of the hanged man. Although matters upon his demesne were no affair of mine, Lord Gilbert’s influence reaches far – to Kencott, at least.

  A servant answered my rapping upon his master’s door and invited me to enter while he sought Sir John. I do not know where the knight was, perhaps yet abed, but he did not soon appear and when he finally did so made no apology for his tardiness.

  “How may I serve Lord Gilbert?” he said after we had exchanged greetings.

  “The man we buried in St. Beornwald’s churchyard is yet unknown,” I said. “Has your bailiff returned from his travel?”

  “Nay. He never traveled.”

  I peered at Sir John with a puzzled expression, and he explained.

  “Randle did not return in a fortnight, as he said he would. After three weeks I sent my lads and two grooms to Bloxham to seek his return. His brother said he’d never come.”

  “You said you’d send word if you learned of some missing man,” I said.

  “Oh… aye, so I did. We’ve settled the matter, so you’ve no concern on that score.”

  Sir John’s words caused me to remember the hanged man I had passed upon the road. “Was your bailiff slain?” I asked.

  “Aye. Likely ’twas his bones you found in the Midsummer’s Eve fire. Bailiffs are not popular, as you will know. Randle ran afoul of one of my villeins and the fellow murdered him. Found the man with Randle’s horse, tryin’ to sell the beast in Burford but four days past.”

  “The man now hangs from a gallows near the church?” I asked.

  “Aye. Them as see ’im there will think twice before they try to flee Kencott or do felony to their betters.”

  “Why did your villein slay his bailiff?”

  “Randle caught ’im twice stealing away from Kencott, seeking some manor where the lord would not ask questions an’ he might gain a tenancy. Told ’is sister he’d like to slay Randle, an’ did so. Knew he was to be upon the road, so lay in wait for ’im. Probably draped Randle over his horse an’ took ’im to Bampton in the night to dispose of him.”

  Sir John’s explanation of events and motives seemed reasonable. But for one thing.

  “When was the felon found in Burford, selling the bailiff’s horse?”

  “Three days before Lammastide. ’Twas fortunate he was seen, else Randle’s murder would be unavenged.”

  “Who saw the fellow?”

  “Henry Thryng.”

  When I made no reply Sir John explained. “Another of my villeins. Good worker is Henry, not like Bertran.”

  “I wonder why the fellow waited so long to try to sell the bailiff’s beast, and where he hid it for a month,” I said.

  Sir John shrugged. “Who can know? But when we found Bertran with Randle’s horse we did justice for the bailiff.”

  “Do you want Randle to rest here, in your own churchyard?”

  “Nay. One churchyard’s as good as another. He’ll not care,” Sir John laughed.

  The matter of bones discovered in Bampton’s Midsummer’s Eve fire seemed closed. I bid Sir John “Good day,” and set out for Bampton and my dinner. But two issues nagged me, and so halfway to Alvescot I halted the palfrey and returned to Kencott.

  Why did one man describe Randle Mainwaring as of average height, while another said he was short? And why would the hanged villein have kept the bailiff’s horse hidden from St. John’s Day ’till nearly Lammastide before attempting to sell the beast?

  ’Twas the clerk who had told me that Randle Mainwaring was short. If it was the bailiff whose bones now rested in St. Beornwald’s churchyard, then the clerk spoke true, and Sir John spoke false. Why? If I wished to know more I thought it likely I would learn more from the clerk than Sir John. I re-entered the village resolved to seek him.

  Two women and a man left the church porch as I approached. One of the women carried a babe. The pri
est had evidently just then completed a baptismal and these folk were the godparents. The babe was a lass.

  The village priest, when I had first encountered him some weeks past, had not seemed helpful in the matter of a missing man. He would now know that the village bailiff had not traveled to visit a brother. I thought the clerk seemed more ready to speak of village affairs than the priest. I tied the palfrey to a convenient post and waited at the porch until the clerk might appear.

  ’Twas the priest who departed the church first. He glanced in my direction, bid me “Good day,” then hurried across the street to his vicarage. He gave no sign that he remembered me. No doubt his cook had his dinner ready. The thought made my stomach growl. I wonder if Lord Gilbert appreciates the inconvenience of serving him and keeping the peace of Bampton?

  I entered the church and looked about the dim interior. The clerk was busy at his duties, locking the font as I approached. He looked up, startled to see me near. Perhaps he thought me a witch seeking holy water for use in some black art.

  I bid the clerk “Good day,” and introduced myself. His eyes spoke recognition when I gave my name.

  “When first we met I sought the name of any man missing from this village,” I reminded him.

  “I remember.”

  “Your priest said that no man was missing, but just now I spoke to Sir John and he told me that the corpse which hangs from yon gallows is that of a villein who did murder of the village bailiff.”

  “’Twas not known, when you first came here, that Randle had been slain.”

  “He went each summer to visit a brother, I was told, who lives near to Banbury.”

  The clerk was silent for a moment, then replied, “So ’twas said.”

  Here was a strange answer. “So who said?” I replied. “I was told this by your priest, the reeve, and Sir John himself. You seem to have doubts.”

  “I have served Father Kendrick only a year. I know little of the village and folk in it.”

  “I need to know of but one man of Kencott: the bailiff. Since you came here has he left the place to visit a brother, until this year?”

  “Nay… he may have done in years past.”

  “You heard folk say as much?”

  “Nay. But if Father Kendrick now speaks of it, it must be so.”

  “When did you first learn of his travel? Was it many months past, when you first came to Kencott?”

  “Nay. No man spoke of it ’till St. John’s Day or thereabouts.”

  “This year? Not last year, when you were new to the village?”

  “Aye.”

  “The man who hangs over the street…”

  “Bertran Muth?”

  “Aye. Sir John said he’d tried to leave Kencott twice and Randle found him and forced him to return. Men heard him threaten the bailiff for this apprehension.”

  “So ’twas said.”

  “Did you ever hear the man speak of doing harm to the bailiff?”

  “No more than any other. Randle was not much liked. What bailiff is?”

  “Had Bertran family? A wife? Children?”

  “Never wed. That’s why he thought to flee, I suppose. No one for Sir John to take vengeance upon but for ’is sister.”

  “What of the bailiff? Was he wed?”

  “Nay.”

  “Where does Bertran’s sister live?”

  “You’d pass ’er house on the way to Alvescot. ’Bout a hundred paces beyond the church. She an’ Richard have a half yardland of Sir John.”

  “Tenant or villein?”

  “Villein. Sir John doesn’t much like the new ways… has but few tenants, does Sir John. Most upon his lands are villeins.”

  “Has the sister, or her husband, ever tried to flee Kencott?”

  “Dunno… not since I’ve been here. Beatrice an’ Richard have four children. Not easy to set off for some new place with such a brood.”

  I agreed, thanked the clerk for his time, and left the fellow to his duties. As Beatrice and her husband lived along the way I would take to return to Bampton, I decided to pay the woman a visit. She would likely be found tending a pot, preparing to feed her family.

  So she was. I walked before my palfrey a hundred paces, turned to the house I found there, and as I approached two children tumbled from the open door. The lads halted, peered up at me, then retreated to the safety of the house. I heard one call out to his mother that a man stood at the door.

  No other announcement of my presence was necessary. A woman appeared from the dark, smoky interior of the house. She carried an infant upon her hip, a spoon in the other hand, and blinked from sunlight and the smoke of her cooking fire.

  The woman glanced from my cap to my shoes, then peered at me with suspicion. Few men dressed as I was, with a fine woolen cotehardie, parti-colored chauces, and a cap with a long liripipe, ever came to her door. And if such a man did, it would not likely bring her any benefit. More likely such a visitor would bring trouble.

  “You are Beatrice?” I said.

  The woman did not reply, assuming that if I knew her name no response was called for.

  “Your brother, I am told, hangs from the gallows just beyond the church.”

  She remained silent, but I saw a tear begin to well up from an eye. No more reply was necessary.

  “He slew the bailiff, ’tis said, and was discovered with the man’s horse in Burford.”

  “Aye… so ’tis said.”

  “Your brother attempted to flee Kencott twice, Sir John said, and the bailiff caught him both times.”

  “Aye, he did. Randle fined ’im. Six pence first time, ten second. Who are you to care?”

  I introduced myself to the woman, and explained my interest in her brother and Randle Mainwaring. “And so he wished to slay the bailiff, and did so?” I concluded.

  “May have wished to. Don’t know ’bout that, but ’e didn’t do murder.”

  “Did you ever hear your brother speak of vengeance against the bailiff?”

  “Only man I ever heard Bertran speak harshly of was Henry.”

  “Henry? Henry Thryng?”

  “Aye. You know ’im?”

  “Sir John said ’twas him who saw your brother in Burford, attempting to sell the bailiff’s beast.”

  “Aye, ’twas Henry’s word what got Bertran hung.”

  “You said that your brother did not like Henry.”

  “Nay. Two years past ’e caught Henry shearin’ one of ’is sheep after dark, to steal the fleece. Last year Henry tried to steal a furrow from Bertran. Reeve made Henry keep to ’is own bounds. Was Bertran likely to slay anyone, ’twould’ve been Henry.”

  “Did you speak to your brother after he was accused of murder?”

  “Only when ’e was took to the gallows. He seen me an’ Richard as they was liftin’ ’im to the cart.”

  “Did he speak?”

  “Aye. Said ’e’d done no murder, but found a beast in the wood an’ took it to Burford to sell.”

  “The animal was not his. If this was true, would he not know that it was a stray, and belonged to some man?”

  The woman hung her head. “Should’ve, I s’pose. A man can get himself hung for thievin’ as well as murder.”

  “There are empty houses in the village. Would Sir John see a man hang for theft when he has lost so many villeins? Would he not fine him and let him live to labor upon his demesne?”

  The woman looked over her shoulder through the open door of her house, then to the spoon she held in her hand.

  “Got to mind the pot,” she said. “But Sir John wouldn’t need to search far to find folk glad of Randle bein’ slain. Have to hang half the village.”

  I thanked the woman for her time and she hastened to deal with her dinner. I mounted the palfrey and set out for home, late for dinner, and confused.

  Why would a man keep a horse hidden, in a wood or elsewhere, for a month after he murdered the beast’s owner? Where would a poor villein find coin enough for oats? The beast
could not have been allowed to graze in a meadow, else it would have been seen and likely recognized.

  The marshalsea had provided me with a beast with a leisurely gait, so I knew that another cold dinner awaited me when I returned to Galen House. But the palfrey’s slow pace provided time to consider the perplexing matter of the bones in the ashes and the slain bailiff and the murderous villein. I could make little sense of the business. As I passed through Alvescot I was nearly convinced that Sir John’s view of the matter must be correct for want of any better answer.

  Chapter 7

  A mile east of Alvescot the road narrows and passes through a copse of trees, a part of Lord Gilbert’s forest. Thoughts of bones and slain bailiffs had given way to a drowsy peace as the palfrey plodded on toward Bampton. I was not asleep, but nearly so, paying no attention to my surroundings, allowing the palfrey to carry me home at its own pace.

  The beast suddenly shied and so drowsy was I that I nearly tumbled from the saddle. I regained my balance, then saw the reason for the beast’s behavior. Mounted men closed upon me from both sides, appearing suddenly from the verdure which bordered the road in that place. One grasped the reins, yanked them from my hands, and brought my horse to a stumbling halt. The man on the other side had in his hand a large club – not that at that moment I saw it, but it must have been so. My attention was drawn to the rider who had seized the reins, so I did not see the blow coming which unhorsed me and brought me to the mud of the road. But I felt it.

  I managed to lift myself to hands and knees, but to rise higher was impossible. The mud of the road swirled before my eyes like a leaf caught in Shill Brook.

  “You’ll be advised to keep to your own bailiwick,” a voice said. “Kencott can deal with its own. No help from you wanted. An’ just so you get the message…”

  The fellow delivered a kick to my ribs. Message received. I rolled in the mud, trying to make of myself as small a target as possible. ’Twas then I saw that what I had assumed was two assailants was four. And each man seemed determined to strike more blows and kicks than his fellows. One of the attackers wore a shoe which had been torn and mended. I saw the repair clearly as the man delivered a kick to my cheek.