by Mel Starr
The woman directed us to the field being cut, and when Arthur and I drew near I saw a dozen men in line abreast swinging scythes across the brown, ripened grain. Behind them women with rakes spread the cut stalks so the barley would dry evenly. I did not at first identify the reeve, for he worked with the others. A reeve who was a villein, not a tenant. Sir John did indeed live in the past.
As Arthur and I approached the harvesters I turned in the saddle and saw that we were followed. A lad of perhaps twelve years sat upon a small cart which was drawn by a shaggy runcie. When the horse reached the edge of the barley field the youth guided it from the road, across a shallow ditch, and through a gated opening in the stone wall which enclosed the field.
Behind the lad upon the cart was a large earthen pot. The youth guided his beast around the edge of the barley field, and when it came near the harvesters I saw them lay down their scythes and walk toward the cart. Perhaps my question for the reeve was to be answered before I asked it.
I told Arthur that we would dismount. We tied the palfreys to a bush and leaned upon the wall to watch. If any man or woman saw us they paid no attention. They regarded only the cart and its burden.
The laborers formed a queue, the lad jumped down from his perch and produced two cups, and each man and woman in turn took a cup, dipped it into the pot, then drank deeply of the contents. Sir John had provided ale to quench the thirst of the dusty villeins.
I had meant to ask the reeve if Henry Thryng had consumed food or drink whilst at boon work the morning of his death that his wife would not have known of. It now seemed certain that he had. But no other laborer had died that day. I would surely have heard of it had there been other deaths in the village. If Henry consumed the poison of monkshood, how was it that no other did, if they drank from the same pot?
I watched as all of those in the barley field drank then renewed their labor, and saw no curious behavior which might tell how one man of such a company could swallow poison while the others did not. Perhaps the reeve could tell me if, the day Henry died, the ale had been offered in some other fashion. Perhaps he could, but perhaps he would not.
One of the villeins, then. Perhaps Bertran Muth’s brother-in-law was among the laborers. I resolved to wait along the road to the village and see if one of the men walked to Beatrice’s door when his day’s work was done. I told Arthur, and we led our beasts back from whence we had come.
Two strange men loitering about such a village as Kencott are likely to attract unwanted attention, especially if one is constructed like a wine cask and the other’s face is sewn together like a tattered kirtle. I decided to go straight to Beatrice’s house, ask of her husband, and await him there if he was among those at boon work. He was.
“What’s this about, then?” Beatrice asked. “I know why you’re ’ere. Folk in Kencott been talkin’ of it.”
“What do they say?”
“You ain’t satisfied that Bertran murdered Randle.”
“Does that trouble your neighbors?”
“Dunno,” she shrugged. “Don’t trouble me, unless you think my Richard has somethin’ to do with murder.”
“I do not, but I do wish to speak to him of some matter which he may have observed.”
“Be ’ome for ’is dinner soon.”
Arthur and I sat upon a crude bench in the woman’s yard and awaited her husband’s arrival. The reeve must have kept the harvesters beyond noon, for the dusty, sweat-stained fellow did not appear ’till past midday. Perhaps the reeve wished to complete work in the barley field before discharging the laborers. He’d not be chosen reeve again if he did such a thing often.
Richard saw us but paid no heed. Rather, he went straight to a bucket and splashed water from it upon his face and arms to flush away grime. Only when he had completed his ablutions did he turn to me.
“You be the bailiff of Bampton what’s been askin’ questions of folk about Randle?” he said.
“I am. Now I have questions for you.”
“Ask,” he said. “I’d no quarrel with ’im.”
“Were there folk of Kencott who did?”
“You’re a bailiff. You ’ave quarrels with villeins an’ tenants an’ such?”
“Foolish question,” I smiled. “But ’tis not of Randle Mainwaring I wish to speak to you. This morn, an hour and more past, a cart appeared in the barley field where you and others were cutting grain. Did the pot upon it contain ale?”
“Aye. Sir John don’t make us work on ’is demesne lands all day, so gives us no dinner… but ’e does give us to drink. Welcome it is, too.”
“I’m sure. Cast your mind back to the day Henry Thryng died. Was all as it was today? Men and women formed a queue, dipped from the pot, and drank, one after the other?”
“Aye, just like that.”
“There was no difference? Nothing changed?”
The man paused. “Well, one thing was not quite the same.”
“Tell me.”
“Reeve told us to cease our work when cart came, an’ slake our thirst, but when Henry joined the queue reeve called ’im to speak of some matter. Don’t know what.”
“So Henry Thryng did not drink of the ale?” Here was startling news.
“Oh, aye. Henry had ’is ale – just not right then. When all others ’ad their ale reeve sent Henry to get ’is drink. Right then the horse give a leap like it’d been fly-bit. Upset the kettle, an’ what ale was left got poured to ground. Wrathful, was Henry.”
“How, then,” I asked, “did Henry get his ale?”
“Reeve cursed the lad an’ sent ’im back to Sir John’s brew house for more.”
“When he returned did others also drink more, or only Henry?”
“Only Henry, methinks.”
“What of the reeve? Did he drink with the others, or after Henry had had his share?”
Richard tugged at his beard and stared thoughtfully into the distance. “Don’t remember Jaket havin’ any ale that day.”
“Neither with you, from the first pot, nor with Henry, from the second?” I asked.
“Nay. Not that I recall. Soon as Henry’d ’ad ’is fill, reeve sent the lad on ’is way. I’d ’ave liked more ale, was there more in the pot, but reeve sent the lad from the field.”
You’d not have wanted more of that ale, I thought. But this I did not say to the man. Not yet. It has always seemed to me that the closer I come to resolving a matter, the more circumspect I must become with the information I have accumulated.
“Do not speak of this conversation with any man,” I cautioned Richard.
“Why not? Would it be dangerous to do so?” he asked.
“It might,” I replied. Although likely more dangerous for me than for him. But he did not need to know that.
Arthur and I left the man to his dinner and sought our beasts. A small stream flowed near to the road a hundred or so paces from the church, and we led the palfreys there to drink. Arthur spoke as we walked.
“Reckon we know how Henry Thryng got ’is bellyache.”
“Aye. But we need to know why.”
“He’d no money to steal. An’ seein’ ’is wife, I doubt any man would slay ’im so’s to wed ’is widow.”
“I grant you that,” I agreed.
“To silence ’im, then?”
“Likely. He was sent to Burford to sell six capons. Hardly worth the journey. There he saw Bertran Muth selling Randle Mainwaring’s horse.”
“You suppose that wasn’t so?” Arthur said.
“It has crossed my mind.”
“Me too. Then you come to Kencott an’ begin askin’ questions which made some folk unhappy.”
“Indeed.”
“Unhappy enough that they attacked you on the road an’ did away with Henry Thryng before you had a chance to speak to ’im, after Lord Gilbert told Sir John you was to get what help you needed. Same folks, you suppose?”
“Seems a safe assumption. A man would have to be witless,” I said, “not to gues
s that when I returned to Kencott one of the first men I would seek would be Henry.”
Arthur looked about him while the palfreys drank. “Closer we get to findin’ who them folks is, more likely they’ll try to stop you, an’ stop folk from talkin’ to you.”
“Aye. We must be on our guard. ’Tis why I told Richard to speak to no man of what we have now learned from him.”
Chapter 12
’Twas convenient for someone that the horse which drew the cart carrying ale to Sir John’s boon workers shied enough to upset the cart’s burden. This event was surely planned, and if so ’twas no stray insect which caused the beast to bolt. The lad upon the cart would know.
“Come,” I said to Arthur when the palfreys had drunk their fill. “We must speak to Richard again.”
Arthur looked to me with a puzzled expression but has known me long enough that he no longer troubles himself with my unpredictable ways.
The villein was just finishing his pottage when we reappeared at his door. I thought he might be displeased to have his meal interrupted, but if so, he hid it well. Perhaps his meal was not pleasing enough to demand enthusiastic consumption.
“The lad who brought ale to you this day,” I said as Richard wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “was it the same who did so the day the runcie was startled and overturned the ale pot?”
“Aye. Same as every day.”
“Who is it? Where can the lad be found?”
“Walter, Edwin Smith’s lad.”
“Edwin is the village smith?”
“Aye. Hires out Walter as stableboy to Sir John.”
I thanked Richard for this added information, bid him “Good day” again, and mounted my palfrey. Arthur did likewise, and followed as I set off for the smith’s forge. We had passed the place several times that day.
We found the smith at work, his dinner apparently consumed. He looked up from his work as Arthur and I dismounted, but continued banging away upon a glowing bar until it had cooled. Only then did he leave his anvil and speak.
“G’day… how may I serve you?” the fellow said in a cordial tone. This was unlike Bampton’s smith, who greets all men with a scowl. Especially bailiffs.
“You are Edwin?” I asked, knowing already the answer. Such a village would not have two smiths.
“Aye. An’ you be the fellow from Bampton what’s nosin’ about, seekin’ to learn of Randle.”
“Aye. I am Master Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at Bampton. Village gossip has traveled before me, I see.”
“Not gossip, so to speak.”
“Oh? How did you learn of me?”
“Jaket come by a few days past. Said you might call.”
“What else did the reeve say?”
“I was to answer your questions, but no more.”
“That will suffice,” I said. “Your son, Walter, serves in Sir John’s stable, I’ve heard.”
“Aye. Likes beasts, does Walter.”
“When will he return from his work at the stables?”
The smith, whose manner had been agreeable, suddenly turned chill. “What have you to do with my son?” he said.
“Very little. But he witnessed an event a few days past of which I seek knowledge. You may listen to my questions and his response.”
“Oh.” The smith relaxed and his demeanor again became amenable. “Takes ’is dinner with other of Sir John’s pages an’ grooms, then returns ’ome ’bout the ninth hour.”
“Not long, then, ’till he’ll appear.”
“Aye, not long.”
“We will rest ourselves under yon tree,” I said, “and await the lad.”
This seemed agreeable to the smith, who turned to his bellows and began pumping vigorously.
Arthur and I sat in the shade of a beech tree which overhung the smith’s forge and consumed our loaves. Arthur was soon snoring peacefully. I interrupted his slumber when I saw the smith’s lad approach.
The child sauntered along the road, idly kicking a twig in the manner of the young who see before them no impediment to continued days of health and pleasure.
The lad turned to enter his father’s forge with Arthur and I close behind. With the keen ears of youth he heard our footsteps behind him. He turned with some alarm.
“Walter,” the smith said, “here is a man who would speak to you.”
“’Bout what?” the lad said.
“Your work for Sir John,” I said.
“Ain’t supposed to speak of that.”
“Why not? Who has forbidden you from doing so?”
“Jaket… an’ Geoffrey.”
“The reeve, and Sir John’s son?”
“Aye.”
“What reason did they give that you must not talk of your work in Sir John’s stables?”
“Said some troublesome man was vexing our village. If ’e got no help from lads like me he’d go back to whence ’e come an’ leave honest folk alone. You be ’im?”
“Aye, I am the troublesome man. But the reeve was wrong about one thing. I will not return to Bampton and leave murder unpunished.”
“Murder? But we hung Bertran.”
“There may be other felons about. You can help to root them out.”
“But…”
“Not what the reeve said, eh?”
“Nor Geoffrey.”
“Your duties have been increased, I’ve heard, since harvest began. You now take a pot of ale to folk who work on Sir John’s demesne lands.”
“Saw you watchin’ this mornin’, leanin’ on the wall.”
“Indeed, so you did. A few days past your beast jerked the cart and caused the pot of ale to tip.”
Walter said nothing, apparently accepting my explanation of the event.
“Why did the beast do so? Old runcies are not usually so quick to plunge about if startled.”
The lad was yet silent, offering no explanation for his charge’s unpredictable behavior. I decided to offer an explanation and watch his reaction.
“Who was it gave you the sharpened stick and told you to poke the beast in the rump?”
Walter’s face became white. He looked to his father, who, as I had agreed, was listening to the conversation.
“Answer Master Hugh,” the smith said softly.
“Said I was to do as told an’ hold my tongue. Did I not, I’d suffer for it.”
“Who said this?” I asked.
“Jaket.”
“He told you that he and another man would delay getting their ale, and when they approached, you were to alarm your beast with the stick and cause the pot to overturn? Is that how ’twas?”
“Aye, like that. Jaket said as how he would then curse me, but I was to pay no mind. I’d be told to return to the brewhouse for more ale, an’ take it back for them as hadn’t got any.”
“The ale wife filled the pot again? Did she expect you?”
“Nay. ’Twas Geoffrey what give me more ale to take back to barley field.”
“Say nothing of this conversation,” I said.
The smith looked from me to his son, then spoke. “Is Walter in danger?”
“He may be if Geoffrey or the reeve knows what he has said.”
“Why so?”
“The man who drank from the second pot of ale your son took to the barley field was Henry Thryng.”
The smith crossed himself and stepped back as if Arthur had swatted him aside the head. He turned to his son and said, “Was that the day Henry died?”
“Aye,” Walter whispered.
“Then peril walks Kencott streets,” the smith said.
“It does,” I agreed. “I urge you to take no food or drink from any man. Walter, continue your work for Sir John as in the past, but neither eat nor drink anything Geoffrey or the reeve may offer you.”
“But… but that’s where I eat me dinner, with Sir John’s servants.”
“Eat only what you see others eat – nothing else. Soup from the same pot as others, bread
from loaves you choose, not given to you.”
Walter stammered that he understood and would do as I advised. Arthur and I departed the forge leaving a frightened man and his son behind. Well might they be.
Arthur and I had learned much this day. I decided that ’twould be best to return to Bampton, consider what I had discovered, and make plans to return next day. I admit that as we passed through the wood east of Alvescot where I had been waylaid, I glanced about uneasily.
I left Arthur and the palfreys at the castle and walked to Galen House. Again I stopped at Shill Brook to gaze into the stream. The psalmist has told men that they should “Be still and know that I am God.” I admit that in the busyness of the day, I had not considered Him nor sought guidance of the Lord Christ. I amended the fault there upon the bridge.
I was sure of the cause of Henry Thryng’s death. How to prove a knight’s son or reeve was the felon was another matter. And why would Geoffrey or Jaket slay the villein? Because Henry might tell me something of Randle Mainwaring’s death? Probably, but what?
Thomas Attewood said Mainwaring was high born. What of it? Folk in Kencott and Broadwell seemed to know of the bailiff ’s ancestry, but chose not to speak of it. Why so?
My dinner had been simple, so Kate prepared let lardes for our supper. My appetite had increased in the past days as my swollen lips decreased, and my loose tooth did not interfere with enjoyment of the meal.
I told Kate what I had learned that day in Kencott, and she asked a question I should have thought of.
“You think the smith’s lad might know something of the dead bailiff’s horse? You said the beast must have been cared for somewhere for a month. Who better to do so than a stableboy?”
“I shall ask the lad tomorrow. The reeve and Geoffrey deMeaux seem sure to have planned Henry Thryng’s death. Perhaps they did murder of Randle Mainwaring also, and hid the bailiff’s horse in the stables ’till they found a way to use the beast to turn men’s suspicions to another.”
“’Twas one of them, then, who set men to attack you upon the road.”
“Mayhap. They saw me coming closer to the truth of Mainwaring’s death than I knew at the time, if the bailiff’s death was at their hands.”
