Ashes to Ashes

by Mel Starr

  “Answer this fellow’s questions,” Geoffrey said. These words were delivered slowly, in a low and threatening tone. The threat was not to me. I felt certain that these servants had already been warned to disclose nothing of events in Kencott.

  If I questioned the servants as a group I was unlikely to learn much. They would not speak before others who could then report to Sir John who had provided information. I needed to interrogate each man alone; women and boys, too.

  This I told them. “Perhaps Sir John has told you who I am and why I am daily in Kencott. Randle Mainwaring’s bones were found in the ashes of Bampton’s St. John’s Day fire. It seems sure that he was slain, here or there.”

  “We know that,” one of the grooms said. “Bertran Muth was found in Burford with Randle’s horse, tryin’ to sell it.”

  “I know that,” I replied. “Does it not seem odd to you that he would slay the bailiff, then wait ’till near to Lammastide to sell his beast? Where did he keep it for that time? How did he feed the animal?

  “Now Henry Thryng is dead, him who saw Bertran with Randle’s horse. I would have asked him how it came about that he was in Burford the same day as Bertran tried to peddle the bailiff’s horse, but now I cannot. Does anyone here think that odd? And perhaps convenient for some man?”

  I watched as the servants stole glances at each other, unwilling to say, or even appear to think, that my words created questions about a matter they thought settled and best forgotten.

  “I will not interrupt your dinner any longer. Finish your meal, and then I will speak to all of you, one at a time.”

  A spare bench sat unused along one wall of the kitchen. I pointed to it and said, “I’ll move that bench to the shade of Sir John’s dovecote, and await you there. I care not which of you will come to me first.”

  I did not move the bench. Arthur did. When I spoke my intentions he walked toward the bench and hoisted it over a shoulder. Together we departed the kitchen and crossed the yard and adjacent field to the dovecote.

  I chose the dovecote as a place where I might speak to Sir John’s servants unheard by any other. There are too many places in a house or barn where unwelcome ears might hear a conversation. Sir John’s dovecote was sixty paces from the house, and thirty or so paces from the nearest barn, so that the birds would feel safe from harm. No man is likely to hide himself in a dovecote, and Sir John’s dovecote is round, as is the new fashion, with no corners behind which a man might hide so as to hear a conversation.

  A moment after Arthur set the bench down at the base of the dovecote there came a mad fluttering of wings and a hundred or more birds fled the building.

  “Don’t much care for guests, do they?” Arthur grinned. “Guess I wouldn’t either, if I thought they’d come to make dinner of my children.

  “You see Sir John’s cap?” Arthur said as we waited for the first of the servants to arrive.

  “I suppose. Green, was it not? What of it?”

  “You did not see the stain? From where you was standin’ you might not.”

  “Nay. Did he wipe his greasy fingers upon his cap?”

  “Nay,” Arthur laughed. “He has a belly for that. There was a brown stain upon the cap, an’ it seemed wet.”

  “Didn’t see it. Perhaps Sir John is too slovenly to send his cap to be laundered.”

  “Perhaps… looked to me like it could be blood.”

  “If some man thumped Sir John upon his head hard enough to draw blood, I’m sure we would have been told of it.”

  “Suppose so.”

  We sat upon the bench in silence, enjoying the sun, and one or two at a time the doves returned. A few moments later a figure appeared at the kitchen door, then peered left and right, as if to see if any man watched his movements. No man did so, so the fellow hurried across the open field to the dovecote and sat upon the bench.

  “Who are you,” I asked, “and what is your duty to Sir John?”

  “Oswald… Oswald Rowley. I’m Sir John’s falconer. Likes ’is birds, does Sir John.”

  I asked Oswald of Randle and Bertran and of Bertran’s disputes with Henry Thryng. I asked of the bailiff’s horse. The falconer claimed to know nothing of the beast or where it might have been for half the summer, nor did he know anything of the disappearance of Walter Smith. And, yes, he had been one of those who searched for the lad last night, and this morning.

  I dismissed the fellow, told him to send another servant, asked the next man the same questions, and received the same answers. Either the servants knew nothing or they had been well coached. Or threatened.

  The two women left the kitchen and approached the dovecote together. I did not permit this, sending one back to the kitchen. Athelina Blake was a milkmaid, and were it possible, claimed to know less of Randle Mainwaring, Bertran, Henry, and Walter than the half-dozen men who had preceded her upon the bench. The second woman, Edith Ketel, was Sir John’s laundress. This I might have guessed from her red, blistered hands. As with Athelina, she knew nothing.

  Ignorance reigned in Kencott Manor.

  Chapter 14

  Older servants had approached the dovecote first. After the two women younger grooms and pages came forth. The first of these was a strapping youth of perhaps twenty years. I could not help but see as he drew near that his eyes went to my forehead and a brief smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. Arthur also saw this. When our interview had ended he said, “That lad seems pleased about your wounds. Mayhap he helped make ’em. If ’e did so, he’ll have some of his own to deal with.”

  The young man disclaimed any knowledge of Walter Smith’s disappearance or the deaths of Randle Mainwaring or Bertran or Henry, so after a brief interrogation I sent him to call the next servant. I was determined not to forget the fellow, if it should be that he had been one of my assailants.

  The next to visit the dovecote was a lad of perhaps fifteen years who was, like Walter, employed in Sir John’s stable.

  Henry Lane, for that was the boy’s name, knew little of adult matters in Kencott, and after questioning his elders I did not expect to learn much from him of Randle or Bertran or Henry Thryng. But I thought he might know more of Walter Smith than the older servants, as he had served in the stables with Walter.

  “Did Walter ever speak of running away to seek a better life elsewhere?” I asked.

  “Nay. Always talked of learnin’ from ’is father to be a smith.”

  “Here, in Kencott?”

  “Aye. ’Course, I know a good smith can find work almost anywhere. His father’d talked of leavin’.”

  “Oh? Walter’s father is a tenant, not a villein?”

  “Aye. Walter once heard ’is father arguin’ with Sir John about rent for ’is forge.”

  “What was said?”

  “Edwin said as how if Sir John didn’t reduce rent on the forge, he’d go elsewhere. Said Aldsworth has no smith since plague come, an’ he could do well there, what with folks havin’ no smith to repair hinges and such for many years.”

  “Did Sir John reduce his rent?”

  “Guess so,” the youth shrugged. “’E’s still ’ere.”

  The Statute of Laborers was conceived to prevent folk like Edwin Smith using the shortage of smiths and other laborers to better themselves by demanding higher wages or lower rents. Plague made the statute, but avarice has unmade it.

  “Was Walter a good worker?” I asked. “Did he shirk?”

  “Always done what ’e was told.”

  “What did his duties involve?”

  “Mucked out three times each week. Rubbed down the horses after Sir John or Geoffrey or Andrew come back from ridin’. Fed an’ watered the beasts, too. Right fond of horses, was Walter.”

  “Was? You speak as if he no longer is.”

  The lad fell silent. “Don’t know where ’e is, do we? Or if he yet lives.”

  “In the past weeks did you ever see Walter quarrel with Sir John or Geoffrey or Jaket?”

  “Walter never di
sputed with any man that I saw.”

  “Did he ever bring Sir John’s wrath upon himself by malfeasance?”

  “Nay… well, once Geoffrey bawled at Walter for some wrong.”

  “When was this?”

  “St. Swithin’s Day, thereabouts.”

  “What had Walter done to bring Geoffrey’s wrath upon him?”

  “Returned tardy from ’is errand.”

  “What errand was it? Where did he go?”

  “Don’t know where ’e went, but every day, in the morning, first thing, ’e was sent off. Before I come to stables, but ’e was often ’ere mucking out when I come to work.”

  “How then do you know that he was sent on early morning errands each day, if you did not see him doing so?”

  “Told me, didn’t ’e! Said Geoffrey promised ’im tuppence extra each week.”

  “What was it he did each morning?”

  “Dunno. Asked ’im. Would’ve like an extra tuppence myself each week, but Walter said ’e was told not to say, did any man ask where ’e went or what ’e did there for Geoffrey.”

  “What do you think he was assigned to do?”

  The lad shrugged. “Took somethin’ somewhere. On the days I seen ’im return ’e carried a bucket.”

  “Was it full or empty?”

  “Empty. He’d set it down an’ I looked in once or twice. Always empty.”

  Here was interesting news. If Walter returned to the stables each morning with an empty bucket, he must have gone off earlier with the bucket full. There could be no reason to carry an empty bucket from the stables, then return with it in the same condition.

  “Did you ever arrive at the stables early enough to see Walter set off?”

  “Nay, never.”

  “When you saw him return, from what direction did he come?”

  Henry stood, walked past the dovecote, and pointed to the northeast. “Come across the meadow, just there, where Sir John’s sheep is bein’ kept this year.”

  “Perhaps his morning errand had to do with the sheep,” I said.

  “Dunno,” he shrugged. “Sheep don’t need much in summer. Nothin’ what’s carried in a bucket.”

  “Did Walter continue this work ’till he disappeared yesterday?”

  “Nay. Stopped about a fortnight past.”

  I and Arthur had followed Henry to see where it was that he had pointed. We then returned to the bench, and as we sat, the bench shifted on uneven ground and thumped against the stone wall of the dovecote. A moment later I heard a great fluttering of wings and the doves, which had been returning to their refuge whilst I interviewed the servants, again fled the enclosure with much flapping of wings and the occasional feather floating down.

  I suspected that Sir John and his son would be displeased that Henry had spoken so freely, even though Lord Gilbert had demanded that the folk of Kencott were to offer me all assistance.

  I thanked the youth for the enlightenment which I had received from him, then required of him that he tell no man, even the other grooms and pages, of what he had revealed to me. I did not know whether or not Walter’s errands with a bucket had to do with his disappearance, or the death of Randle Mainwaring, but it seemed possible to me that this might be so.

  As Henry stood from the bench I said again that he must hold his tongue if Sir John or any other man asked of my questions or his replies.

  “Why so?” he asked.

  “Do you wish also to disappear?” I replied. “Folk who speak to me sometimes vanish. One man died before he could answer my questions.”

  The page shuddered. “Henry Thryng?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  The look in the lad’s eyes told me that he would keep silent. I sent him to the kitchen to tell another servant to seek my bench. He did so, then with a worried glance toward the dovecote, disappeared into the stables.

  Four more servants sat upon the bench between me and Arthur, but I learned nothing more of import from any of them. They seemed genuinely perplexed about Walter’s disappearance and the death of Randle Mainwaring, which they had thought was a settled matter. The last to come to the bench was an old groom, gone grey and wrinkled in Sir John’s service. There was wisdom in his eyes, but I could not pry it out. I even asked of Walter and his buckets, being careful to conceal how I had learned of this, but the old fellow forswore any knowledge of such a thing.

  My stomach growled loudly as the old groom left the dovecote to be about his duties. I told Arthur to replace the bench in the manor house kitchen, then rejoin me. We would consume our paltry dinner whilst considering what next to do in the search for Walter Smith.

  The stableboy Henry had said that Walter was seen with his bucket returning to the stables across a meadow where Sir John’s flock now grazed and manured the soil. I told Arthur that after we had eaten our loaves and drunk our ale we would cross that field and see what lay on the other side.

  A harvested field which had been planted to strips of wheat lay beyond the meadow, and beyond that was a wood. I could think of no reason for Walter to be sent to either a wheat field or a forest with a bucket, empty or full. However, things may be hidden in a grove which would be visible in a field of corn.

  We came to the edge of the wheat strips and tied the palfreys to the rocks of a low stone wall. ’Twas a simple matter to climb over the wall. A twelve-year-old lad could easily do so, if he was careful to avoid the nettles which found the place to their liking and grew in profusion.

  “What we lookin’ for?” Arthur said as we entered the wood.

  “Whatever might have caused Walter to be instructed to come here with a bucket.”

  A few branches and fallen limbs, which would soon be gleaned for winter fuel, lay scattered atop moldering leaves. The grove was so dense that little light penetrated to the forest floor, and so few bushes or saplings grew there, and those were spindly and frail as they sought sunlight.

  “Suppose folks been here since yesterday, seekin’ the smith’s lad?” Arthur asked.

  “Probably. The two we saw as we spoke to John Woodman came from this direction. But they surely spent time shouting Walter’s name, not seeking for something which might be taken to or from a wood in a bucket.”

  We found nothing which would need transport in a bucket as we prowled the wood, but did discover an anomaly. Arthur and I had penetrated the forest more than three hundred paces when we came upon a tiny brook, hardly more than a rivulet.

  “Look there,” Arthur said, and pointed to the soggy soil which bordered the small stream. A footprint was clearly visible.

  “Some man has been here,” Arthur said. “Seekin’ Walter, no doubt. Why else come ’ere… unless to gather firewood?”

  “Why else, indeed? But I think ’twas no man who made that mark. Place your foot aside it.”

  For all his brawn, Arthur has small feet – smaller than mine. Smaller than most men, I think. He did as I instructed. The footprint beside the stream was smaller yet than his.

  “Hmmm,” Arthur said, and pulled at his beard. “Some lad’s been ’ere.”

  “Could be some young friend of Walter’s,” I said, “helping search for him.”

  “Or someone using a bucket to draw water from the brook,” I said.

  “Aye… that also.”

  I knelt for a closer look at the footprint and saw that it was not fresh. The edges were not cleanly printed in the mud, but rounded.

  “Whoever stepped here did so some days past,” I said. “See how the mud is eroded, the edge of the footprint not sharp.”

  “Oh, aye.” Arthur then voiced my thoughts. “You think it might’ve been the smith’s lad what stepped ’ere? Could explain the bucket that other lad saw ’im carryin’.”

  “But why carry a bucket here for water when Sir John has a good well not ten paces from his house?”

  Arthur shrugged, which was as good an answer as any I could think of.

  “Let’s walk on and see what else may be in this wood,” I s
aid.

  Twenty or so paces farther I began to see more fallen limbs and branches than elsewhere in the grove. One of these in particular caught my eye. Wilted leaves were yet attached to shoots. I bent to pick up the bough from the forest floor and saw that it had not broken from some tree. The base of the limb was sheared off cleanly, as with an axe. Here was a tall, spindly sapling, cut off to make a crude pole, its twigs and leaves left attached.

  Oddly enough, this part of the wood had more fallen limbs than any other section. But the debris seemed oddly placed. ’Twas not spread evenly about the forest floor, but gathered in clumps. And why would some man chop a sapling at its base, then leave it upon the ground? And what could this accumulation of branches have to do with a child’s footprint? Not much, I decided. I’ve been wrong before.

  Arthur and I picked our way over and through the fallen debris. We were so intent upon our path through the thicket of branches that we nearly missed the dung. Arthur saw it first.

  “Look there,” he said. “Some fellow’s been ridin’ ’is horse through here. Why’d he do such a thing? A man can barely get through the bracken afoot.”

  A brief glance showed another pile of dung, and a moment later, two more. These I pointed out to Arthur.

  “Looks like a small army rode their beasts through here. Mayhap they was lookin’ for Walter, you think?”

  I stood over one of the manure piles and considered Arthur’s question.

  “Nay,” I said. “The horse that left its mark here did not do so last night or this morning. The dung is decaying into the soil.”

  “Aye,” Arthur agreed. “An’ all them other dungheaps is the same. Old. How many beasts was ’ere, you think?”

  “One.”

  “What? How so?”

  “You see the thicket of vines and branches we crossed to reach this place? See where it continues to the right and to the left, and meets again a few paces before us? The forest floor is nearly clear of fallen limbs but for here, where the boughs form almost a circle.”