by Mel Starr
None were more resolute than my employer. He leaned over the pommel of his saddle to inspect me and my swollen, discolored, patched visage.
“You are in no state to accompany us,” he said. “Thought it would be well to have you at hand when I confront Sir John, but I see now ’tis not to be. I will tell him that when you are restored to health you may visit Kencott again, and if you do, he is to afford you protection and cooperation. Something about this business stinks.”
With that Lord Gilbert drew upon the reins, wheeled his beast about, and set off down Church View Street. Knights, squires, grooms, and pages followed, each taking his place in the queue that rank required.
I watched the riders disappear onto Bridge Street. As they passed from view another form appeared. I recognized the skeletal figure of John Kellet. The priest saw me standing before my door and increased his pace, his bony elbows flailing the air and the scrawny ankles and feet under his black robe raising puffs of dust with each step. ’Twas clear he intended to seek me, so I awaited him at Galen House door.
Kellet stopped before me and said, “They spoke true.”
“Who spoke true, and what did they say?”
“Cotters who live about St. Andrew’s Chapel. Word has come to us that you were waylaid upon the road and the beating has left you quite loathsome.”
“Some men are of loathsome appearance and no man has attacked them,” I said. “I will heal. And speaking of healing, how does Thomas Attewood?”
“I made him a crutch from a ‘Y’-shaped branch. Pained his ribs an’ shoulder to use it at first, but he does well enough with it now. Can visit the privy unaided. Leg aches an’ itches, he says.”
“He may be tempted to put too much weight upon the broken leg. Tell him he must not for at least another fortnight. Aches and pains are oft the body’s way of telling a man he must not do a thing again.”
“The men who attacked you… have they been taken?”
“Nay. Come in. I should like to sit down.”
The world before Galen House was beginning to tilt, it seemed, and the priest appeared to stand a good deal from vertical but did not fall over.
My way was unsteady and I soon found myself with palms pressed against a wall. The priest saw and grasped an elbow. Together we entered Kate’s kitchen and she looked up from her pot as I dropped to a bench.
“Dizzy,” I said as Kate lifted her cotehardie and rushed to me.
“You should be abed,” she said.
I thought this a fine suggestion.
“Thirsty,” I said. “And a cup of ale for Father John, also.”
We drank our ale in silence. This was a relief to my injured lips, and the bench below me and the wall at my back caused the world around me to stop swirling about and fix itself in place.
“Did the felons get your purse?” Kellet finally asked.
“Nay. Didn’t seek it. I’d been twice to Kencott, where I’d heard that the bailiff had gone missing.”
“Did you think ’twas him in the St. John’s Day fire?” Kellet asked.
“Yesterday I saw in Kencott a man hanging from a gallows and was told he’d slain the bailiff.”
Kellet’s frown told of his confusion. “How’d one man bring another from Kencott to Bampton?”
“A worthy question.”
I told Kellet of the bailiff’s horse, and the hanged man’s attempts to flee from villeinage which the bailiff had thwarted. For my lips’ sake I kept the explanation succinct.
“As long as you’re here,” Kate said to the priest, “you may help me get him upstairs to our chamber.”
Kate took one elbow and Kellet the other. ’Twas a good thing the priest was not so plump as he once was, else we would not all three have fit upon the same treads.
I was too sore to sleep well. Each time I moved upon the bed some part of my anatomy reminded me of the attack. Kate climbed the stairs several times to look upon me. I feigned sleep so that she would believe me comfortable, but this may have had an opposite effect. Once when she entered our chamber, through a half-opened eye I saw her place a hand over her mouth and quickly approach our bed. I turned under the blanket to reassure her that I was yet among the living.
Kate woke me about noon. She had brought to the chamber a steaming pot of thin pease pottage flavored with a few small morsels of pork. I sat upon the edge of our bed while she fed me spoonfuls of the meal. My lips would not close properly and so some of the watery pottage found its way down my chin and into my beard. I was too young for this, I thought. ’Tis only ancient grandfathers who must be spoon fed and cleaned up after.
The chamber stayed in place whilst Kate fed me. It did not tilt or twirl, and so I suggested that I might go to the toft and sit there upon a bench in the sun. Kate would not hear of it. I did not much like being treated like an invalid, but I would not have liked to topple down the stairs, either. So I did as Kate required and when I had eaten my fill lay back upon the bed. This time I was soon asleep. What is it about a full stomach and a warm afternoon which makes a man as lethargic as if he had plowed half a yardland?
Some time in midafternoon I awoke to the sound of footsteps upon the stairs. ’Twas Lord Gilbert, and behind him I saw Arthur. Both men were tight-lipped, and as I rose to a sitting position my employer spoke.
“Nay, Master Hugh. Lay you down. We are just returned from Kencott. Sir John claims ignorance of why men would attack you to keep you from the village. I told him that when you are recovered from the blows you were given you may return to Kencott. He knows that I will hold him responsible for your safety whilst in the village, or on the road to or from the place.”
“You believe he spoke true?” I said. “That he knew nothing of my assailants?”
“Nay,” Lord Gilbert replied. “’Twas his bailiff slain, his hallmote which sentenced a man to hang. Sir John has right of infangenthef, and the villein was found with the bailiff’s horse, so he’d the right to hang the fellow. But if justice for murder was done, why did men wish to drive you from Kencott? What did they fear that you would discover? And who would most fear the discovery? The murderer was already dead.”
“So we are meant to believe,” I said.
“Just so,” Lord Gilbert agreed. “When you return to Kencott, take Arthur with you… just in case.”
“I will do so.”
A day earlier I had considered leaving Lord Gilbert’s employ. A peaceful life in Oxford, dealing with men’s bodily complaints and injuries, seemed preferable to the insults and contusions I had suffered in his service. But I am stubborn. I dislike men who shirk their duty. If I should flee Bampton Manor I would be such a man. And with Arthur beside me, it is easier to face adversity caused by malefactors. I knew that if I resigned my post in Bampton I would think of my cowardice each night when I lay my head upon a pillow. Which is worse: the pain of wounds incurred in discharging one’s duty, or the regret a man may feel later when he looks back upon his lack of valor? Wounds may heal, regret seldom does.
Lord Gilbert and Arthur bade me “Farewell,” which would be an improvement, as I had fared ill in the recent past. I heard them speak to others as they reached the base of the stairs and understood that most of those who accompanied Lord Gilbert had also attended him to Galen House.
I heard Kate wish a “Good day” to Lord Gilbert and shortly after she appeared in our chamber with a cup of ale freshly procured from the baker’s wife. While I drank we heard a knock upon Galen House door and Kate descended to see what new visitor we had. ’Twas John Kellet.
I heard Kate greet the curate and tell him that I was above, in our chamber where he had left me some hours earlier. Kellet’s bare feet slapped the treads as he climbed to our chamber, and when he entered the room it was clear to me that he had hurried from St. Andrew’s Chapel to Galen House. He was red in the face and breathless.
“I have news,” Kellet said. “You must speak to Thomas.”
“The swineherd? Why so? Has he done some further in
jury to himself?”
“Nay. He is well. ’Tis not his injury which you must learn of. The man knows of Kencott’s bailiff.”
“What? How so?”
“Thomas is of Broadwell.”
I knew of the village. It was half a mile from Kencott, to the south. Like many villages, it had suffered much when the great pestilence attacked twenty years past.
“When I told him of your wounds and the matter of Kencott’s murdered bailiff, his eyes grew wide. I saw this and asked of the reason. He would not say, but asked that you come to him. He was insistent that you do so. I told him of your hurt, and that you would not be able to visit him for several days. He stood, reached for the crutch I made for him, and said that being so, he would seek you.
“I persuaded him that this would be unwise, and that I would carry to you his request to speak to you as soon as possible.”
“He knows something of the slain bailiff, you think?” I asked.
“He would say no more to me. What shall I tell him? Will you come?”
“Tomorrow. Already I feel better. A walk to St. Andrew’s Chapel will not over-tax me tomorrow, I think.”
Kate disagreed. I told her of my intention and the reason for it between more spoonfuls of pottage which she brought for my supper. The pottage had thickened. My lips were thinner, so ’twas an even trade. But because it was not so thin I did not drool my meal as at noon.
“You must stay abed,” Kate said, “’till you are well. As you now are, if you walk to St. Andrew’s Chapel, men will find you next day sleeping in a ditch.”
So I spent most of another day in bed. But in the afternoon I crept down the stairs so I could sit in the toft upon a bench and enjoy the sun. Kate frowned when she saw me, but what was she to do? She is not a scold, so rather than berate me, she assisted me in moving a bench into the sun, and sat there with me and Bessie.
I asked for her mirror. I was eager to learn how much my wounds had healed in two days. Kate was reluctant to provide it, and when she finally did I understood why. Both of my eyes were swollen, dark, and purple. My cheeks were much the same, and when I lifted my cotehardie and kirtle to inspect my ribs I saw the same colors displayed. A few bits of dried blood speckled Kate’s needlework across my forehead and cheeks. I was pleased to see no pus issuing from the sutured wounds. But little else I saw in the mirror pleased me. I set the glass upon the bench and once again thoughts came to me of abandoning my position as bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot. But not ’till I had straightened out the matter of the bones found in the St. John’s Day fire. Perhaps I would heal before that day. Perhaps not.
Lord Gilbert, when he offered me the post of bailiff, had not promised comfort. Who is interested in my comfort? Not Lord Gilbert. He desires only my service. Does the Lord Christ wish for my comfort? He did not say so. Rather, He told His followers that they must take up their cross and follow Him. A cross is not a comfortable burden. The Lord Christ, I think, is more interested in my character than my comfort. What kind of man will flee his duty when it becomes uncomfortable? Am I such a man? But how can wounds and contusions contribute to my character? And could not the Lord Christ devise some other way of doing the work than using the clubs and kicks of wicked men? I have too many questions and too few answers. This also I will place in my mystery bag.
Chapter 9
Next day, after a loaf and ale, I set out for St. Andrew’s Chapel. The way before me was reassuringly firm, my headache nearly gone, and the chapel less than half a mile from Galen House. John Kellet resides in the tower, but the swineherd could not climb the narrow stairs, more like a ladder, to the chamber. The priest had laid a pallet upon the flags at the base of the tower and there I found the man. Kellet heard my greeting and descended from his tiny chamber.
Thomas struggled to his feet, nearly as unsteady as I had been yesterday. The benches in the porch were the nearest place we could sit, so I suggested we go there. We made a remarkable company: John Kellet, the emaciated, barefoot curate; Thomas, hobbling upon his crutch; and me, of the multicolored face.
“Father John said you wished to speak to me privily of Randle Mainwaring.”
Thomas nodded and glanced to the priest.
“We will treat this as confession,” I said, “if you are concerned that what you will say should go no farther. Father John will hold what you say in confidence, as if you sought absolution. Is this not so?” I said to the priest. He nodded.
I thought such reassurance necessary not only because of Attewood’s glance toward Kellet, but because the day before he had asked to speak to me, but withheld the subject from the priest. Some delicate matter must be on his mind.
The porch faced east, and was well lit by the morning sun. Thomas studied my face and said, “Father John said you was bad hurt. They told you to forget about Randle, he said.”
“Aye. You speak as if you might know the men who tried to refashion my face.”
“Got suspicions, that’s all,” the swineherd shrugged.
“Why so? Who are the men?”
“Wouldn’t want ’em to learn I’d said.”
“They’ll not discover such a thing from me,” I said, then looking to Kellet, I added, “nor from Father John.” The curate nodded agreement.
“Been gone from Broadwell for many years. No future there after plague came. Took Sir Reynold an’ ’is sons.”
“Sir Reynold?”
“Sir Reynold Penderel, lord of the manor of Broadwell. Lady Alyce wed a knight from Kent an’ departed Broadwell. Little enough to hold her there. Left the manor in the hands of a steward, but Simon was drunk much of the time an’ when ’e was sober ’e thought of nothin’ but when ’e’d get another pot of ale.”
“How many villeins and tenants remained in the place after the plague?” I asked.
“First time it come, or second?”
“Both.”
“Before the great death first come we was near forty families, I’d say. I was but a lad then, an’ took no account of such matters. When plague come again it took mostly children what had been born since first time, but some folk my age perished also.”
“That was when the affliction returned eight years past?” I asked.
“Aye, ’bout that. Lose track of the years after a time.”
“How many families then remained in Broadwell?”
The swineherd pursed his lips, scratched the nape of his neck, then replied, “Mayhap ten.”
“That many were taken of plague?”
“Not all that was gone was dead. Some went to other manors, bein’ tenants an’ not villeins. An’ when I say ten families was left, that don’t mean fifty or so folk remained. Many lost father or mother or children. I was the only soul remaining of my family.”
“So perhaps thirty folk remained in Broadwell?” I said.
“’Bout that… no more.”
“How did you come to Lord Gilbert’s service?”
“Broadwell was dyin’ an’ I didn’t want to die with it. Heard from Walter that Lord Gilbert’s swineherd was dead.”
“Walter Chyld, groom to Lord Gilbert?”
“Aye. Me bein’ a tenant an’ free to leave Broadwell, I sought the post an’ I been in Lord Gilbert’s service since.”
I had heard Thomas Attewood’s name before, but had never met the man ’till I found him in the forest. He had spent most of his time with pigs, and had done nothing to run afoul of his bailiff.
“This is what you wished to tell me but would not tell Father John?” I asked. “What of your suspicions of the men who altered my face?”
“Gettin’ to that. Broadwell is but a half-mile from Kencott.”
“So you know folk from that place?”
“Aye… know the talk, too.”
“It is of this talk you wish to speak to me?”
“Aye. Mayhap just rumors. Folk do like to talk ’bout others an’ their misfortunes, ’specially their betters.”
“Of whose misfortunes do you spe
ak?”
“Randle Mainwaring.”
“He’s dead. I suppose most folk would consider that a misfortune,” I said.
“Aye, right enough. But that ain’t the misfortune I speak of.”
“What, then?”
The swineherd hesitated, as if he was reconsidering the conversation and his part in bringing it about.
“Just rumors, you know,” he said.
I nodded and waited for him to speak.
“Some folk about Kencott an’ Broadwell did say that Randle was higher born than what bailiffs usually is.”
“My father was a knight,” I said. “I was his fourth son, so was required to make my own way in the world. No manor for me. Why did such a topic cause tongues to wag in Kencott and Broadwell?”
“No offense,” Thomas said, “but Randle was maybe higher born than fourth son of a knight.”
“Where did you hear such talk, and what has it to do with his death?”
“Rather not say. Don’t want to get some other in trouble so men do to ’im what they did to you… or worse.”
“How long has this gossip been heard about Kencott and Broadwell? When did you first learn of it?”
“I heard of it but a few years past. But there are old folk what knew of it long ago, I think.”
I would have liked to know the source of this rumor which Thomas had learned a few years past. But at the moment I was unsure that such gossip had anything much to do with Randle Mainwaring’s bones being found in the ashes of the St. John’s Day fire, and thought that Thomas was more likely to tell me other things he knew of Broadwell and Kencott if I did not try to force the information from him.
“You wish to set me upon a path,” I said, “but want me to find my own destination.”
“Aye.”
“Because the men who attacked me would do the same to you if they knew of or suspected this conversation.”
