Rest Not in Peace (10 page)

“Broken? My nose is broken?”

“Aye,” Lord Gilbert said. “All askew. Now answer Master Hugh.”

William tenderly touched his nose, discovered the truth of Lord Gilbert’s assertion, then spoke.

“Can it be set right?” the squire asked.

“Aye,” I said. “I will deal with it when you have answered our questions. If you will not, then you may go through life with a nose seeking scents to the sinister side, and through which you may never breathe properly.”

William was, I knew, smitten with Lady Anne, and
reports said the lass wished to wed the youth. Would she do so had he a disfigured face and a nose which would draw laughter behind upraised hands? I believe William considered these same thoughts.

“’Twas meant as a jest,” the squire finally said.

“What was? Your words to Sir John?” I asked.

“Aye.”

“What did you say that he took amiss?”

“We spoke of horses… I said ’twould not be long before Sir Geoffrey would be riding Sir Henry’s mare.”

“You did not see that Sir John would see this as an insult to Sir Geoffrey and Lady Margery?” I said.

“Nay,” the squire said ruefully. “All know that Sir Geoffrey and the Lady Margery…”

William’s voice trailed off. I prodded him to continue. “‘Sir Geoffrey and Lady Margery’ what? It would be well if I could restore your nose as soon as possible. A broken nose left crooked for too long can sometimes not be made right.”

William gingerly touched his swollen nose, grimaced, then continued.

“That Sir Geoffrey and Lady Margery would wed if she was free of Sir Henry.”

“All knew this? Did Sir Henry know?”

“Think so. If he didn’t, he was the only one, man or woman, on his estate who didn’t.”

“What else do folk know? Did Sir Geoffrey and Lady Margery connive in Sir Henry’s death?” Sir Roger asked.

“Oh, nay. Surely not,” William replied.

“Then how did they expect Lady Margery to be free of Sir Henry?” Lord Gilbert asked.

“Lady Margery was to seek an annulment.”

“On what grounds?” Lord Gilbert scoffed. “That they had no issue? She had no funds. How would she gain the coin a bishop would require of her?”

“Don’t know what ground she was to claim. Did all work according to plan, she wouldn’t have needed grounds.”

“Oh?” I said.

“The Bishop of Lichfield is old and ill and will not live much longer. Lady Margery’s cousin is thought to have the see when the old bishop dies.”

“Ah,” Lord Gilbert said. “The new bishop would grant the plea of kinfolk.”

“So men said.”

“And this is why Sir Henry was distressed and lay awake nights?” I asked.

“Mayhap,” the youth agreed. “That and his debts.”

“The old bishop is dead,” Sir Roger said. “Word came to Oxford early last week.”

“Then Lady Margery will soon know if her cousin will receive the see,” I said.

“She may know already. Rumor in Oxford is that a scholar at Merton College will be elevated to the post,” Sir Roger said.

“Is Lady Margery’s cousin an Oxford scholar?” I asked William.

“Nay. He’s Dean of Hereford Cathedral, and not of noble birth.”

Here was interesting information. If Lady Margery hoped to be free of Sir Henry when her kinsman became Bishop of Lichfield, that hope was dashed. Did she know of this already? And did the news cause her or Sir Geoffrey to seek another way to dissolve her marriage?

“Will you set my nose right now?” William asked.

I looked to Lord Gilbert and saw him nod. “We have what we asked of this fellow,” he said. “Put his nose in place.”

“To do so will cause him much pain,” I said. “’Tis late, near dark, and I have no sedative herbs with me to
reduce the hurt. I brought only instruments to deal with Sir John’s wound. I will return in the morning and set his nose right then.”

“But you said it must be done betimes or I may suffer the blemish all of my days,” the squire protested.

“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” I replied. “And you do not want me to tug your nose straight until you have swallowed a dose of crushed hemp seeds. You may trust my judgment on this.”

“What is to be done with the lad ’til then?” Sir Roger asked. “Back to the dungeon?”

Lord Gilbert looked to me with that curious, raised eyebrow, and waited for me to speak.

“I think William will not try to flee the castle in the night,” I said. “And if Sir John lives he’ll face no charge of murder in the King’s Eyre.”

“Very well,” Lord Gilbert said. “You may return to your chamber for the night. Where you spend the morrow will depend upon where Sir John’s soul may be then.”

William bowed, backed away from his betters, and felt behind him for the door from the solar to the corridor. I could guess how uneasy a night he would spend. In his chamber he would likely find Robert de Cobham already abed. Word of William’s brawl had surely passed the ears of all in the castle, so that even those who were not present at the fight knew of it, so likely Robert would demand to be told all. The recounting, and his painful nose, would drive sleep far from William. And worry that he might be returned to the castle dungeon would also make him wakeful. So be it. My own bed called. I would concern myself with the squire and his troubles tomorrow.

Shill Brook flowed dark and quiet under the bridge. As was my custom when I had no pressing business, I stopped upon the bridge to gaze into the water, although,
truth to tell, the evening had become so dark that I could see little of the stream. But I knew it was there. As was a murderer in the castle. There was not enough light yet for me to see the felon, but, like the brook below my feet, I knew he was there.

My thought traveled back to the evils which had come to Bampton Castle in past days. Whence did these evils come? Not from God. But if the devil created evils, who created the devil but God, who is all goodness? Could not God, all-powerful, change the sin in me and other men to good? How does wickedness exist in God’s world, against His will?

As I pondered this I remembered St Augustine’s assertion that all God has made is good, even the perverted things, like human nature. If they were not good, they could not be perverted. A thing which is already evil cannot be defiled, for it is so already. If men were the supreme good, like God, they would be incorruptible, as is He. But if they were not good at all, there would be nothing in them worthy of corruption. Being only evil, men would be incorruptible.

Men, and women also, must fall between the two. Events at the castle in past days displayed man’s perversion. But those evil deeds are an argument that men were originally made good, as Holy Scriptures teach. We are not perfect. Only God is. But neither are we irreversibly evil. There we are, caught in the middle, and unable to save ourselves. We are moral beings, made good in the image of God, but we are corruptible, as God is not, as we abuse the gift of free will. And thence we are inevitably corrupted.

Was it not for the Lord Christ’s death upon the cross we would all suffer the penalty of our depraved free will. I turned from the dark stream and set out for Galen House with a lighter spirit. Not because I had been considering how evil influences men, but because the Lord Christ has
freed all who accept His sacrifice from the penalty of their depravity. Even me. Somewhere this night within Bampton Castle walls was a man, or perhaps a woman, who had freely chosen sin and would pay the penalty for the choice, in this world, was I wise enough to discover them; and even if I failed, they would suffer for it in the next.

Kate awaited me at Galen House. She was full of questions about events at the castle, as anyone would be. I had been in haste when I returned to collect my instruments, so had left Kate with only the rudiments of what had happened, and at supper had not yet questioned the squire. Kate is not a woman who is satisfied with partial knowledge. I sat with her on our bench and in the light of a cresset explained what I knew of the fight between Sir John and William.

“It seems to me,” Kate said when I finished the tale, “that there are few folk sorry of Sir Henry’s death.”

“Aye, but few had cause to do murder, even if they feel no loss that he is gone.”

“The night before Sir Henry was buried someone placed a message under the sheriff’s door, telling him that the squires had what he sought. Is this not so?” Kate said.

“Aye. And written in a poor hand, as one unaccustomed to a pen.”

“Then you found a bloody cloth and a bodkin in the squires’ chamber.”

“Just so.”

“And one of the squires had cause to dislike Sir Henry, as he sought the Lady Anne’s hand but was rebuffed.”

“Mayhap was rebuffed. Whether or not he asked to pay her court I do not know… but Sir Henry knew of his interest and was opposed.”

“Sir Henry was so poor his daughter stole silver spoons and knives from Lord Gilbert’s pantry. I wonder did
she resent her poverty enough to join William in wishing her father dead?”

“Who can know? Did Squire William wish Sir Henry dead? Both would deny it, so there is no point in asking either of them. And having a suit rejected has rarely drawn a man to homicide.”

Kate was silent a moment, thinking. I was silent as well, content to watch the glimmering flame of the cresset light her cheeks and hair.

“And the portpain,” she said. “Missing from the pantry at about the same time, you said, as the silver was taken. Then a fragment is discovered in William’s chamber.”

“Also Robert de Cobham’s chamber,” I reminded her.

“Sir Henry cannot sleep because of his debts and because he knows his wife seeks another husband. Now you say that Lady Margery may have had a design to escape her marriage, but no longer, as her cousin is not made bishop.”

“I wonder,” I said, “how badly Lady Margery wanted to escape her marriage?”

“And how much Sir Geoffrey might have been willing to assist her to free herself?” Kate added.

“Aye, that also.”

We sat in silence then, lost in private thoughts. Kate’s head began to sway, and soon rested upon my shoulder. I was loath to interrupt the moment, but the night grew cool, and the cresset burned low. I lifted Kate from the bench and carried her to the stairs and our chamber. This life includes many sorrows, but some simple things may soothe the hurts and make trivial the pains which come, soon or late, to all.

N
ext morn, after a maslin loaf and ale, I set off for the castle with a few instruments and a vial of crushed hemp seeds. William would require a strong dose if the pain of my work upon his nose was not to overcome him.

The gate to Bampton Castle was open and the portcullis raised when I arrived. Wilfred the porter greeted me with a tug of his forelock, and I went straight to the hall and the stairs to Lord Gilbert’s solar.

I found my employer and Sir Roger there, having just arrived from the castle chapel and morning mass.

“You are about early today, Hugh,” Lord Gilbert greeted me.

“I promised to set the squire’s nose straight, and I wish to see Sir John.”

“Sir John lived the night,” Sir Roger said, “and took some ale and part of a loaf to break his fast.”

This was welcome news, both for Sir John and for Squire William. The lad would not face the King’s Eyre if Sir John lived. Of course, he might face other sorrows if Sir John recovered health and strength and sought vengeance upon the lad. If he did so I hoped the reprisal would take place elsewhere and be no concern of mine.

“I’ve seen nothing of William this morning,” Lord Gilbert said. “He did not break his fast nor attend mass.”

“Hah,” Sir Roger laughed. “With such a nose and eyes as he had last night, ’tis no wonder. He’ll wish to take his meals in his chamber for a fortnight. He was not a handsome
lad to begin with. If Master Hugh cannot repair his nose you might toss him in the Isis and skim ugly for a week.”

“If you hear a yelp from the lower level,” I said, “take no notice. It will mean I have put the lad’s nose straight.”

“Mayhap he will think before he offers another such jest,” Lord Gilbert said.

“Aye,” I agreed. “But I am puzzled why Sir John took his wit so badly. If William had spoken so where Sir Geoffrey heard, and was then struck, I could understand.”

Lord Gilbert’s eyebrow rose. “Aye, ’tis a puzzle. You believe it important?”

“Everything which happens in your castle may be important. Our problem is that some things may not be of consequence and we do not know which are which… so we must treat all events as significant to Sir Henry’s death, even though some may not be, as we do not know the difference.”

“Oh,” Sir Roger frowned. “Just so.”

I departed the solar with the sheriff’s brow furrowed in thought and Lord Gilbert’s eyebrow yet raised. They might puzzle out the mystery over a cup of wine whilst I ministered to William.

I found the squire groaning in his bed. His nose was more swollen and his eyes blacker than the day before. It seemed likely that William had slept little.

Robert de Cobham sat upon his bed, watching his companion, when I entered their chamber. Robert’s visage, clouded with worry, lightened when I entered, as if he thought his friend’s anguish would be soon ended. Not so. Pain may come in but a moment, as in the arrival of a strong man’s fist upon the point of another man’s nose, but will generally take much longer to pass away.

William turned from his pillow and lifted his head when my shadow fell across him. His warped nose had long
since stopped bleeding, but was evidently so painful that neither he nor any other had tried to cleanse the dried gore caked upon his upper lip.

“You’ve come to fix my nose?” William said, his voice sounding as if he spoke from the base of a garderobe drain.

“Aye.” I turned to Robert and told him to seek the buttery and return with a large cup of ale, then described to William what I must do.

Robert returned with the ale as I concluded my explanation. It was impossible for William’s eyes to grow wide, but when I told him of what I must do and the brief pain he would feel, his face reflected the fright in his soul.

I poured all of the vial of crushed hemp seeds into the ale, instructed William to drink it all, and watched to see that he did. It is my experience that such a physic is most effective an hour or so after being consumed, so I told the squire to wait upon his bed while I was about other business, and that I would return to set his nose straight when the potion had done its work.

I did not tell William that I intended to visit Sir John while I waited for the hemp seeds to make the lad lethargic. I wanted no further explanations from him until I had heard the knight’s account of their brawl.

Sir John lay sleeping upon his bed. So silent was he that at first I feared he had died in the hour since I had spoken to Lord Gilbert. No man or woman attended him, which I thought strange. But I was pleased that Sir Geoffrey was not present. I wished to ask of Sir John questions he might prefer not to answer was his friend with him.

Sir John slept soundly, which was good, as I am convinced that healing of such a wound is hastened when the one so injured is rested. I shook the fellow by the shoulder to wake him, and he finally snorted from
slumber and lifted his head from the pillow to see who had disturbed him.

“Ah,” he mumbled. “’Tis you. I have lived the night. I heard you speak to Lord Gilbert after you dealt with my wound.”

“Sir Roger said you took bread and ale this morning. Did the meal make you nauseous?”

“Nay… well, not much. Didn’t lose it.”

“I will draw back your blanket and see the wound.”

I did so, and Sir John raised himself upon his elbows to see also. “You’ve not bound it, nor put a salve on it,” he said in an accusatory tone. I explained that I follow the practice of Henri de Mondeville, who learned in dealing with wounds suffered in battle that those left dry and open to the air usually healed best.

“There’s no pus,” the knight said, and I heard fear in his voice.

“Aye,” I replied. “This is best. Physicians have long taught that thin, watery pus is perilous, and thick, yellow pus issuing from a wound is good. But again, I hold with de Mondeville that no pus at all is best.”

Sir John remained propped upon his elbow as I told him this. He seemed unconvinced, but I explained to him that his very posture was evidence of the likely success of de Mondeville’s view. If his cut had festered it would be unlikely that he could raise himself as he did without pain.

My words seemed to remind the man that he was uncomfortable, and he slumped back to the bed.

“Why did you strike young William?”

Sir John was silent. He was unwilling to speak and although I waited for a reply, none came.

“You broke his nose and blackened his eyes,” I finally said. I thought I saw a smile flicker across the knight’s face. “Does that news bring you pleasure?” I asked.

“He might have slain me,” Sir John finally said.

“After you struck him down and drew your dagger,” I reminded him. “What did he do to anger you so?”

The man once again lapsed into silence, and turned his head from me as if to signal that he wished the conversation at an end. I did not.

“The lad spoke in jest when he said that Sir Geoffrey might soon be riding Sir Henry’s mare. Why did you take his wit so amiss?”

I saw Sir John stiffen under the blanket, but he made no reply. My words had touched some tender place, but I did not know why.

I learned nothing more from Sir John. He remained resolute in his silence, his face turned from me. He did not respond even when I told him that I would return before supper to see how he fared, and that we would speak about this again.

The failed attempt at conversation had taken nearly an hour, so when I returned to the squires’ chamber William was as ready as he was likely to be for the straightening of his skewed nose.

The work required no instruments. There was nothing to slice or stitch, to open or close. My only tools were two small, tightly rolled linen patches which I drew from my pouch and laid upon the table.

William sat upon his bed, but I thought this an unsafe posture. Should he swoon from the pain when I set his nose aright he might fall to the floor. I told him to recline against his pillow, which he seemed grateful to do, as the hemp seeds had stupefied him to a wonderful degree.

There was no gentle way to do what must be done. Quickly was best. To set William’s nose straight with slow, steady measures would bring him more grief than to do the work in one rapid, if painful, wrench.

The squire lay back upon his bed and watched through the swollen slits of his blackened eyes as my hand approached and gently probed his battered nose. This touch evidently caused him little pain. He did not twitch or catch his breath while I examined the organ.

This inspection was done as much to calm William as to tell me what must be done. I wished the lad to be lulled into a false sense that the treatment he was about to receive would be but more of the same. Such he could endure.

The squire lay relaxed under my hand when, with a quick motion, I grasped his nose, pulled it straight, and a heartbeat later, seeing it now protruding as should be from between his eyes, released the offended appendage.

William responded with an awful howl, and tears welled from his eyes. He threw his hands up as if to provide some relief for his pain, but I grasped them so he could not undo the work I had just completed.

Robert saw his friend thrashing about and jumped to aid me in holding William quiet upon the bed. The yelping soon subsided. William’s body twitched a few times and was then still. I believe he understood, through his torment, that the worst was past.

When I was sure that the squire would do no harm to his restored nose I released his arms and stood above him.

“Is there more?” he moaned. “Or are you done with me?”

“Nearly finished. What remains will cause you little distress.”

The small linen patches I had placed upon the table had unrolled. I took one, rolled it tightly again, told William to remain motionless, and as gently as I could I thrust the linen up one nostril as far as it would go. The squire gasped once, but was perhaps relieved that this measure was not so painful as placing his nose in its proper place had been.

I prepared the second linen plug and as I was about to shove it into the other nostril saw a small drop of blood drip from the offended orifice. The linen would end the flow, slight as it was, so I did not hesitate but pushed the linen into the empty nostril.

“You must leave these plugs in your nose for a fortnight,” I said, “and even a few days longer if you can bear it. This will ensure that your nose will remain in place until the swelling has subsided and it has begun to knit. If I were you, I’d avoid any words or actions which might provoke a strong man to strike a blow… until well after Lammas Day, at least.”

I might have left the youth some crushed lettuce seeds to help him sleep, as his pain would likely keep slumber distant for a few days, but my supply was low and could not be replenished until the new-grown lettuce was gone to seed. Before I left the chamber I had another question for William.

“I have spoken to Sir John,” I said. “I asked him why your jest provoked him to strike you.”

“What did he say?” William asked.

“Nothing. He would not speak of the matter. Can you guess why he would not?”

Robert, who had returned to his seat after assisting me to restrain William, spoke. “Don’t need to guess.”

I said nothing, but looked from Walter to Robert, awaiting the enlightenment I felt sure would come. It did. Silence is occasionally better than a question.

“Sir John thinks much of m’lady,” Robert said.

“The Lady Margery?” I said.

“Who else?” he replied.

“Not Lady Anne? I thought ’twas Sir Geoffrey who had caught Lady Margery’s eye.”

“He has, and likewise. But just because a lady seems to
choose one doesn’t mean another mightn’t have an interest.”

I looked to William. “Did you know of this? That Sir John was enamored of Lady Margery?”

William shook his head, “No,” and instantly regretted the action. His nose flexed slightly upon its unsteady base and he grimaced in pain.

“Who else knows of Sir John’s infatuation with Lady Margery? Does Lady Margery know?”

“Don’t know. He didn’t speak of it.”

“Then how did you learn of this?”

“He’d had much wine once, and I saw him leering at m’lady. Asked him what he was about, and did he not know that if Sir Henry saw him he’d likely be sent from the household.”

“What did he say?”

“Said he cared little for what Sir Henry might think, and for me to hold my tongue. I did so. Sir John is a powerful man and I did not wish to offend him.”

The lad had William’s nose before him as evidence of what an angry Sir John Peverel might do to an unwitting squire.

“Why do you speak of this now?” I said. “Do you not fear what Sir John may do if he learns that you have spoken to me of this?”

“Nay. Now Sir Henry’s dead what matter if all the world knows of Sir John’s hidden desire?”

I admonished William again to take care for his nose, surely unnecessary but probably expected, and departed the chamber more confused than when I had entered. I had expected that the more I could learn of Sir Henry’s family, retainers, and servants, the closer I would come to finding a murderer. But the opposite seemed true. The more I learned, the more perplexed I became. I sought the solar and Lord Gilbert, but he was absent.

“Gone to the marshalsea with Sir Roger,” Lady Petronilla said. “A pleasant day for a ride in the forest, he said.”

I found Lord Gilbert and the sheriff preparing to mount their beasts before the marshalsea. My employer turned from the stirrup and, one eyebrow raised, asked of my patients.

“Sir John will live, I think, and I have set William’s nose straight. He will appear no worse for wear in a month, so long as he does not provoke Sir John again.”

“Why did his words do so yesterday?”

“’Tis that I would speak to you about.”

Lord Gilbert looked to Sir Roger and I saw the sheriff nod. “Tell a page to saddle Bruce. You will ride with us this morning and tell us what you know. We’ll wait here for you.”

Bruce is an ancient dexter, given to my use as part of my service as bailiff of Lord Gilbert’s manor at Bampton. The beast carried Lord Gilbert into battle at Poitiers eleven years past, and is now doubtless pleased to spend most of his days in the meadow west of the castle, or munching oats in the marshalsea. I rarely need use of the beast, and being untrained to the saddle am not a skilled rider. But Oxford is a long walk from Bampton and Bruce has carried me there and back often. Perhaps he thought that our destination this day also.