by Mel Starr
“A small brook flows just the other side of that wood. Folk do say monkshood can be found thereabouts.”
The woman’s directions seemed reasonable, as monkshood seeks damp, shady places. I thanked the woman, returned to Arthur and the palfreys, and as I mounted my beast turned to glance back at Beatrice. She stood in her door, watching us depart with a mouth hanging open in wonder.
“You think that fellow’s bellyache suspicious?” Arthur said.
“Aye. I’d like to see where monkshood grows. Perhaps there will be some sign that a plant has been pulled from the dirt recently.”
There was.
Arthur and I rode the palfreys across a meadow, tied the beasts to trees at the verge of the wood, then picked our way through the grove to the low ground on the far side. There were many fallen branches there for Sir John’s villeins to gather in the autumn for winter fuel.
We had taken only a few steps along the rivulet which Beatrice had called a brook when we saw the first purple flowers of the deadly vegetation. Twenty or so paces farther was a place where the leaves and mold of a forest floor had been disturbed. Perhaps two or three plants had here been uprooted. The oil pressed from that many roots might kill half a dozen men. I resolved to neither eat nor drink anything whilst in Kencott.
Arthur followed my gaze and spoke. “Suppose some fellows pulled monkshood there? Somethin’ was drawn from the ground.”
“So it seems,” I replied.
“Don’t know much about monkshood or wolfsbane or whatever it’s to be called. Does it take a man as Henry Thryng was afflicted?”
“It does. Nausea, burning of the mouth, vomiting, confusion.”
“How long does it take to kill a man?”
“No more than six hours, so I’ve heard. Perhaps less. Depends upon the dose.”
Arthur appeared deep in thought, tugging at his beard with thumb and forefinger.
“If ’is wife didn’t put poison in ’is pottage, then ’e must ’ave ate it in the mornin’, or drank it, whilst ’e was at Sir John’s boon work.”
“Aye, it does seem so. But why, I wonder? The apostle wrote that ‘the love of money is the root of all evil,’ but Henry Thryng was a villein, and poorer than most, I’d say. No man would slay him for his wealth.”
“Mayhap,” Arthur said thoughtfully, “wasn’t Henry’s money the poisoner was after… if money was behind this business, but someone else’s money.”
“Perhaps. If money was the cause of the poisoning of Henry Thryng – and we cannot be sure that the man was poisoned…”
“Likely, though,” Arthur said.
“Aye, likely. But then, whose money was at risk if Henry Thryng lived? Or Randle Mainwaring? Perhaps Henry sheared another sheep which wasn’t his, or stole another man’s furrow.”
“You think the two deaths connected?”
“Aye, but do not ask me for proof of that.”
“Not yet,” Arthur smiled. “In a few days perhaps I will do so… If Henry wasn’t slain for ’is money, then for whose?” he continued.
“Don’t know. But if we can discover why Henry was murdered – assuming he was – we will be well along to discovering who slew him.”
“An’ who slew the bailiff fellow, also?”
“Aye, the bailiff also.”
“Who’s got most wealth on a manor such as Kencott?” Arthur said. “Think mayhap Henry’s death has to do with Sir John?”
“Follow the money, eh?” I said.
“Most folks do,” Arthur replied.
My stomach at that moment growled loudly enough that Arthur could hear. He looked at me, grinned, and said, “Me, also. You reckon Kencott’s got an inn? Didn’t see one.”
“Nay, I think not.” I then explained why I had decided to take no food or drink in the village.
“Oh,” he said. “Suddenly I ain’t so hungry any more.”
“We have learned much this day,” I said. “We will return to Bampton and visit Kencott again tomorrow. Some man of this place will know we have been here this day, will know why we are here, and will worry about what we have discovered. Perhaps his apprehension will cause him to do some rash, foolish thing which will point him out.”
“Like waylayin’ you upon the road again, an’ this time with worse intent.”
“’Tis why you are here.”
“Lucky me.”
“I’ve seen you brawling. I know that you relish a fight.”
“Only when ’tis thrust upon me. Never start a scrap.”
“Aye. You are content to finish it.”
“That’s so,” he grinned.
We retraced our steps through the wood, mounted our palfreys, rode across the meadow to the road, and entered Bampton an hour later, at the ninth hour. Arthur led our beasts to the marshalsea while I walked to Galen House.
At the bridge across Shill Brook I stopped to gaze into the stream. There had been little rain for several weeks, so the brook was not high, and its flow was slow. My stomach again growled, so I did not linger upon the bridge, but hastened to Church View Street and my belated dinner.
My lips were yet some swollen and tender, and this Kate knew, so a soft pottage again awaited me. I would be well pleased to consume something more substantial when I was healed. A roasted capon and wheaten loaf would be pleasant.
Kate held her tongue until I had eaten my fill, then asked of my discoveries in Kencott.
“I went to speak to a man who may have known of hidden things, but discovered that he is dead.”
“So if he knew of hidden things, they will remain hidden.”
“Aye, unless some other man also knows of secret matters.”
“Would such a man also be in danger?”
“You come readily to the point,” I said.
Kate smiled. “Perhaps, being wed to a bailiff, I am beginning to think like one.”
“Ah, I trust not. One person mistrustful of others is enough for a family.”
“You said that the dead man may have known of hidden things. Is there a reason to believe that the knowledge led to his death?”
I told Kate of the circumstances of Henry Thryng’s death, and of discovering the boggy place where it seemed likely that monkshood plants had been uprooted. She shuddered.
“I’ve heard of the poison,” she said. “’Twould be an evil way to die.”
“There are few pleasant ways to pass from this life to the next.”
“Aye,” she agreed. “Perhaps that is why men fear death so… not for what may be their fate in the next life, but for the pain of the transit.”
I spent the remainder of the day playing in the toft with Bessie and healing my wounds in the setting sun. Kate’s stitchery itched less than a day or two in the past, and my face and ribs were fading from purple to a pale yellow. This was an improvement which did not seem so, for neither color is complimentary to my features.
I was not much hungry for supper that day, so after a light meal of maslin loaf and cheese I walked to the castle and sought Arthur. While chasing Bessie about the toft an idea had come to me. It is possible to frolic with a child while one’s mind is occupied with other concerns. A two-year-old does not know or care. I told Arthur to have our palfreys ready by the third hour on the morrow.
Next morn my lips were reduced enough in size that I consumed my maslin loaf with little discomfort. I placed two more loaves and a flagon of ale into a sack and when Kate looked to me with a question in her eyes I explained that if the disturbed earth which Arthur and I had found was indeed a place where monkshood had been uprooted, there was likely enough of the plant taken to poison more than one man. If I was to perish in Kencott in mysterious circumstances Lord Gilbert would, no doubt, take vengeance upon the guilty, if they were discovered. That would be of little comfort to me or Kate. When I finished the explanation for why I did not want to eat or drink whilst in Kencott, Kate shuddered and clasped me close. My ribs were yet sore, but I did not care.
Chapter 11
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Our palfreys were accustomed to the journey, so required little guidance as Arthur and I traveled again to Kencott. I intended to call first at the church, to again seek the clerk. This also was a procedure with which the beasts were familiar. They turned toward the lych gate and halted where they had been tied the day before.
No priest will tell of what he has learned in the confessional, nor should he. And no clerk would know of the matters his priest had uncovered. But a clerk might know who had recently confessed.
Most men seek absolution a few times each year, no more. But it had occurred to me while entertaining Bessie that a man who had committed a grievous sin might wish to confess it and seek pardon and penance soon after his crime. No man would wish to die with unconfessed murder upon his conscience. How many thousands of years in purgatory might he be assigned – if such a place exists for the unshriven?
I might not learn of any man’s confession of murder, of either Randle Mainwaring or Henry Thryng, but I might discover who had sought confession and absolution. The bailiff’s death was distant enough that surely many men had visited the confessional box since his demise near to St. John’s Day, but Henry was newly dead. Life is uncertain. A man who slays another has evidence of that, and might seek his penance before some tragic event ends his own life.
St. George’s Church was empty. Two houses stood directly across the road from the church. I had seen the village priest enter the larger of the two. I guessed that the clerk made his home in the meaner dwelling.
I rapped upon the door of this smaller house and a few moments later it swung open. A woman stared through the opening at me. A child clung to the hem of her cotehardie.
I was temporarily speechless. “I beg pardon,” I said when I had found my voice. “I seek the clerk of yon church.”
Before I could apologize more for troubling the woman she said, “I’ll fetch ’im.”
The folk of Kencott, along with priest and clerk, likely spoke of this woman as the clerk’s housekeeper. But all know that many such men in holy orders keep women. This is not held against them so long as they are faithful to the woman. Perhaps, should I pound upon the door to the priest’s house, a “housekeeper” would greet me there also, I thought.
The clerk approached his door, blinked in the sunlight, saw who stood before him, and greeted me. He showed no sign of embarrassment that I had uncovered his living arrangement. Perhaps the woman really was but a housekeeper. Perhaps some day I will be made chancellor of England.
“I would speak to you privily,” I said, and looked both ways to see if any man approached upon the road. “My man will take our beasts to your toft. I’d sooner no man know of this conversation.”
The clerk was no fool. “For your sake, or mine?” he said.
“Both.”
“Tell him then to do so, and enter.”
I did.
Brilliant sunshine passing through the oiled skins of the clerk’s windows illuminated the chamber as well as it was ever likely to be. The clerk called to his woman for ale, then pointed to a bench and invited me to sit.
I trusted this clerk more than any other man of Kencott, but was resolved to take none of his ale. But when the woman appeared she held an ewer in one hand and two cups in another. She poured ale from the ewer into the cups, then rested the ewer upon a table. If I was to consume the poison of monkshood by drinking the ale, the clerk would join me in death before the day was done.
I thought this unlikely. The fellow seized a cup and took a great gulp of ale, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, then drank again.
“One moment,” I said. “My man will have a thirst.”
I took the cup before me to Arthur, who had led the palfreys into the toft behind the house, and explained to him that he need not fear quenching his thirst. I then asked for another cup of the clerk’s woman. This I filled from the ewer, then resumed my place upon the bench. I did not ask the clerk or his woman to take ale to Arthur as I did not want the ewer to leave its place.
But the ewer had left my sight whilst I took the cup to Arthur. I drank sparingly. You see what I mean about bailiffs becoming suspicious of all men.
“Of what do you wish to speak?” the clerk said between swallows of ale. ’Twas good ale, not watered. Either the town possessed a good ale wife, or the clerk’s woman brewed well.
“Henry Thryng died in some agony,” I said.
“So I have heard,” the clerk replied.
“I was told where I might find monkshood growing nearby.”
“You think…” the clerk exclaimed, and set his cup down upon the table.
“Don’t know,” I shrugged. “My man and I found the place yesterday. There is sign there that some vegetation was uprooted and not long ago.”
“Where monkshood grows?”
“Aye. Many of the plants remain.”
“Who would poison Henry? He did not ill treat Albreda… least, not that I’ve heard.”
“Would you have heard?”
“Do you know of Bampton men who beat their wives?” the clerk asked.
“Aye, I do.”
“’Tis impossible for a man to do so without others learning of it in villages like Kencott and Bampton. For one thing, the women make such an awful screeching that half the village will hear.”
“When does your priest hear confessions?” I asked.
The clerk’s eyes narrowed at this change of subject. “You seek absolution here rather than in Bampton?”
“Nay. What days?”
“Monday mornings. You think Henry was poisoned and the felon will have confessed to Father Kendrick? He’ll not tell you, even if ’tis so.”
“I know. I only wish to learn who has visited the confessional since Henry died.”
“Ah, I see. You think amongst those who have sought absolution there may be a murderer?”
“Perhaps. Were you about the church last Monday to see who entered the confessional?”
“Aye, most of the morning.”
I waited for the clerk to continue, but he was silent. He stared at the glowing skin stretched across his window. I knew his thoughts. Would he betray the confessional if he told me who had visited Father Kendrick, even though neither of us would know what was said by any of the confessors? Would a refusal to give me names mean that a murderer might go free?
“You must weigh justice against the sanctity of the confessional,” I said.
“Perhaps none of those who went to Father Kendrick had anything to do with a felony,” he said.
“Then you will do no harm by naming them. Only my time will be wasted seeking a murderer where there is none.”
“If you believe that, why ask for names?”
“I do not so think. I say only that it may be so. I know not what to think but that a dead man was found in Bampton’s St. John’s Day fire and ’tis my duty to seek justice for the slain.”
The clerk again fell silent. Then he finally spoke. “Will any man know how you discovered those who sought absolution Monday? Will Father Kendrick know?”
“I will tell no one – not even Arthur.”
“Arthur?”
“He who stands in your toft with our palfreys. Even Lord Gilbert will not know.”
I felt confident in this assurance. Lord Gilbert seldom troubles himself with matters he has delegated to me. He is interested in the conclusion of such business, but how the conclusion is arrived at is of little interest to him. I suspect the same is true of others of his station.
“Alfred Maskylene was first, I think, then Maud Yardley. Thomas Dyer, Agnes Cribs, Geoffrey deMeaux… Aylmer Smith also.”
“Six of the village?”
“Aye… no, Jaket Wheatstone, also.”
I waited silently while the clerk rummaged through his memory, seeking any others who might have entered St. George’s Church Monday morning.
“Seven, I think. That was all.”
“Have any of these quarreled with Henry Thryng?”
“Henry was likely to quarrel with anyone.”
“You said that you’ve lived in Kencott for a year.”
“Aye, near about.”
“Henry was in dispute with many others in that time?”
“Mostly with Bertran Muth.”
“Bertran had accused him of shearing a fleece and stealing a furrow, I’m told.”
“Don’t know what the issue was. Only that they come to blows an’ the reeve had to sort it out.”
“In Bertran’s favor?”
“Aye,” the clerk agreed.
“On another matter,” I said. “I was told that Randle Mainwaring was high born.”
The clerk was silent for some time. “’Tis a matter best not spoken of in Kencott,” he finally said, “but in private.”
“Why so? What difference who a bailiff’s ancestors were?”
“Not sure. Been here a year, as you know, and in that time I’ve heard it spoken of but once.”
“What was said?”
“Hah… only that such talk must not be bandied about.”
“And so it isn’t?”
“Nay, but perhaps in the dark, when folk lie abed.”
“Are you not curious about why the matter is considered unfit for conversation?”
“Not curious enough to get in trouble for asking improper questions. I’ve a good life here. I wish to keep it so. Perhaps, when Father Kendrick dies, I will be named to replace him.”
“St. George’s Church is in Sir John’s gift?” I asked.
“Aye.”
“You suspect it is he who is opposed to a discussion of Randle Mainwaring’s lineage?”
“Who else would care?”
“Who, indeed?”
I bid the clerk “Good day,” sought Arthur, and was careful not to depart the toft with our beasts until I saw that the road between the church and the clerk’s house was vacant. The reeve had not been hospitable the day before, but what I wished to know I could discover from no other.
“Overseeing boon work,” the reeve’s wife said when I called at his house. Sir John’s barley and oat fields were nearly all harvested. One more day, the reeve had told his wife.
