Ashes to Ashes

by Mel Starr

  I asked for Edwin, not really expecting – after seeing his wife’s haggard face – to find him at home. He was not.

  “You be the bailiff from Bampton?” the woman asked.

  “Aye. Has Walter been found?”

  “Nay. Edwin’s been home to break ’is fast, an’ gone back to search for ’im. Been at it all night. Hope they find ’im now it’s day.”

  “Aye, he should be found soon, now that the sun is up,” I agreed. But in my heart I did not. A lad would not run off alone, giving no hint of his plan. Some other child in the village would have heard Walter speak of some grievance and his scheme to escape whatever oppression, real or imagined, which afflicted him. When such a youth heard that Walter was missing, would he hold his tongue? Even if Walter had pledged him to secrecy? Perhaps, but I had doubts.

  Either Walter had hidden himself, or some man had hidden him. I was becoming convinced his disappearance was due to the latter explanation.

  “I and my man will join the search,” I said, and bowing to convention, bid the woman “Good day,” although it was not.

  “Thought you said we mustn’t be seen havin’ too much to do with the smith or his lad,” Arthur said when we passed from the forge to the road.

  “We must not,” I shrugged, “but ’twill do no greater harm to think two more pairs of eyes are seeking her child. And I do intend we should join the search, but not with the others. We will seek the clerk.”

  “He may be with those who search for Walter.”

  “Aye, likely so. But his housekeeper may know where he has gone to seek the lad.”

  “You think he may know where he is?”

  “He may have thoughts about where the lad could be hid, if he has not gone off of his own choice.”

  “I can think of only two men who would want to seize the lad,” Arthur said, “if that’s what has happened – Geoffrey or Jaket.”

  “Or Sir John,” I said. “And if they have done so they’ll be wise enough not to confine the lad in manor house or stables or barns. The clerk might know of other hidden places.”

  “Would the clerk not have gone to such a place already?” Arthur asked.

  “He might, unless he felt constrained to wait for some opportune time.”

  “Ah. He did say that he has a good life in Kencott an’ don’t want to risk bein’ sent away.”

  We reached the clerk’s house as Arthur delivered this observation. I left him with the palfreys and pounded upon the door. The housekeeper soon appeared and, as I had assumed, told me that her employer was away, seeking a child missing from his home.

  “Do you know where he searches?” I asked.

  “Nay. Went off last evening, when ’e ’eard of the child bein’ gone. Ain’t been ’ome since.”

  “He has not returned to break his fast?”

  “Nay,” the woman said, and I saw a slight furrow go vertical between her eyebrows. She thought this odd. So did I. Even Walter’s father had returned home for a loaf to strengthen him for continuing the search.

  “When he returns tell him that Master Hugh seeks him.”

  “Where will you be found?”

  A good question. I answered honestly. “I’ll be about the village, seeking him. If Simon should return before I find him, be sure to tell him I have called and need to speak to him. What is Simon’s surname?”

  “Hode… Simon Hode.”

  Arthur and I led our beasts from the clerk’s house. I had no more idea of where to seek the clerk than I had of where Walter might be. I decided to seek a thing more easily found: another lad near to Walter’s age. We returned to the smith’s house.

  Walter’s mother looked upon us dully. The cares of life will cause the sparkling eyes of youth, lass or lad, to someday lose their luster. To lose a child must surely dim the glow even more. I pray that Kate and I will never discover if this is so.

  “Your lad Walter,” I said. “Has he friends of his own years with whom he spends time? Perhaps a lad near his age who is also employed in Sir John’s stables?”

  “None as work in stables,” the woman replied.

  “Others, then?”

  “John Woodman an’ Walter’s close.”

  “Whereabouts does John live?”

  “House just beyond the reeve’s. Mother’s dead, an’ Thomas’ll likely be searchin’ for Walter.”

  “Thomas?”

  “Thomas Woodman, John’s father. What you want with John?”

  “He might know if there is a place where Walter might go.”

  “My Edwin already thought of that. John named two places but Walter wasn’t at either of ’em.”

  “Mayhap the lad will have thought of some other place of concealment since then?”

  The woman did not reply. Hope, if it had ever been strong within her, had become weak. “Mayhap,” she finally said softly.

  I did not bid the woman “Good day” when I turned to leave her door. It seemed absurd to do so. What, then? Should I have wished her a foul day? Of course not. ’Twas already bad enough without requesting that it become worse. Language fails at such times.

  But not completely. I turned again and retraced my steps. The smith’s wife stood yet in her doorway. “I pray that Walter will be found soon,” I said, “and I and my man will do all we can to make it so.”

  The woman nodded and I saw a tear trace a path down her cheek. I am not at my best dealing with weeping females, so turned away and this time did not stop until I had mounted my palfrey.

  “Where to?” Arthur asked as he also put a foot to stirrup.

  “A house just beyond the reeve’s house. ’Twill bring us close to Sir John’s manor house, but that cannot be helped.”

  “An’ he likely knows what we’re about, anyway,” Arthur said.

  Thomas Woodman was evidently not a wealthy man. His house was small, little more than a hut, the thatching thin where it was not rotting. Daub had peeled from the wattles in many places, and the toft contained only a small patch of onions and turnips and served as a home to three hens. If there was a rooster nearby he kept himself hid.

  The door of this house stood open and so I called, “John… John Woodman,” into the dim interior. A small, freckle-faced lad immediately appeared, and behind him two smaller children. These lasses peered around their brother to see who stood at their door.

  “Is your father at home,” I asked, “or does he search for Walter?”

  “Lookin’ for Walter,” the boy said.

  “Walter is your friend, so says his mother. I have just come from speaking to her.”

  I saw the lad’s worried expression soften at the mention of Walter’s mother. “Walter’s father asked you last night, I’m told, if there was any place where you and Walter might hide from others. Some secret place lads like you know of, but no others.”

  “Told ’im ‘Nay,’” John said.

  Walter’s mother had said that this lad had named two places where Walter might have gone. Why now would he say he had named no such places?

  “Have you thought more on it this morning? Has any place come to mind that you might not have thought of last night?”

  “Nay… an’ I’m not to talk to you.”

  “Who am I, that you are not to speak to me?”

  “You’re the bailiff of some other village, ’ere to stir up trouble.”

  I could not fault the lad. Seeking a felon in Kencott had already brought trouble and was likely to cause more.

  “Who told you this?”

  “Me father.”

  “And who told him?”

  “Dunno. Seen ’im talkin’ to Jaket an’ Geoffrey. Them, I s’pose.”

  “When did you last see Walter to speak to him?”

  “Ain’t s’posed to talk to you,” John said stubbornly.

  “Do you wish for Walter to be found?”

  “Aye,” the youth finally said.

  “Then what harm can come from answering questions from a man who is seeking him?”<
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  John made no reply. He seemed to be considering the point. I asked again, “When did you last talk to Walter?”

  “Yesterday mornin’,” he finally said.

  “Was he on his way to yon stables?”

  “Aye. Like to work for Sir John meself. If Walter don’t return, mayhap I can ’ave ’is place.”

  “Did he say anything about leaving Kencott, or hiding from any man? Was he fearful?”

  “Nay.”

  “What did he speak of?”

  “Said as how he couldn’t stop. Had to muck out or Sir John would be displeased with ’im for bein’ tardy.”

  “When he left you, did he go to the stables?”

  “Guess so. Didn’t watch. Had to go to the well for water, so went to me own work.”

  Here was curious information. From Thomas Woodman’s house to Sir John’s stables could be no more than seventy or so paces. How could a lad vanish in such a short time and distance? Arthur supplied an answer, for he had heard John Woodman’s words.

  “Why would Walter come so near to the stables, then turn away? I’m thinkin’ the lad didn’t go elsewhere of ’is own choice.”

  “If he did,” I replied, “’twas a last-minute decision.”

  As I spoke two men approached from the north. They had not been in the road a moment earlier. They must have been prowling the wood and fields which verged upon the road, searching there for Walter. Why else would men suddenly appear, carrying no hoes or scythes or axes or any other tool useful in field or forest?

  When they drew near I stepped into the road to greet them. The fellows were pale and haggard. Perhaps they had searched for Walter through the night.

  “You have explored yon wood, seeking for Walter?” I asked.

  “Aye,” one replied. “Ain’t there ’less ’e grew wings an’ is perched atop an oak.”

  “Run off, if you ask me,” the other said.

  “Was ’e lost anywhere near, we’d’ve found ’im by now… whole village lookin’ for ’im.”

  “Can’t spare no more time,” the first man said. “Got to get me own barley in.”

  “Have you seen Simon, the clerk to Father Kendrick? I am told he is one of those searching for Walter.”

  The two men looked to each other, then one said, “’Twas dark last night when we gathered to seek Walter. Not sure was Simon there.”

  “You’ve not seen him since dawn?”

  “Nay. Heard some folk holler for Walter but saw no one. Sir John sent us to search north, toward Shilton.”

  “You’ve searched all night?”

  “Nay. ’Bout midnight we come home an’ went out again when ’twas light enough to see. Don’t know where the lad went, but ’e didn’t go toward Shilton, I’ll wager on it.”

  His companion nodded agreement, and the two walked wearily toward the center of the village. There would be little barley harvested this day, I thought.

  “Wonder if there’s any streams hereabouts deep enough for a lad to drown in?” Arthur said.

  “Walter’s father said not. And even if ’twas so, how would he be found in such a place when John Woodman saw him walk to the stables, which are not seventy paces from where we now stand?”

  Arthur pushed back his cap and scratched his head, which was a way of saying he had no answer.

  “’Tis time,” I said, “to learn how much influence Lord Gilbert has with Sir John.”

  Arthur seemed puzzled by this remark. I did not trouble myself to explain. Arthur is no oaf. He would soon grasp my meaning.

  For several days I had tried to avoid the lord of Kencott. He had been told to assist me, but I had doubts that his aid would be sincere, and perhaps I was skeptical of Lord Gilbert’s influence. Sir John holds his lands of Sir Richard Benyt. I did not know who Sir Richard’s lord was, but few men in the realm outrank Lord Gilbert Talbot. I plucked up my courage and led my palfrey toward the manor house. Arthur followed.

  I saw men moving to and fro about the manor house precinct. None of these seemed hurried or distressed, as one might expect if a child of the village, and one known to all who labored upon Sir John’s demesne, was yet missing. I began to hope that Walter was found, the news not yet generally known.

  A groom answered my knock upon the manor house door. His countenance was unclouded, his brow unfurrowed. Had he any cares, his face did not betray them. I introduced myself and asked to speak to Sir John. Upon hearing my name the man’s bland expression hardened and his nose wrinkled as if he’d caught a whiff of the pig sty. This was clearly not the first time he’d heard my name.

  I had left Arthur with our beast at the hitching rail, but now felt his presence at my shoulder. If I was to beard the lion, he was determined to assist.

  “Sir John is at his dinner,” the groom said. “Remain here. I will see when he will be free.”

  “A life is at stake,” I said. “I will see him now.”

  I had seen the groom look over his shoulder toward the open door when I asked to be shown into Sir John’s presence. I assumed that Sir John was beyond the opening, so pushed past the groom and made for the next room. Arthur followed.

  The chamber was empty but for its furnishings, but as I entered I heard voices and laughter through another open door. I crossed the room, Arthur at my heels, the protesting groom trailing him, and stepped into the second chamber.

  Six men and four women sat about a table, chattering and laughing as they consumed their dinner. Sir John sat at the head of the table, a roasted capon leg in his hand. The partially consumed capon, large as a goose, lay upon a trencher before him.

  All eyes in the room turned to me, and the prattle ceased. Sir John looked up from his capon leg, frowned, and spoke.

  “What means this interruption? Does Lord Gilbert employ such unmannerly louts?”

  “Lord Gilbert employs men who believe a lost child more important than stuffing their rotund bellies.”

  A woman gasped and held her hand to her mouth. I am sometimes not as tactful as might be. With Lord Gilbert’s authority, and Arthur behind me, tact is not always required.

  The eldest of Sir John’s sons – the youth who was unsuccessfully attempting to grow a beard – leaped to his feet. This, I decided, was Geoffrey.

  “Leave this house, and Kencott also,” the youth shouted, “else Lord Gilbert will be in need of a new bailiff.”

  We were outnumbered six to two. I began to think that in the absence of Lord Gilbert himself, perhaps I might find more success was I less brusque.

  “Has Walter Smith been found?” I asked.

  Sir John had returned to gnawing upon his roasted capon leg, allowing his son to defend his pendulous paunch. He looked to me, swallowed, belched, then spoke.

  “Nay. Unreliable scamp. Likely run off to seek his way in Oxford or some such place.”

  “Then you have given up the search for the lad?”

  “Aye. My lads sought him last night and this morn. No sign of ’im.” Sir John indicated that he wished the subject closed by turning again to his capon leg and tearing away a large, greasy portion.

  “Odd, don’t you think, that he was last seen entering the curia,” I said, “not twenty paces from where I now stand?”

  Sir John shrugged and continued his meal. ’Twas Geoffrey who replied.

  “Who says so?”

  “What difference who speaks if the words be true?”

  “They are not,” he huffed.

  “How is it that you would know? Were you standing before your father’s barn yesterday morn to see if Walter arrived?”

  “Pages an’ grooms about the stables told me. Walter never came to his work.”

  “Perhaps I should speak to those fellows.”

  “You call me a liar?” Geoffrey bristled.

  “Perhaps only misinformed,” I replied. “When did you speak to the stableboys?”

  “Uh… last night.”

  “Before dark, or after?”

  “What difference?”
he asked.

  Of this I was myself unsure, but thought it could do no harm to know when those who toiled with Walter were first questioned about his disappearance.

  “I will speak to them myself. Where do your servants take their dinner?”

  At Bampton Castle the hall is large enough that all, from Lord Gilbert to the youngest page, dine together. Of course, they do not enjoy the same fare. But the manor house at Kencott apparently had no hall large enough to serve such a purpose. There would likely be a dozen or so grooms and pages dining somewhere near, and their meal would not be roasted capons and wheaten loaves.

  “Show this man to the kitchen,” Sir John said. As the words were spoken to no one in particular, and Geoffrey was the only man standing other than Arthur and me, the others at the table looked to him. Sir John meanwhile discarded the capon leg which he had gnawed clean and twisted loose the other.

  Most who sat at the table seemed to have eaten their fill already. Or perhaps my appearance had impaired their appetites. Whatever was the case, they would not taste the next remove ’till Sir John had consumed what remained of his capon.

  These thoughts were interrupted when Geoffrey, after looking about the chamber to see if some other would offer to guide me to the kitchen and discovering no volunteer, pushed back his bench and stalked off toward a door near the head of the table opposite the one by which Arthur and I had entered.

  The youth said nothing, perhaps not trusting his tongue, but opened the door so that it crashed against the wall, then disappeared through the opening into the yard. I understood that Arthur and I were to follow. We did.

  I trailed Geoffrey across the yard to the kitchen. Before we reached it I heard muffled voices coming from an open door to the structure. Those who spoke did so in little more than whispers, so their words were not discernible. Perhaps they had heard the door strike the wall and guessed that the sound could portend no good thing.

  Nine men and boys and two women stared at Geoffrey, me, and Arthur. Some held spoons of pottage halfway between bowl and lips. The eleven servants were crowded about a small trestle table made of two planks resting upon sawhorses. The table could be easily dismantled and propped against a wall when the kitchen was about the business of preparing Sir John’s dinner.