Unhallowed Ground hds-4

by Mel Starr

  I left Bruce at the marshalsea and made my way past the mill to Church View Street and Galen House. Kate seemed much pleased at my return, and after an embrace set about preparing a feast to celebrate the event.

  She disappeared into the toft and a moment later I heard a chicken squawk. Kate reappeared with a capon dangling from her hand. My dinner had taken its first step toward my belly.

  While she plucked and cleaned the fowl, I announced my intention to scrub away the dirt of road and inn. I have a barrel, sawn in half, which I keep for the purpose. From the well I brought several buckets of water which I poured into iron kettles and set upon the hearth, near the fire. As Kate had placed more wood upon the blaze to prepare for roasting the capon, the water in these pots was soon warm enough for my purpose. I emptied the kettles into the barrel, stripped off cotehardie, chauces, kirtle and braes, and immersed myself in the soothing bath. While I soaked, Kate set the capon to roasting, then took my cotehardie to the toft where she noisily pounded the dust from it.

  I was soon garbed in clean braes, chauces, kirtle and cotehardie, and enjoyed a stomach full of roasted capon. To conclude the meal, Kate had prepared some days past a chardedate, expecting my imminent return. The dates and honey were a delightful welcome home.

  I would not seek another journey to Exeter, or any other place, but returning home to Kate’s embrace made the hardship of travel fade. Memories of the road stretching before me, Bruce’s jouncing gait, the verminous inns, the failure to discover a murderer, all these were blotted from my mind as the sun fell below Lord Gilbert’s forest to the west.

  Kate’s appetite had returned. Next morn, as we shared a maslin loaf, she told me the gossip of the town.

  “There was a marriage three days past,” Kate announced between bites of her loaf. “Edmund the smith wed Emma atte Bridge.”

  So the town smith married the widow of a man who had blackmailed him a year past. This was no business of mine. Edmund was Lord Gilbert’s tenant, not a villein. He could wed as he wished. And Emma atte Bridge was a tenant of the Bishop of Exeter and no concern of mine.

  “You have not spoken of John Kellet since your return,” Kate remarked. “Did he do murder when he visited?”

  “I think not.”

  “Your face and mood speak disappointment.”

  “If Father Simon’s judgment is true, and Kellet be a changed man, I must seek a murderer among our neighbors.”

  “What of your judgment?” she asked.

  “I fear Father Simon is correct.”

  “You fear?”

  “Aye. I will be doubly cursed when I find who murdered Thomas atte Bridge. I will send some acquaintance to the gallows, and his fellow townsmen will blame me for the death. Whoso he may be, he — and his companion, for more than one man dragged Thomas atte Bridge to Cow-Leys Corner — is considered by most to have done a commendable service to Bampton and the Weald.”

  Kate hesitated before she replied. “Will you abandon the search? All men think atte Bridge took his own life. None would fault you for admitting agreement.”

  “None but myself. And you? Would you think well of me did I quit the search for a felon, or would I forfeit some small part of your esteem?”

  “You will continue, then?”

  “What else may I do? Justice belongs to all.”

  “Even those who deny it to others?” Kate mused.

  “It must be so. What is justice but truth with its sleeves rolled up, ready for labor? If only those who have always done justly, who have always spoken truth, deserve justice, who, then, is worthy?”

  “Then you must do as your conscience requires. If you succeed, and find a murderer all the town would prefer remain concealed, and we are then hated in this place, we may return to Oxford. A good surgeon will not lack bread for his babes.”

  Kate had grown fond of Bampton. She told me so but a fortnight after we wed. I thought she might miss the bustle of Oxford, but she claimed not so. It was easier, she declared, to find friends in a small town than in a city, where folk seem too occupied to concern themselves with others. So to advise removing to Oxford spoke more than the words alone might mean. Here was Kate’s admission that I must pursue justice no matter where the path might lead.

  But where did the path begin? It is difficult to conclude a journey at the proper destination if one cannot find where to begin. I saw before me several roads, but which must I follow?

  I left Kate with an embrace and sought the Weald. To reach Maud atte Bridge’s hut I must cross Shill Brook. I have passed this way many times, but the flowing stream, any flowing stream, always seizes my eye. I stood upon the bridge, observing the clear water pass beneath the span. But this wool-gathering would achieve nothing. I turned from the pleasant scene to my disagreeable duty.

  Maud’s oldest lad answered my knock upon her door. When Maud heard my voice she appeared behind the youth in the smoky gloom of her hovel. I had spent time drawing and heating water to help rid myself of stink and vermin. I did not wish to do so again, so bid Maud speak to me on the street before her hut. I was sure the place harbored more life than Maud and her children.

  “You came to me a month past, sure that Thomas did not take his own life,” I began. The woman made no reply.

  “You said he heard the hens disturbed — perhaps by a fox, so went to chase away the animal, and you did not see him alive again.”

  “’At’s right.”

  “And you said this happened the night of St George’s Day?”

  “Aye. We was abed when Thomas ’eard the ruckus.”

  “Are you sure this did not happen the night before St George’s Day as well?”

  “Well, it did so then, aye. ’Twas two nights the hens was vexed. ’E was found dead after second time… day after St George’s Day. ’Ow’d you know that? Thomas come back first time. Said as how he’d run off a fox. ’At’s why he thought the beast come back next night.”

  I was about to tell Maud there was no fox, at least not the first time her hens were troubled, but chose to hold my tongue. Maud was no adversary in the business, but her wagging tongue might reach a man who was.

  I thanked Maud for her time and left her scratching her head before her hut. She was puzzled that I knew that Thomas had visited his toft twice, when she had not told me of the first event. She was not stupid. She would soon deduce that some other person knew of her disturbed hens, and this person had told me of it. She would want to know who this might be, assuming the man, for a man it would surely be upon the streets late at night, would know who had slain her husband. Indeed, the fellow might be the culprit. I expected her to call at Galen House before the day was done.

  Kate believes that a man must have no secrets from his wife. Whether the opposite is true I know not. When I returned to Galen House she placed her needle and fabric upon our table and asked of Maud and of my visit.

  I had told Kate little of John Kellet, so drew a bench aside her chair and related my conversation with the man. I told her of his nocturnal visit to atte Bridge’s toft the night before St George’s Day, and his claim to have seen the corpse suspended at Cow-Leys Corner before dawn as he departed Bampton.

  “You believe he spoke true?” Kate asked when I had concluded the tale.

  “Aye,” I replied reluctantly.

  “Someone heard him, then,” she said. “Someone who plotted against atte Bridge heard, or learned of, John Kellet’s late visit and used the same deception to draw him from his house.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Was it then Arnulf Mannyng who slew Thomas? He lives in the Weald, but a few doors from Maud. He might have heard the hens from his house, and thought to see were his own fowls endangered. When he saw how readily atte Bridge might be drawn from his house, perhaps he decided to use the same deceit to get him into the dark of night.”

  Kate’s solution was plausible, but hardly enough to accuse a man. If Arnulf was the felon I sought, I must find some evidence of it, for I had non
e.

  “Perhaps,” I replied, “some other man Thomas atte Bridge had harmed, Peter Carpenter, mayhap, lay in wait in the dark near Thomas’s hut, seeking some way to draw him forth. While he hid, seeking vengeance, John Kellet appeared, rattling a stick upon the hen coop. When such a man saw how easily Thomas could be persuaded to leave his house, he worked the same ruse next night.”

  Kate pursed her lips, perhaps unhappy that I had so swiftly dispensed with her conclusion. But Kate is not one to hold a grudge.

  “You think whoso bothered the hens the second night knew of John Kellet doing so the first night, and decided to try the same trick?”

  “Aye, upon that we agree. But who it was I cannot guess.”

  “I wonder if there might be some way to draw the man out… or the men, as it seems two have done the murder?”

  “Perhaps. I will think on it.”

  “We will think on it,” Kate smiled, and returned to stitching a new cotehardie. The one she now wore would not serve by autumn, and Kate is a woman who plans ahead.

  Edmund Smith, like most who labor at his trade, is a strapping fellow, broad-shouldered and with forearms as large around as the axles under Lady Petronilla’s cart. He is no friend. I caught him out a year past in dalliance with the baker’s wife, when he was caught up in the plot between Kellet and the two atte Bridge brothers. I had stopped the blackmail against Edmund, but also ended his dissolute behavior with the baker’s wife. For this he did not thank me.

  Edmund’s forge is upon Bridge Street, near to the marketplace. After a dinner of pease pottage improved by the remains of yesterday’s capon, I set out to visit the smith. I knew of no recent conflict between Thomas atte Bridge and Edmund, but the smith seemed to me a man capable of nursing a grudge. He also seemed an impetuous sort. Would he nurse his wrath for a year before striking down a foe?

  I found the forge cold. Edmund was not at his work this day. I set my feet once again to the Weald and found the smith at Emma’s hut, repairing the door. This door swung on hinges Edmund had made, then given to Henry atte Bridge to purchase his silence in the matter of the baker’s wife. Edmund looked over his shoulder as I approached, then bent again to his task.

  “I am told congratulations are due,” I began.

  “Why must you be told of it?” he replied sharply.

  “I have been away a fortnight on Lord Gilbert’s business. Do you make your home here now?”

  The smith had lived alone in a crude shed behind his forge.

  “Aye. Can dwell where I like… I’m a free tenant, as you well know.”

  “Surely, so long as the vicars of the Church of St Beornwald agree. Emma is tenant of the Bishop of Exeter, and whoso lives with her comes under their authority as his agents.”

  “Emma needed a man about the place. Couldn’t pay ’er rent. Vicars don’t care does she wed or not, so long as the bishop gets ’is coin.”

  “Hmmm. And now Maud is facing like misfortune.”

  “We all got troubles. Maud’ll have to do as best she can. No concern of mine.”

  “Did Thomas atte Bridge’s death please you?”

  Edmund looked away from his work and studied my face. “I ’eard the talk, how some think ’e din’t hang hisself. No matter to me. Did ’e take ’is own life or did another do away with ’im, the town is well rid of ’im.”

  I had been standing close enough to the smith that his odor was overwhelming. I doubt the fellow has bathed since I came to Bampton two years past. Whenever I was in his presence the stink was the same. Emma must surely have faced ruin to accept the fellow. I backed away a step to relieve my offended nostrils.

  “What does Emma think of such gossip? I saw her in dispute with Maud some weeks past. Does Emma have opinion?”

  “Ask ’er,” Edmund shrugged, and returned to his work.

  “I will. Where may she be found?”

  “In the toft.”

  I found Emma and two of her children drawing weeds from a patch of cabbages and onions. She arose from her knees at my approach and brushed a wisp of graying hair back from her brow with the back of her wrist. When her children also looked up from their work she barked at them to continue. This they did with alacrity, glancing to me from the corner of an eye while they toiled.

  “You have now a husband to lighten your labors,” I began.

  The woman made no reply, as if my assertion was so foolish that no response was required. The stray locks once more dropped across her forehead and she again brushed them back under her hood, then stood with hands on hips and silently awaited what more I might say. A visit from a great lord’s bailiff often draws such a response from folk. Her stance, I think, was due to apprehension, and apprehension due to ignorance. She did not know why I had appeared in her toft, nor what I was about.

  “You had a quarrel with Maud some time past, here in the toft,” I said.

  “Hot of temper is Maud,” Emma replied.

  My experience of the two women was that Emma better fit such a description, but I saw no reason to voice the opinion. “What disturbed her?” I asked.

  “Not a matter for Lord Gilbert’s bailiff… we of the Weald sort our troubles with the vicars.”

  “And has the quarrel been settled? The vicars have rendered judgment on the issue?”

  “Uh, not yet.”

  “Have they been asked?”

  “The matter is resolved. No need to trouble ’em.”

  “And what was the result?”

  “Not your bailiwick,” she muttered.

  “Maud’s husband died upon Lord Gilbert’s lands. There is some question as to the manner of his death. So when I see his widow in conflict with another, I make it my business. What was your dispute with Maud about?”

  “Me an’ Edmund had naught to do with it.”

  I thought this a strange response. “I made no such accusation,” I replied. “Why do you fear I might do so?”

  “Folk be talkin’. Sayin’ you don’t think Thomas did away with hisself.”

  So gossip had prepared this ground before I cast a seed. Why, I wondered, did the woman seem startled to hear from me what she had already learned from others? And how had the rumor got loose in the town? Father Simon’s servant, perhaps?

  “Did your words with Maud have to do with the death? Does Maud make accusation against you or Edmund?”

  “Nay, wasn’t about that.” The woman fell silent, and looked away, across the crude fence which separated her toft from Maud’s. “Since Henry was kilt in the forest Thomas has been plowin’ into my land. Wouldn’t have done so was Henry alive to say him nay. Maud hired plowmen, an’ told ’em to widen the furrows, as Thomas was doin’.”

  “You challenged her about this?”

  “Aye.”

  “To what end?”

  The woman was again silent for several moments. “Edmund told ’er plowmen where they must stop. Maud was angry.”

  “Is the plow-land in dispute land that Henry had of the bishop for many seasons, or is it of the land he gained when his father died?”

  Emma again seemed startled, and I guessed the answer before she spoke. “’Twas of his father’s land. Henry was oldest, so was to have it. Thomas was resentful. An’ when Henry was slain ’e saw ’is chance to gain what was mine.”

  “It may belong to neither,” I advised, and was rewarded with another surprised expression. “Your father-in-law possessed the land as dowry from his second wife, Alice’s mother, so I have learned. Henry seized land which should have gone to Alice.”

  “Not so,” Emma declared. “Henry was due the land. Was it not so, the vicars would have denied him.”

  “Perhaps they should have done. No bailiff is assigned to direct the bishop’s lands in the Weald, as you know. The bishop expects the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church to do the work. But they are more concerned with masses and keeping God’s house than maintaining order in the Weald.”

  “Who says ’tis so?”

  “Eviden
ce will be presented when the vicars call hallmote, I am told.”

  Emma snorted in disgust and turned back to her cabbages. I left her to her work and set out for Bridge Street and home.

  I had but finished my supper when a rapping upon Galen House’s door drew me from my table. As I expected, Maud had been thinking upon what I had told her and now stood in the evening shadow at my door.

  “G’day, Master Hugh. A word, if I may.”

  I invited the woman into my surgery. Through the open door I could see Kate bustling about in our living quarters, with an ear cocked, I was sure, to the conversation beginning in the other chamber.

  “’Ow’d you know Thomas went out to see to the hens two nights?”

  “The man who drew him out the first night told me.”

  “Man? Wasn’t no fox, then?”

  “Nay, nor was there a fox the night of St George’s Day.”

  “Then the same man who come the first time murdered my Thomas,” Maud declared. “Why’d the man call him out in the dark of night first time? Did ’e try then to slay Thomas an’ failed?”

  “He said not. He wished to speak privily to Thomas, to apologize.”

  “Apologize? For what? Doin’ ’im to death next day?”

  “Nay. It was another who troubled your hens St George’s Day. The first man wished to seek forgiveness of past transgressions.”

  Maud’s eyes widened as I spoke. She knew of Thomas’s multiple offenses against others, or at least some of them, but was at a loss to remember trespasses against her husband.

  “Who was this, then, what came to our toft at midnight?”

  “That you need not know. The man did not slay Thomas. I have spoken to him and know of his words with Thomas. You must trust me. I will seek whoso murdered your husband, but some things about the search you may not now know.”

  Maud’s expression said plainly she was not pleased with this response to her visit, but she knew better than to dispute with Lord Gilbert’s bailiff, even was she a tenant of the Bishop of Exeter.