by Mel Starr
Thomas nodded. “Or worse,” he said.
I looked to John Kellet, who had remained silent during this conversation. He responded with a finger to his lips.
Thomas Attewood’s guarded assertion meant that I would return to Kencott. Whether or not Randle Mainwaring’s ancestry had to do with his death I could not then guess, but the proper questions asked of the proper villagers might tell me. And there were at least four men of Kencott who did not want me to ask of this business or any other. If folk given to villainy wish for me to remain ignorant of some matter, ’tis sure that I should do what I can to learn of it.
I left St. Andrew’s Chapel after admonishing the swineherd that, if he thought of any other matter involving Randle Mainwaring, he should send John Kellet with the information. And also that he should not walk about upon his leg even if it no longer pained him much.
I saw Kate peering from Galen House door as I walked from Bridge Street to Church View Street. I suspect she had done so often whilst I was away at the chapel. I was sorry to worry her with my absence, yet pleased that there was a woman concerned about my health and safety. ’Twould be a woeful thing to have no woman who cared about my welfare.
The pottage and wheaten loaf which was my dinner I consumed more readily than in the past days. My lips seemed some reduced from their previous swollen size, and the loose tooth did not trouble me while eating soft pease pottage.
Kate watched me consume my dinner and when my bowl was empty took it to the pot and filled it a second time. I did not object, and devouring a second bowl would, I knew, put Kate’s mind at ease. A man with a good appetite is rarely very ill.
Returning to Kencott whilst yet purple and bruised with my face sewn together with silken thread seemed a poor idea. I did not wish to be the butt of jokes and ribald jesting. Perhaps I am too proud.
I spent the afternoon at my table, reading from my new Bible. Eynsham Abbey’s scribes had created a fair copy, and had embellished it with illuminations. I did not request this, but no doubt the monks’ pride in their work drove them to beautify the manuscript. Perhaps this also is a sin? But if a worker did not take pride in the product of his labor we would surround ourselves with poor goods.
I possessed already a gospel of St. John which I had copied from a rented gospel whilst I was a student at Balliol College. As I had read that many times over, I decided to begin with the gospel of St. Matthew.
The afternoon passed quickly. Bessie played about my feet while I read, so perhaps I lost some of the theology of the gospel, but when I reached the tenth chapter my thoughts were arrested. “You will be hated by all men,” the Lord Christ told His disciples, “for My name’s sake.” Did He mean that those who, like Him, attempt to do good, will be hated by those who do evil? It is likely so. So a man may perhaps judge his place in the Lord Christ’s kingdom by knowing who it is who hates him. Mayhap the blows and kicks I suffered were a mark of approval. I might wish that there was a less painful way of discovering His esteem.
A few verses later the Lord Christ said, “There is nothing covered that will not be revealed, and hidden that will not be known.” Is this a task He has given to me? To make known hidden things? Or did the Lord Christ speak only of Himself? Scholars seek to make hidden things known. Well, some of them do so. I knew some scholars while at Balliol College who delighted in making hidden matters even more obscure. For some folk. If all men knew as much as they, then their place and reputation as scholars would be imperiled. So some men, most men, must remain ignorant to preserve the standing of others.
I had thought ’twas Lord Gilbert Talbot who gave me my position and therefore assigned me the task of making hidden things known. Perhaps he was but the agent of the Lord Christ. Another notion for my mystery bag.
Of one thing I was sure. If the Lord Christ put me in place to do His work in making hidden things known, I would abandon the work at peril of my soul. I could resign from Lord Gilbert’s work, but not from the Lord Christ’s.
Nevertheless, I had no desire to show my purple complexion in Kencott. So for the next week I remained in Bampton and considered which folk in Kencott I might seek and which questions I should ask them.
Nine days after I was attacked I felt whole enough to set out for Kencott. The color was nearly gone from my face and my ribs ached only when I sneezed, which in late summer I seem to do often. The stitches across my cheeks and forehead remained. ’Twould be another week before I asked Kate to snip them free. But as I healed I became impatient to see justice done, for Bertran Muth, for Randle Mainwaring, and for me. If folk in Kencott stared at my stitches, the notoriety would be the price I must pay to get on with my work.
I found Arthur at the castle and told him that, as Lord Gilbert had suggested, I would have his companionship next day as I traveled to Kencott. Perhaps this request showed a lack of confidence in Lord Gilbert’s powers of persuasion. But I had journeyed alone to Kencott with lamentable results. With Arthur at my side, if we were again set upon by four men, the odds, four against two, would be about even. In a fight Arthur is worth three ordinary men.
Bertran Muth’s corpse and the makeshift scaffold were both gone when Arthur and I entered Kencott next day. I had decided that this day I would seek Henry Thryng. Why would a villein be in Burford to see Bertran Muth sell a horse he had gained through murder a month past?
I drew my palfrey to a halt before St. George’s Church, left Arthur with the beasts, and entered the gloomy structure. The day was heavy with low clouds. Little light entered the building through the narrow windows. The clerk was a dim shadow in the chancel. As I approached I saw that he was hanging a new curtain across the entrance to the Easter sepulcher. He heard me come near and peered into the nave to see who had entered the church.
The clerk was completing his work, so descended to the flags before asking my business.
“How may I serve… ah, ’tis you, the bailiff of Bampton,” the man said. “I have heard that you were set upon while returning to Bampton last time you were here.”
“You heard true. What else have you heard?”
“About the men who attacked you?”
“Aye. Or any other matter.”
“Very little. Surprising, actually. There is, as a rule, much gossip in the town, Kencott being no different from other villages, I suspect.”
“There are whispered suggestions of my assailants?”
“Nay.”
“This curtain is of fine stuff,” I said, holding the fabric between thumb and forefinger.
“The finest velvet. ’Twill see Sir John freed of many years in purgatory, I think.”
“DeMeaux? He provided the veil?”
“He did… Italian silk, too.”
I wondered for what sin Sir John sought absolution. What would Holy Church do if men were virtuous? They would then need no pardons nor would they give gifts to churches and abbeys to purchase forgiveness. The more sins men commit, the wealthier the Church becomes. As the Church is very wealthy, men must be great sinners.
“Where may I find Henry Thryng?” I asked.
The clerk did not immediately answer. When he did ’twas not the reply I sought.
“In the churchyard. When you depart the porch look to your left. You will see, near to the wall, a fresh grave.”
“The man who saw Bertran Muth with the bailiff’s horse is now dead?” I said, rather stupidly. Men are not found in new graves otherwise. “When did he die? What was the cause?”
“’Twas two, perhaps three days, after you were last here. Albreda said he was taken with a gripe of the bowels an’ died but a few hours after.”
“How old was Henry?”
The clerk pursed his lips and shrugged. “Dunno. Thirty years, mayhap thirty-five. Oldest lad is ten or so. Even young men die if their bowels become twisted.”
“Aye,” I agreed. “Where does Albreda live?”
“You remember where the gallows was erected where Bertran was put to death? A lane lead
s to the right. Albreda’s house is second on the left down the lane. You think she’ll know something of the scoundrels who attacked you? Or of Randle Mainwaring’s death?”
The clerk understood why I was a third time in Kencott. But I could not answer his question. After I spoke to the woman I might then reply.
Henry Thryng had reportedly sheared a sheep of Bertran Muth’s, and tried to impinge upon Bertran’s land. When I saw Albreda Thryng’s house I understood why her husband might have resorted to thievery. Daub was peeling from wattles in many places and the roof had needed thatching for many years. Wisps of smoke drifted from the vents and filtered through the thin thatching. Two scrawny chickens scratched about in the toft. A few spindly onions and cabbages grew aside the house. They would provide poor provender for the coming winter.
The door of the house stood open even though the day was cloudy and cool. Arthur and I dismounted, and while he remained with our beasts I approached the open door and rapped my knuckles upon the doorpost.
The woman who appeared, wreathed in smoke from her hearthstone, was nearly as skeletal as John Kellet, and her cotehardie was patched in some places and frayed in others. It seemed her husband did not or could not provide for her and what children they might have produced.
I introduced myself and saw no sign in the woman’s eyes or manner that she had heard of me. As I spoke I saw two children, lads, appear from the smoky gloom of the house. They were as ill clothed as their mother, and as the clerk had suggested, the oldest seemed perhaps ten years old.
“I am told that your husband died about a week past,” I said.
“Aye, ’bout that,” the woman replied guardedly, as if I had some sinister motive in inquiring. Perhaps I did.
“What was the cause?” I asked.
“Dunno. Came ’ome early one day from hoein’ the pea field. Bent double from pain in ’is belly. Gave ’im oil of fennel but did no good.”
“He died soon after?”
“In the night.”
“What had he done before he went to the pea field with his hoe?”
“Doin’ boon work for Sir John. Cuttin’ barley.”
“This was the day before?”
“Nay. Went to harvest on Sir John’s demesne soon as dew was dried, then went to the pea field in the afternoon.”
“Where did he eat his dinner?”
“’Ere. Sir John don’t feed folk doin’ boon work ’less they serve all day.”
A man who might tell me of Bertran Muth and a wandering horse was dead. Coincidence? Perhaps. If I had never appeared in Kencott, would Henry Thryng yet live? Serving as a bailiff has given me a suspicious nature. Many things may cause a man so much pain in his belly that he will bend double in agony. There are poisons which will do so. I had never heard of scything barley or hoeing peas so tormenting a man that he passes from this life to the next.
“Your husband saw Bertran Muth with Randle Mainwaring’s horse.”
“Aye, he did so.”
“In Burford, where Bertran was offering the beast for sale, I’m told.”
“’At’s right.”
“Why was your husband in Burford? Had he some business there?”
“Took capons to sell in the market.”
I looked about the toft and saw only two fowl. Perhaps there had been more before Henry traveled to Burford.
“Your husband must have taken your supply,” I said. “How many did he sell?”
“Wasn’t our fowl,” she said, “’though ’twould be none of your business was they ours.”
“Whose, then?”
“Sir John’s.”
“Sir John’s poulterer did not take them?”
“Nay. Edgar don’t travel about much. All bent with age, is Edgar. When Sir John wants hens or capons took to market he sends another.”
“Had Henry performed this task before?”
“Once, two… three years past.”
“How many fowl did he take to Burford market this last time, when he saw Bertran?”
“Six.”
“Sir John would send a man all the way to Burford for three or four pence?”
“Guess so,” the woman shrugged.
“Before your husband died, of what pains did he complain other than a bellyache?”
“Said ’is mouth was burnin’. I remember that. An’ broke into a great sweat. Tried to stand but was so dizzy ’e couldn’t. Called me Maud.”
“Who was Maud?”
“’Is mother,” the woman said, and shook her head.
“Did he vomit up his dinner?”
“Aye, not an hour after he ate it.”
“Has Sir John appointed a new bailiff yet? To look into matters such as your husband’s death?”
“Nay, not yet. ’Twas Sir John’s son come by next day. Told ’im as how Henry ’ad perished, what news ’e’d already heard.”
“What did the lad say?”
“Said Henry must’ve injured ’imself cuttin’ barley. Twisted ’is bowels from bendin’ an’ swingin’ the scythe… so ’e said.”
“I wonder why he would think so?”
“Said Henry was stooped over when ’e left the field to come home to dinner,” the woman explained.
“Did you see him bent in pain before his meal?”
“Paid no notice. ’E didn’t complain ’till ’e come back from the pea field.”
Albreda Thryng was not likely to know more of her husband’s journey to Burford, nor was I going to learn more of her husband’s death from her. I bid the woman “Good day” – a convention, surely, for she would have few good days in the future unless she could find another husband. She might succeed in this. We have been visited with plague three times, and plague is not selective. It kills women as well as men.
“I ’eard,” Arthur said as I approached him and the palfreys. “Never ’eard of a fellow dyin’ of swingin’ ’is scythe too strong, like.”
“Nor have I. I think we must seek the reeve.”
“Why so?”
“He’d have been in charge of the villeins doing Sir John’s boon work.”
“Oh, you think ’e might’ve seen the fellow begin to suffer from injury?”
“Something like that.”
Chapter 10
The reeve, his wife said, was harvesting his own oat field this day, and told us where it could be found. ’Twas along the road from Alvescot, not far from where Bertran Muth’s sister made her home.
A man who has been swinging a scythe for several hours, and has become sweat-stained, dusty, thirsty, and exhausted, might welcome respite from his labor. So it was that Kencott’s reeve put down his scythe when I approached and gave no hint of displeasure that I had interrupted his toil.
“How may I serve you?” the reeve said, peering at my multicolored face and its sutures. Was that the hint of a smile I saw cross his features?
“Henry Thryng died a few days past, I am told, after doing his boon work on Sir John’s barley field.”
The reeve said nothing, apparently finding nothing in my words with which to disagree.
“Did you notice anything amiss while Henry was at work with the scythe?”
If one of Sir John’s sons said that Henry was bent in pain when he left the barley field, he would surely have learned that from the reeve, or perhaps one of Henry’s fellow laborers. It would be unlikely that the son would have been observing the work of villeins harvesting a barley field.
“Why does the bailiff of Bampton want to know of matters here?” the reeve replied.
“Perhaps some day I will tell you,” I replied. This reeve was not going to tell me much, I decided. I wondered why.
“Has Sir John spoken to you of Lord Gilbert Talbot’s visit a few days past?” I asked.
“Aye.”
“What did Sir John say?”
“Said as how ’twas Lord Gilbert’s request that all in Kencott answer what questions you might ask.”
“Indeed. Though you might bett
er say that ’twas a demand, not a request,” I said.
“Beyond me why you involve yourself with business ’ere. We caught the felon who slew Randle.”
“So ’tis said,” I replied in a tone which implied that I was not convinced that such was true. I did not care if village gossip spread my skepticism. Why else would I return to Kencott?
“But what of Henry Thryng? Did he seem to you in discomfort when he left the barley field and went to his dinner?”
“Nay,” he shrugged. “Walked to ’is home with scythe over ’is shoulder, straight as any man.”
I had another question, but decided that the reeve would perhaps give an unreliable answer. Any villager might provide the information I sought. I bid the reeve “Good day,” rejoined Arthur, and led him and our beasts to the hovel wherein Beatrice would be found.
As in my earlier visit, the woman appeared at her door in answer to my knock in a cloud of smoke from her cooking fire. Perhaps not all of Kencott’s villagers knew of my injuries. The woman blinked in the sunlight, saw my face, then drew back as if I was some fiend from the nether regions.
“Good day,” I said, which I hoped would reassure the woman, as such a greeting would be unlikely from a servant of Lucifer. “Perhaps you will remember that I spoke to you a few days past.”
“Oh, aye. You be the bailiff from Bampton.”
“Aye. Have you lived here in Kencott all of your life?”
“Aye.”
“Then perhaps you know the place well enough that you can tell me if there be, nearby, a place where wolfsbane grows.”
“That which folk call monkshood?” she asked.
“Aye. The plant is known by both names.”
“’Tis a terrible poison,” Beatrice said with a shudder. “Folk ’ave sickened an’ died just from touchin’ the leaves, so I’ve ’eard.”
“Is there a place near the village where the plant can be found?”
“Aye.” The woman looked over my shoulder, then raised her arm and pointed across the road.
“You see yon copse?”
Beatrice indicated a grove of trees perhaps three or four hundred paces distant to the west. I turned to look at her instructions.
