Unhallowed Ground hds-4

by Mel Starr

  “You’ll be about finding ’im out, then?” She sought confirmation that Thomas’s death, now fading in the memory of most townsmen, would remain fresh in mine.

  “I seek the felon each day,” I assured her.

  Maud seemed pleased with my promise. She curtsied, which is not a necessary honor for a mere bailiff. Perhaps she thought that as a supplicant in my home such deference might advance her cause and would cost nothing.

  I spent the rest of the evening on Lord Gilbert’s business, but my mind was more devoted to the confusion of death at Cow-Leys Corner than overseeing the care of Bampton Castle and Manor in Lord Gilbert’s absence at Pembroke.

  Days grow long and nights brief after Whitsuntide. There was yet a glow in the northwestern sky, beyond the Ladywell and Lord Gilbert’s forest, when Kate and I sought our bed. The day had been warm with the promise of summer, but the eve soon cooled and I closed the window of our bedchamber.

  Kate is a light sleeper, so heard her hens while I was asleep. She elbowed me to wakefulness and when she was sure I heard, whispered to me of the disturbance in the darkened toft.

  “The hens are troubled… a fox, you think? Or has the man who murdered Thomas atte Bridge visited us to draw you into the dark?”

  “Not a very inventive fellow,” I whispered in reply, “to employ the same ruse he tried before… a man intending me harm would seek some new method. ’Tis a fox in the toft, I think. I will see to it.”

  “Take care,” Kate said softly, rising upon an elbow as I drew on chauces and kirtle.

  “A fox,” I reassured her. “No man would try a second time what he had worked in the past.”

  I must learn to listen to Kate’s admonitions. I stumbled down the darkened stairway, yet unsteady from an abrupt awakening. I unbarred the door to the toft and stepped into the darkened enclosure. A waning moon was just rising to the east, but Galen House blocked its light and the toft was in deep shadow. Kate’s hens seemed quieted. I thought, did a fox disturb them, the animal was probably now away, perhaps with the neck of a hen in its jaws to feed a litter of kits. I would count the fowls in the morn, to see were any taken.

  I turned to re-enter Galen House as the blow fell. This perhaps preserved my life. Some shape, darker than the shadows of the toft, leaped toward me and before I could recoil I felt a sharp pain in my right arm, between elbow and shoulder.

  My attacker grunted with the effort of his strike, and I yelped in pain. ’Twas most unmanly. Kate had already opened the shutters to see what I might be about, and when she heard my cry she shouted for explanation.

  I had fallen to my knees. From this position I could see my assailant’s shadowy form crouching to deliver another blow. But when Kate shouted from the window he looked up to her, hesitated, then turned and ran from the toft and disappeared beyond Galen House toward Church View Street.

  I put my left hand to my right arm and felt there something warm and wet. I was stabbed. My arm was not the target, I think. My attacker had aimed to put a blade into my back, but when I turned to re-enter Galen House he did not see clearly the movement for the blackness of the place and so plunged the knife into my arm. I did not know who this assailant might be, but I knew who it was not.

  As I stood in the dark, stupefied by pain and the sudden attack, Kate burst through the door. She cast about for a moment, then found my white kirtle in the shadows of the toft. The garment had helped my assailant find me as well. She spoke as she approached.

  “Was a fox here? Did you frighten it away?”

  “Nay. I am stabbed in the arm,” I replied. “You spoke true. Whoso murdered Thomas atte Bridge wished to end my pursuit.”

  Kate took my left arm in her hands while I clutched my right. Together we entered Galen House. “What must I do?” she asked.

  “Light a cresset… no, two. We must see how badly I am pierced, and you must have light to stitch me whole.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye. I cannot do the work with but one hand, and you are skilled with needle and thread.”

  Kate found and lit two cressets from coals yet smoldering upon our hearth and set them upon our table. With Kate’s assistance I removed my kirtle. The garment was rent and blood-stained, so could be little more damaged. I inspected my wound, then pressed the kirtle against the cut to staunch the flow of blood. ’Twas then I saw that the blade had passed through my arm, leaving a wound to be sutured on both sides, and made a small puncture between two ribs as well. No knife for use at table made the wound, for such a blade would not be long enough to enter my ribs. Whoso attacked me had driven a large dagger home with much force. I think I was not intended to survive the cut, and had it been delivered against my back, I surely would not have. Not for the first time I questioned the wisdom of accepting Lord Gilbert’s offer to become his bailiff. What some men will do for money.

  I wrapped the blood-soaked kirtle about my arm while Kate went to fetch my instruments box. I should like to have bathed the wound in wine, but there was none in Galen House. Wine could be had at the castle, but the gate was closed and portcullis down at this hour. Much shouting and pounding upon the gate would be required to rouse Wilfred. I felt in no fit condition to walk there, and would not send Kate. My assailant had evaded the beadle’s watch to enter my toft at such an hour, and might yet be upon the streets. Kate must sew me up as she found me.

  Kate returned with the box, opened it, and found needle and silken thread. Threading the needle was small challenge for Kate, even in the dim flame of a cresset, but I thought I saw her hand quiver slightly as she drew the silk through the needle’s eye.

  With my left hand I pressed the sides of the wound together, then set Kate to her work. She may have trembled while preparing needle and thread, but when she plied the needle upon the wound she was all fierce determination and her hand was steady. I saw in the light of the cressets Kate’s brow furrowed and her lips drawn tight in concentration. I wished as small a scar as possible, so instructed Kate to make many tiny stitches. She nodded silently and bent to the work. Twelve stitches later she had closed the larger of the lacerations upon my arm. I dabbed a few remaining drops of blood from the wound, then raised my arm so that she might repeat the process upon the wound under my arm. As this injury was smaller, and would be invisible to most folk, I told her five stitches would suit. The work was soon completed.

  There remained but the small gash across my ribs, where the point of my assailant’s dagger had blessedly stopped short after puncturing my arm. Kate closed the wound with three small stitches, brushed a stray wisp of hair from her forehead, and raised her eyes to mine.

  “I know,” I admitted. “You warned that the visitor might not be a fox.”

  “You think it was he who slew Thomas atte Bridge?” she asked.

  “Who else have I angered recently? I think Sir Simon Trillowe is snoring in his bed in Oxford at this hour, and I know of no other who holds a grudge against me.”

  The cressets provided little light, but I thought I saw Kate blush as I spoke. Sir Simon had sought Kate’s favor, and lost, which defeat he had taken badly and plotted to do me much harm for interfering with his suit.

  “Could you see who it might have been?”

  “Nay, but I know who it was not.”

  Kate peered at me from under raised brows, awaiting an explanation.

  “Hubert Shillside is left-handed. The man who came upon me in the toft held his dagger in his right hand. He would have driven it into my back, but I turned as he swung, intending to return to the house and my bed. This he did not see for the darkness, but my kirtle was white and so he had a fair target for his stroke.”

  “If the man is the same who murdered Thomas atte Bridge,” Kate mused, “then Shillside is innocent of the death.”

  “Just so. I must take care he never learns I once considered him.”

  “He was determined that you see atte Bridge’s death as a suicide. Was he guilty that would be a sign… that he wished to turn you
from a path which might lead to him.”

  “Well, he was not, and my heart is eased.”

  I yet held the torn and bloody kirtle in my hand. The hour was now well past midnight, and I shivered from the cold and the realization that, but for good fortune or the hand of God, Kate might now be a widow. She saw me quiver, took my left arm and pressed it close to her cheek. I felt a dampness there. Kate had begun to cry. She was strong when duty required it of her, but now the crisis was past and her mind could wander through the event and other potential outcomes, she yielded to the emotions which came upon her.

  My assailant’s dagger, as I believed, had glanced from the bone of my upper arm as it passed through to my ribs. The ache I first felt grew to a pain which throbbed fiercely. Kate sensed this, I think, and drew her damp cheek from my shoulder.

  “You have herbs and potions for others when they are hurt,” she said. “I will pour a cup of ale and you must take a dose of your own remedy.”

  I searched through my instruments chest in the dim light of the cressets and found pouches of pounded hemp seed, ground seed of lettuce, and willow bark. When Kate returned to the table with a cup of ale I poured a large measure from each pouch into the brew and drank it. De Mondeville, whose teaching I follow, taught that wounds heal best when left dry and uncovered, with no ointment applied, but in my chest I had a vial of oil of St John’s Wort, which can dull pain and help cleanse a wound in the absence of wine. This oil I applied to my cuts.

  When in the past I had prepared such a concoction for patients who had done themselves some injury, or upon whom I worked some surgery, I had assured them the potion would alleviate some of their distress. Perhaps I lied. Kate and I climbed the stairs to our bed, where I lay through the remainder of the night, unable to sleep and reviewing in my mind the attack. Kate’s rooster announced the dawn but had no need to awaken me. Nor Kate. Each time I turned in our bed she peered at me closely. I assured her twice that an arm wound was not likely to send me to meet the Lord Christ, but I would have been more certain of this had I been able to bathe the cuts in wine before Kate worked the needle upon them.

  When the Angelus Bell rang from the tower of St Beornwald’s Church I left my bed. If I could find no rest in the night it was sure I would find little in the day.

  Kate arose before me, and when I appeared at the base of the stairs turned to observe me with worried expression. Evidently my appearance did not calm her fears. Her forehead remained lined and her lips were pale and drawn.

  I smiled a greeting. This had little effect upon her features. I pretended hunger and sat at our table, where Kate had readied a loaf and a wedge of cheese. I managed to stuff a sizeable portion of the bread and cheese past my lips and saw that this brought Kate more comfort than any words I might employ to assert my health. I am seldom found without an appetite no matter the circumstance, which Kate knows.

  Kate saw how cautiously I moved and suggested a solution. She had in her chest a length of linen, left from some past stitchery. This fabric she brought to me, measured and cut a section, and fashioned a sling for my aching arm. I had decided against such an aid, for I intended soon to go upon the streets and did not wish to advertise my wounded condition. The sling brought such relief, however, that I reconsidered.

  Chapter 10

  At the third hour I left Galen House, right arm supported in Kate’s sling, and sought John Prudhomme. The beadle lived on Rosemary Lane, near to Peter Carpenter, and it was his custom to rise late from his bed as his duties enforcing curfew kept him from slumber when other men lay snoring upon their pillows.

  The beadle was not at home. I found him tending to a field of dredge between St Andrew’s Chapel and Shill Brook, where he had a yardland of Lord Gilbert. Weeds in John’s furrows were few, but even few were too many for the fellow. He looked up from his labor as I approached, and I saw his eyes dart to my wounded arm.

  Had the beadle seen any man upon the town streets after curfew he would have told me of it, as was his obligation. So I did not expect to learn from him a name, but I hoped he might recall some event or sight out of the ordinary.

  “You have injured your arm,” he said by way of greeting.

  “Aye. Well, I did not… some other did so.”

  A puzzled expression furrowed John’s brow. I did not leave him in confusion, but explained my wound and asked if he saw or heard anything uncommon to a May evening.

  John scratched his head and considered the question. “’Twas quiet, as always,” he replied. “Only man I was likely to find on the streets after curfew was Thomas atte Bridge, as you know, for I reported ’im to you often enough. Now ’e’s in ’is grave the town is more peaceful, like, of a summer’s eve.”

  I had held little hope that the beadle could provide the name of someone prowling the streets after curfew, so was not much disappointed with his reply.

  “I’m obliged to watch an’ warn ’til midnight,” he continued. “Was some fellow on the streets after that, who’d know of it?”

  “I assign you no blame, John,” I assured the beadle. “’Tis as you say… the attack came in the dark of night, midnight or past. If you hear of any man speak of prowlers in the night, tell me straight away.”

  Prudhomme assured me he would do so, and I left the fellow to his crop and weeds. He seemed agitated that some miscreant had been prowling the streets he was to see cleared, as if the man had done injury to him rather than to me. John would be alert for any odd events for the next weeks, I knew, and for this I might sleep more securely. So I thought, until I returned to Galen House.

  Kate stood at the open door, awaiting my return. I assumed her worried expression had to do with concern for my injury. Not so.

  “Come to the toft,” she whispered when I was near the open door. “See what I have found there.”

  I followed Kate through the house and out the door to the toft. She turned to her left, walked a few paces, then halted and pointed to the soft ground near a shaded corner of the house. I saw there an object which at first I could not identify.

  A length of broken branch near as long as my arm and as thick through as my wrist lay on the earth beside Galen House. At one end of this stick was wrapped many turns of hempen cord, much like the rope used to hang Thomas atte Bridge. In the dark and confusion of the night neither Kate nor I had seen this club.

  “What is it?” Kate asked. “And how has it come to be here?”

  I picked up the stick with my good left hand and with this closer inspection knew what it was I held. Bits of earth stuck fast to the wrapped cord at the end of the branch. I lifted the winding to my nostrils, and touched it with my fingers. They came away greasy.

  “A torch,” I replied. “Someone has made a crude torch of this broken branch. The cord wound about the end has been soaked in tallow.”

  “A torch? Did the man who attacked you last night plan to light it so as to see what he was about?”

  “Nay, I think not. He carried flint and steel so as to light this, I think. Then it was his plan to toss it to the thatching above our heads. Whoso carried this into the toft wished to burn Galen House down upon our heads as we slept.”

  “But… the hens? Did he not wish to draw you into the toft to attack you?”

  “I think not. The hens saved us. The man made some sound we did not hear, but the hens did, and were vexed. When I opened the door to the toft the fellow saw he was found out. ’Twas too late then to do as he intended. Piercing me with his dagger was not part of his plan, I think.”

  “Would a man murder two to save himself?” Kate asked.

  “Who can know what a man might do if he believed his life forfeit?”

  “But Hubert Shillside was not responsible?”

  “Nay. I would not have believed such a deed of him, but as he is left-handed he is eliminated from suspicion.”

  “And the others? Peter Carpenter? Arnulf Mannyng?”

  “I do not wish to believe it, although I know little of Mannyng.
Would Peter murder you in your bed to silence me? I cannot think it of him.”

  “A carpenter works with chisels,” Kate said. “Perhaps the blow which pierced your arm was delivered by a hand which held a chisel, not a dagger.”

  “You do not know the carpenter,” I protested.

  “Perhaps you do not know him either, or not so well as you believe.”

  “Must I suspect all men of wishing me ill?”

  “Are all men pricked by evil?”

  “Aye, soon or late. Else why did the Lord Christ die in our place?”

  “You take my point, then,” Kate replied with a wry smile.

  “Aye. Trust no man. Is this a way to live?”

  “Perhaps, until you discover who it is who wishes you… us to die.”

  My eyes fell to the mud of the toft. Kate and I had trod the place twice, but among the footprints there was the mark of a man who would have slain my Kate to halt my pursuit of him. The print of Kate’s tiny foot was clearly discernible among those made by two men. Of the male footprints one set was long and narrow, the other shorter and broad, with a higher heel. The narrow marks were mine. The man who assailed me in my toft wore shoes seemingly made to increase his stature. Would a carpenter or tenant farmer wear such shoes?

  I left Galen House and sought Roger Waleton, Bampton’s cobbler. Roger is a sociable fellow, much given to conversation, which he can continue while repairing a man’s shoes or making new. I found him alone, stitching a sole to the upper portion of a boot. He was eager for a visitor, but not so pleased when I requested he leave his shop and accompany me. The boots he toiled over were to be readied for a customer on the morrow, he explained. And what, he asked, had I done to my arm?

  I explained to the cobbler that some unknown assailant had stabbed me and left behind footprints in the toft behind Galen House. I told Roger that I wished for him to view the marks made in my toft, for the imprint seemed unusual, and I hoped he might be able to identify the owner of the shoes, did he recognize the footprints as made by work from his own hand.