by Mel Starr
“What of the documents chest in St. George’s Church?” I asked.
“My father saw that relevant records of Mainwaring and deMeaux were removed.”
“And the priest at that time was willing to do so for a few well-chosen gifts?”
“Aye,” Sir John agreed.
“How did Randle discover that he was rightful heir to Kencott Manor?” I asked.
“Don’t know. Some old folk with long memories and loose tongues, I suppose.”
“Did he not come to you and complain that you had usurped his rights to Kencott?” Lord Gilbert asked.
“Aye, he did so.”
“And when you disdained his claim he decided to seek redress at Chancery Court?” I said.
“He did so. Bribed a clerk.”
“As did you,” I replied.
Sir John looked at me from under raised eyebrows, certainly wondering how I could know this. I did not enlighten him.
“Jaket, before he died, claimed that he had slain Randle. Why would he do so? ’Twas not his manor to lose if Randle won his suit.”
“Randle an’ Jaket didn’t get on,” Sir John said.
“So you told Jaket of Randle’s suit, knowing that if Chancery decided for Randle, he would not permit Jaket to remain reeve. Did you hope that Jaket, to save his position, would remove your troublesome bailiff?”
Sir John did not reply. Lord Gilbert spoke for him. “It surely crossed your mind, did it not?”
“Aye,” Sir John finally said.
“Did Jaket ask your permission to keep Randle’s horse in the wood?”
“Aye. ’Till time had passed an’ the beast could be sold. Should’ve slit its throat an’ fed it to the hounds,” he muttered.
Sir John was adamant that he had had the right to hang Bertran Muth, as the man had stolen a horse. That the beast had been stolen from Jaket, a murderer, seemed to him of no consequence, and I could see in Lord Gilbert’s puzzled expression that this matter of law confused him. Lord Gilbert is a good lord, but he does not deal well with complex issues. I thought it best to let the business rest. Nothing but the return of the Lord Christ would raise Bertran Muth from his grave. A hanging cannot be undone.
“Did Jaket tell you why he poisoned Henry Thryng?” I asked.
“He what?”
“The man who saw Bertran with Randle’s beast, in Burford, died after consuming poisoned ale.”
“How do you know this? Jaket said he died of twisted bowel or some such thing.”
“Jaket lied. Whose idea was it to send Henry to Burford to sell six capons?”
Sir John was again silent. “Well?” Lord Gilbert said. “Answer Master Hugh.”
“Jaket’s,” he finally said. If this was so, I wondered at his reluctance to say. Perhaps Geoffrey, or he, had devised this plan for Bertran to be caught with a dead man’s beast, the scheme designed to end my investigation into Randle Mainwaring’s death. But I had no way to pry truth from Sir John if his answer was untruthful.
“How did Jaket know when Bertran was taking Randle’s horse to Burford?” I asked.
“Kept watch on ’im. When Bertran asked to travel to Burford, Jaket guessed what he planned to do.”
Lord Gilbert looked to me with one raised eyebrow, as if to ask, “What more do you wish to know?”
“You lied to me when you told me that Randle had gone to visit a brother,” I said.
“So I did. Will you ask the sheriff to hang me for such a lie?”
The sheriff of Oxford would not hang a knight for lying to a bailiff, even Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. Nor would the King’s Eyre convict a knight of such a felony. I knew this, as did Lord Gilbert. And Sir John knew that I knew this. So he smiled.
“Nay,” I said. Then, to Lord Gilbert I said, “I am done with Kencott and hope never to return to the place. Let us be off.”
“Wait,” Sir John cried. “My wound. You said ’twould kill me if you did not treat it.”
I had not said this, but had hoped that Sir John would believe it so. And his smile of assurance that no sheriff or court would side against him for lying to me caused me to seriously consider leaving him with his festering sore, to deal with it as best he might.
Sir John had done evil. But would I be guilty also of evil if I refused to help him in his distress? Should a man take pleasure in the troubles of the wicked? It seems fitting to do so. But Holy Scripture says there is a way which seems right to a man, which way leads to death.
I had brought my sack of instruments and herbs with me to Sir John’s chamber. I told him to send a groom for an ewer of wine, then laid out my tools upon a table. In normal circumstances I would have given Sir John a cup of ale containing crushed hemp and lettuce seeds to dull the pain of surgery, then waited an hour for the herbs to do their work before I began to repair his injury.
But this was not a normal circumstance. I wished to be gone from this place as soon as possible, and if Sir John felt pain as I worked, ’twould be but his due for his duplicity and felonies. So I thought. Perhaps this was a sin. When I next see Master Wycliffe I must ask his opinion.
I told Sir John to lay upon his bed upon his stomach, his head to one side toward me. The groom soon appeared with the wine which, after I had removed the linen strips from about Sir John’s head, I used to wash his wound.
Using my sharpest blade, I trimmed away corrupted flesh and skin down to the skull. With a fresh scrap of linen I again washed the wound with wine, then with needle and silken thread I closed the cleaned cut. To his credit, Sir John did not jerk his head nor thrash about while I did this, although I admit that I was not dainty while at the business, and wine applied to such a wound will bite.
When the new laceration I had made was properly sewn together I washed the stitches again with wine, then told Sir John to wear no cap until Michaelmas. When that day arrived he might have his valet use a sharp blade to cut and remove the stitches.
Sir John nodded understanding and reached a tentative hand to his scalp to touch the needlework I had done there.
“What is owed for this?” he said.
“A shilling,” I replied.
Sir John’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. He left the bed, walked to a chest in the corner of the chamber, and from it withdrew a pouch. He counted out twelve pence and handed the coins to me with a scowl. I had charged the man thrice what I would have asked another. Perhaps this also was a sin. My own stitches were itching at the time and I thought the charge fair. Only later did my conscience begin to trouble me, but not so much that I returned eight pence.
“Walter Smith has remained this day in Bampton Castle,” I said. “He will be returned to his family tomorrow. I have heard that Edwin Smith would like to leave Kencott and seek his living in some new place. Allow him to do so.”
“But Kencott needs a smith,” Sir John protested. “And the Statute of Laborers…”
“I’m sure that Lord Gilbert would agree that the statute does not apply in this matter,” I interrupted. “You and your son have shown that you cannot be trusted to deal justly when you think your interests threatened. The smith’s family will not be safe so long as they remain upon your manor.”
“But…”
“Do as Master Hugh requires,” Lord Gilbert said.
Sir John said no more, which was reply enough.
I replaced my instruments in the sack, which was a wordless way to tell Sir John and Lord Gilbert that my work was done. We left Sir John standing in his chamber door and thumped our way down the stairs. Lord Gilbert’s knights and grooms heard us descend and appeared at the opening to the hall as we reached the ground floor.
“We are done here,” Lord Gilbert announced, and led the way from the house to the rail where his beast was tied. A few moments later we passed the church and from his house I saw Simon Hode appear. He had clearly been watching for us. The clerk raised a hand when he saw that he had caught my eye and hurried from his door.
He bowed to Lord Gilbert, t
hen approached me. “I am done here,” he said. “Sir John will demand that Father Kendrick dismiss me. I know not what will become of me. Is it possible that the vicars of Bampton might need a clerk?”
I looked to Lord Gilbert, who has some influence in Bampton even though the Church of St. Beornwald is under the authority of the Bishop of Exeter. “See to it,” he said to me, and spurred his ambler to a trot.
I smiled at the clerk and said, “I believe you will find a place in Bampton.” The clerk gave a sigh of relief and stood watching as our company set off for Alvescot and Bampton.
“Will Sir John retain Kencott Manor?” I asked Lord Gilbert when I caught up to him.
“Who else will have claim to it? Randle Mainwaring was not wed… had no heirs. Nor had he a brother, you said. Some injustices cannot be righted.”
“Not in this world,” I said.
“Aye,” Lord Gilbert replied. “The Lord Christ will have much justice to dispense from His heavenly throne to make up for what is impossible below.”
Next day I sent Arthur and Uctred to return Walter Smith to his father, and to tell the smith that he was free to depart Kencott and seek another place.
I walked then to St. Andrew’s Chapel to learn how Thomas Attewood mended.
Perhaps I had not made the swineherd’s leg as straight as could be when I fixed the break with a fence of reeds, or mayhap he walked upon the leg before the break was truly knit. One of these was likely true, for when I examined the man I saw that his left foot pointed out at an angle which did not match his other foot. Thomas did not complain of this, and when I asked to see him walk he did so with no more limp than any other man recovering from a badly broken leg. The fellow was eager to resume his work with Lord Gilbert’s pigs, although not with the old boar which had sent him plunging into the gully. That animal was now, he said, made into ham and bacon and was hanging in Lord Gilbert’s smokehouse. A capricious temper will cause trouble for both man and beast.
Next day Kate and I celebrated the end of my travels to Kencott. With my smallest blade she cut the stitches she had made to close my lacerations, then set about preparing a dinner of mushroom tarts, capon farced, and cabbage in marrow, all dishes she knows I enjoy. Of course, there are few dishes I do not enjoy.
Late in the day Arthur came to Galen House to report that Walter was safely returned to his parents.
“When I told ’im ’e was free to leave Kencott,” Arthur said, “the smith dropped ’is ’ammer an’ left off plyin’ ’is bellows. Stopped work right then, so I think. Wouldn’t be surprised was ’e packin’ ’is belongins into a hand cart an’ away tomorrow.”
“He may be pleased to be upon the road,” I said, “but I am pleased not to be.”
No man can see the future. Arthur and I and many others would set off from Bampton not many months hence. All because of a bungling bishop.
Afterword
Since the key to wealth in the medieval period was land ownership, disputes regarding property were common, and a good source of income for lawyers, clerks, and judges. The manor of Kencott was indeed inherited by female descendants in the early fourteenth century, although the dispute I created is entirely fictional.
Bampton Castle was, in the fourteenth century, one of the largest castles in England in terms of the area surrounded by the curtain wall. Little remains of the castle but for the gatehouse and a small part of the curtain wall, which form a part of Ham Court, a farmhouse in private hands.
Many readers have asked about medieval remains and tourist facilities in the Bampton area. St. Mary’s Church is little changed from the fourteenth century, when it was known as the Church of St. Beornwald. Visitors to Bampton will enjoy staying at Wheelgate House, a B&B in the center of the town. The May Bank Holiday is a good time to visit Bampton. The village is a morris dancing center, and on that day hosts a day-long morris dancing festival.
Village scenes in the popular television series Downton Abbey were filmed on Church View Street, and St. Mary’s Church appears in several episodes.
The Bampton town library building, now 400 years old, was transformed into the Downton hospital for the television series. The building needs extensive repairs and the town would surely appreciate contributions to help maintain this historic facility.
Schoolcraft, Michigan
April 2015
Lucifer’s Harvest
An extract from the ninth chronicle of Hugh de Singleton, surgeon
Chapter 1
When I first traveled to France I did not rue the journey. I was a student, and like most lads eager to see new lands and learn new things. I was then on my way to Paris to study surgery at the university.
I was less eager to cross the sea in the year of our Lord 1370 when Lord Gilbert Talbot, my employer, required it of me. France was no longer a new land to me, and perhaps I had lost the desire to learn new things. I learned anyway. Knowledge is not always desired or intended. It is, however, often useful, even if unwanted, and accumulates like the grey whiskers which Kate occasionally finds in my beard. At least for this journey I would ride a palfrey rather than walk.
Three days before Whitsuntide I awoke to a pounding upon Galen House door. My Kate was already from our bed and called out that Arthur must speak to me. Arthur is a groom to Lord Gilbert Talbot and has been useful to me and his employer in helping untangle several mysteries which fell to me to solve. The fellow is made like a wine cask set upon two coppiced stumps, with arms as thick through as my calves.
I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon, and bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his manor of Bampton. I assumed that Arthur’s early appearance at my door meant that someone in the castle required my surgical skills.
This was so, but not in the manner I expected.
I drew on chauces, donned my cotehardie, ran my fingers through my hair, and descended the stairs. Arthur stood dripping upon the flags at the entrance to Galen House. The day had dawned grey and wet with rain. Arthur would not, I thought, be about in such weather unless propelled by some important matter.
“I give you good day,” he said, and continued before I could ask his business. “Lord Gilbert wishes to chat with you this morning. ’Tis a matter of import, he said, and asks for you to wait upon him without delay.”
“Is m’lord ill, or injured? Or some other in the castle? Shall I take instruments and herbs?”
“Nay. Lord Gilbert’s well enough, an’ all others, so far as I know. Didn’t tell me why he wished words with you; just said I was to seek you an’ give you his message.”
“Which you have done. Return to the castle and tell Lord Gilbert I will be there anon.”
I splashed water upon my face to drive Morpheus from me, hastily consumed half of a maslin loaf, and swallowed a cup of ale. Weighty matters should not be addressed upon an empty stomach. Half an hour later I walked under the Bampton Castle gatehouse, bid Wilfred the porter “Good day,” and set my path toward the solar where I expected to find Lord Gilbert.
But not so. John Chamberlain was there, and told me that my employer was at the marshalsea. I descended the stairs to the yard, crossed to the stables, and found Lord Gilbert in conversation with Robert Marshall and a gentleman I had not before seen.
“Ah, Hugh, you have come,” Lord Gilbert greeted me. “I give you good day. Here is Sir Martyn Luttrel with news from France. Hugh, Sir Martyn, come with me. We will speak in the solar.”
News from France which must be discussed in the solar could not be agreeable. I had no hint of Lord Gilbert’s topic, but assumed the conversation would have something to do with the burly stranger who had appeared at Bampton Castle. So it did.
When we were seated Lord Gilbert explained his reason for calling me to him.
“Sir Martyn has brought disquieting news from France,” he began.
’Twas as I feared. News from France is often troubling. Much like news from Scotland.
“King Charles has announced that he is confiscating Aquitaine, in violation
of the Treaty of Bretigny. No matter how many times we vanquish the French, they will not remain subdued. The Duke of Berry has even now an army approaching Aquitaine. Prince Edward has sent for knights and men at arms from England to assist him in opposing the French king. I am his liegeman, and am required to provide five knights, twelve squires, and twenty archers and men at arms. My chaplain will accompany us, and I wish to have a surgeon as a member of my party.”
So far as I knew Lord Gilbert had but one surgeon in his employ: me.
I was speechless at this announcement. Lord Gilbert saw my mouth drop open and continued before I could voice the objections which were forming in my mind.
“You have crossed to France once already,” he said, “so you know that the passage is not arduous in summer.”
When we might return no man could know. Returning to England in December did not bear thinking about.
“And I am not so young as I once was,” he continued. “I am yet fit for battle, but ’twould be well to have you at hand should some French knight strike a lucky blow. Or unlucky, depending upon one’s loyalties,” he laughed.
“But what of folk here?” I finally stammered. “If I travel with you to France there will be no bailiff to see to the manor. Who will serve in my place to collect rents at Michaelmas?”
“John Prudhomme has served well as reeve. I intend to appoint him to your post ’till we return. Your Kate I would have oversee the castle,” he continued. “’Tis not a duty beyond a woman. Lady Petronilla did so when I was at Poitiers and she was then younger than Kate. I have no one to leave in charge of Richard but his nurse, and ’tis not meet for a woman of such station to supervise a castle. John Chamberlain will deal with most matters. Kate will not be much troubled.”
I knew what Kate’s opinion of this move would be, but before I could explain my wife’s loyalty to Galen House, Lord Gilbert continued.
