Rest Not in Peace (16 page)

It did seem to me that most of Sir Henry’s retainers and family had little appetite, but that could not mean that they were all felons. Perhaps they worried that another death might be expected, and they might provide the corpse.

Lady Margery, who in the past had not hesitated to glare at me frequently from the high table, did not look even
once in my direction during the meal. At least, not when I was observing her. She spoke little to Lady Petronilla, and seemed often to glance at the empty place to her right where Sir John had taken his meals.

Sir Geoffrey, to my surprise, took his normal place at the high table. Like all in the hall that evening, he was quiet and ate sparingly. But he did not look away when our eyes met. Either Lady Margery had not told him of my words to Lady Anne, or he believed he had nothing to fear, or he was a skilled player.

When the meal was done I joined Lord Gilbert in the solar, and together with Lady Petronilla we reviewed the week past, seeking some insight which had escaped us. We failed.

Lady Petronilla complained of feeling unwell, called for one of her ladies, and went to her chamber. I could think of nothing more to be done this day, so bid Lord Gilbert a good evening and departed for Galen House.

But before I left the castle I called upon William. The squire had not appeared this day for dinner or supper, and I wished to reassure myself that his nose was mending as should be.

The door to the squires’ chamber was open, allowing a breeze to cool the room on this warm summer evening. I found William seated at his table, which he had drawn to the window, writing upon a sheet of parchment. The fading light was yet enough to illuminate his work and at a glance I saw that he wrote well, with a hand as skilled as any monk’s.

The squire’s eyes were yet purple, beginning to turn to green and yellow. The effect was quite loathsome, together with his swollen nose, and I understood why the youth did not wish to present himself to Lady Anne in such a state.

It was no business of mine to whom William wrote, but my eyes fell upon the document and I saw that Lady
Anne’s name was inscribed across the top of the leaf in a large, flourishing hand, easily readable from where I stood.

William had turned from his writing when he heard me enter his chamber, but returned for a moment to his work, completing a thought before he stood to greet me.

“You did not take supper in the hall,” I said by way of explaining my presence. “So I thought to see that all is well with you before I leave the castle for the night.”

“As well as might be,” William shrugged. “But I will be pleased when the linen plugs you thrust up my nose may be removed.”

I agreed that having to breathe through one’s mouth for a fortnight was not a pleasant prospect, but told William that he must resist the temptation to remove the wads before the time had expired. “If your nose should heal badly, skewed one way or the other,” I explained, “it might cause such an obstruction that you never again take a breath through your nostrils, and your nose may forever point to one side of your face or another.”

William said nothing while he contemplated such a fate.

“You write a fair hand,” I said, nodding to the parchment upon the table.

The youth would have blushed, I think, but for the pageant of colors which already marched across his face.

“Sir Henry’s chaplain taught us well,” he said.

“You and Robert?”

“Aye, and all who needed instruction.”

“Sir Henry wished his squires to be able to read and write?”

“Not only squires. Pages, grooms, valets, all in his service must be instructed. Sir Henry said times are not like as of old, when men needed only to work or fight, as their station demanded, and writing could be left to churchmen and scholars.”

“Was there no unlettered man in Sir Henry’s service?”

“Not that I know of. He’d not have it. Required Sir Geoffrey to learn when he entered his service.”

“I have heard that Sir Geoffrey was low-born,” I said. “Does he read and write with competence now?”

“Aye. Nearly as well as any man, though ’tis said learning letters is a thing best accomplished when young.”

“So ’tis said,” I agreed. “If you have no complaints I will leave you to your letter.”

William bowed, then turned back to his parchment, no doubt eager to complete his work before the light failed.

Here was perplexing news. The note Sir Roger found slipped under his chamber door was written in a poor hand. It was yet in my pouch, so I withdrew it as I crossed the castle yard and once again inspected it. The light was poor, but it was adequate to see that whoso wrote the message could not be said to write nearly as well as any man. Did Sir Geoffrey then not write this? Some man, or woman, did. Perhaps, if Sir Geoffrey was right-handed, he took quill in left hand to scrawl a message that would disguise its composer.

If ’twas not Sir Geoffrey who wrote Sir Roger’s note, who did so? Someone wished me to think Squire William guilty of Sir Henry’s murder. If Sir Geoffrey was the felon, why would some other try to set the sheriff after an innocent man? Would Lady Margery do so, perhaps being complicit in her husband’s death?

I studied the note again as I walked Mill Street toward my home. The letters were crude, and seemed to me not written in a feminine hand. They were large, square, and whoever had inscribed the letters had pressed the quill forcefully upon the parchment. I thought it likely a man had written the note, but if not Sir Geoffrey, then who? Surely the hand that held pen to this parchment also slew
Sir Henry. Unless Sir Geoffrey commanded some other to write for him. This thought occupied my mind until I arrived at Galen House and Kate greeted me. Her embrace drove other considerations from my mind.

Bessie was tucked into her cot, and Kate’s hens had retired to the hen house, so all was quiet at Galen House. Kate covered the coals upon our hearth and we sat upon a bench in the fading light of the toft in companionable silence.

But Kate was unwilling to remain ignorant of the day’s events, and so after allowing me a time with my thoughts, asked of the news. I told her.

“Sir Geoffrey is the murderer, then,” she said.

“So it seems. He used the note to Sir Roger to turn suspicion to another when he learned that I had discovered the cause of Sir Henry’s death.”

“You think Lady Margery knew of his felony? Perhaps aided it?”

“She had the portpain in her possession, and Sir Geoffrey used a fragment of it to wipe away Sir Henry’s blood.”

“Will you charge them both?”

“Probably.”

“Probably? You have some doubts?”

“I can understand Sir Geoffrey doing Sir Henry to death… and Lady Margery aiding in some way. But why slay Sir John?”

“Did not the squire say that Sir John was also fond of Lady Margery? Perhaps Sir Geoffrey wished to be rid of a rival.”

“’Tis the only answer which makes sense,” I agreed. “But if I knew or understood more, perhaps another explanation would also make sense. Or make better sense.”

“What more do you need to know?”

“I would seek it if I knew. There is the problem of ignorance. I do not know what it is that I do not know.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“This business has been a riddle from first to last. I will be pleased to place it in Sir Roger’s hands. He can lay Sir Geoffrey’s fate before the King’s Eyre.”

“Will he hang?”

“Probably. The King’s judges generally assume that if a sheriff seizes a man and presents him before the court there must be warrant for the accusation.”

“So Sir Henry will be avenged.”

“Aye, although the folk he wronged will never be so.”

“What wrongs did Sir Henry do?”

I told Kate about Sir Henry’s misuse of his office.

“Near Bedford there will be many folk, Isobel said, pleased to learn that Sir Henry now sleeps in St Beornwald’s churchyard.”

“And one of them,” Kate said, “serves in Sir Henry’s household.”

“Aye. And the maid said that Sir Geoffrey and Sir John, and even the squires, aided Sir Henry, going about the countryside, seizing those accused of accepting higher wages for their labor than the statute allows. Even taking those against whom no complaint had been made, and demanding fines of them.”

“Such a man would make many enemies,” Kate said.

“Aye. But with swordsmen to defend him and a strong house to shelter him, his foes could do little.”

“Until he left his house and traveled to another, and his knights were not close by,” Kate said.

I did not reply to Kate’s remark, but I thought on her words there in the darkening toft. What if some man, wronged in the enforcement of the Statute of Laborers, had accompanied Sir Henry to Bampton Castle, and
struck him down here for his unjust governance, where he thought himself safe? Such a man would perforce be a valet or groom or page to Sir Henry. Both his knights and squires benefited in his employ from his sharp practice. Unless the benefit was thought too puny and a knight – it could not be a squire – wished to advance from employee to employer. Might this be why Sir Geoffrey pierced Sir John? Eliminating competition of a different sort? But if some malcontent valet or groom did murder Sir Henry, why then attack Sir John also? Kate’s thought appeared at first to open new paths toward a felon, but soon enough these closed.

Kate rested her head upon my shoulder. Odd how such a simple thing can drive other thoughts from my mind. ’Twas not until later, when I lay abed, moonlight from a waxing gibbous moon illuminating our bed chamber, that my thoughts returned to Sir Henry’s misuse of the Statute of Laborers and the enemies he might have made. ’Twould not take long, I decided, to seek information of Sir Henry’s valets and grooms and pages. He had brought with him to Bampton three of the first, four grooms, and but two pages. I might have guessed the thinness of his purse when first we met from the few retainers who served him on his journey.

A
babe serves as well as a rooster to announce the dawn. Bessie did not wail loudly, but she made plain her displeasure at an empty stomach. Kate rose from our bed to deal with the starving infant. On a cold winter morn I might have been content to remain warm under the blanket, but the morning was pleasant and I was determined that this day would see Sir Henry’s murder resolved.

Kate had set a kettle upon the hearth to warm water. I filled a bowl and washed my face and hands. Bessie laughed and clapped to see me splashing about.

Kate set half a maslin loaf and a wedge of goat’s cheese before me. I hurriedly broke my fast, swallowed a cup of ale, which was quickly going stale, kissed Kate, and set off for the castle.

Wilfred tugged a forelock by way of greeting when I passed through the gatehouse but I saw few other folk about. I turned from the hall to the chapel, assuming that Lord Gilbert’s chaplain had not completed morning mass.

Lord Gilbert led folk from the chapel as I approached. I noticed that Lady Petronilla did not accompany him this morn and assumed she was yet unwell.

In the small hours of the morning, awake in my bed and listening to Kate breathe and to the sounds of the night, I had determined that I would seek Lady Margery’s servant Isobel again. The woman no longer seemed to fear me, but was willing to provide answers to my questions even so, apprehension for one’s personal security being
perhaps overrated as a tool with which a bailiff may pry truth from an obstinate witness. Nevertheless, ’tis a tool I will not discard.

I waited by the chapel door until she appeared, with other of Lady Margery’s servants, walking behind her mistress. Lady Margery, being past me and in conversation with Sir Geoffrey, did not see me approach Isobel, nor did she hear my words to her, nor did she see Isobel follow me to the hall.

There was no need to seek the privacy of my old bachelor quarters, as the hall was empty at such an hour. I motioned to a bench beside the wall to indicate that Isobel should sit. I joined her upon the other end of the bench, desiring that the young woman think of me as a confidant rather than an inquisitor.

“Sir Henry,” I began, “was not eager to return to Bedford. He was a guest here for nearly a month. You said he was rigorous in collecting fines from those who abused the Statute of Laborers, but he could not do so while here, in Bampton. Why was he not eager to return to his home and resume collecting fines? Did Lady Margery never speak of this?”

“Feared for his life, I think,” Isobel said.

“There was a man Sir Henry had wronged who threatened him?”

“Not one man. Many. Squire William overheard a conversation at an ale house. Men were plotting to do away with Sir Henry for his avarice.”

“Sir Henry thought this threat grave enough that he left his home?”

“Two knights, two squires, and a few valets, grooms, and pages would make a thin defense against an angry mob,” she said.

“There was a plot to attack his house?”

“Aye. William overheard them speak of the day. St Boniface’s Day.”

“How did you learn of this?”

“William told Lady Anne,” Isobel said.

“Ah… the lad hoped to win Sir Henry’s favor.”

“I suppose. Gossip was that Sir Henry was ready to send William from his house.”

“Because he and Lady Anne…”

“Aye.”

“But William accompanied Sir Henry to Bampton.”

“Perhaps he softened toward the squire after William did him good service.”

“Did William really overhear such chatter, I wonder, or did he say so to cause Sir Henry to look upon him more favorably?”

Isobel shrugged. “Who can say? Sir Henry believed the report. He sent to Lord Gilbert next day seeking a visit, and a week later we were upon the road.”

“I learned yesterday that Sir Henry wished all of his household to read and write.”

“Aye.”

“Even the women?”

“Aye. All in his household. Lady Margery thought it foolish, but he would have it no other way. Said ’twas new times we lived in, and all must realize it.”

“So even women and grooms and pages received instruction?”

“All.”

Here was intriguing information. The message Sir Roger found slid under his door had been scrawled in an unskilled hand. Sir Henry demanded that all of his retainers be literate, but perhaps that requirement did not exceed a rudimentary knowledge. In Bedford both Sir Geoffrey and Sir John would have been nearly as despised as Sir Henry
for their part in unjustly enforcing a hated law. Was that why Sir John had died, and why evidence pointed to Sir Geoffrey as one who had murdered two? Was I, I wondered, intended to be the dupe of some plotter? Was I to seize Sir Geoffrey and see him hang for murders he did not do? If Sir Geoffrey died upon a scaffold, then Sir Henry and his chief agents would all be dead, two murdered by the other, or so men would believe. But if Sir Geoffrey were not the felon, then he who did the murders would forever be free of suspicion, so long as he took no other life.

But why, then, the note sending me and Sir Roger to the squires’ chamber? Isobel said that the squires did from time to time assist Sir John and Sir Geoffrey in apprehending those who may have sought more for their labor than the law allows. And it was William who learned of the plot against Sir Henry and warned him of the danger. Did the commons about Bedford learn that their plot was discovered, and who it was who had betrayed them? Was I then to be the unwitting tool of those who did murder, thinking if and when I seized William that I had collected a felon? If so, I have been a great disappointment to some man. Or men. They must believe me so dull of wit that I cannot follow a path so clearly set before me. Perhaps they are correct.

’Twas Walter who told me that Sir Geoffrey was outside Sir Henry’s door the night he died. ’Twas Walter who had access to the pouch of crushed lettuce seeds, and who could have increased Sir Henry’s dose. Walter was of the commons. He would not have run afoul of Sir Henry’s enforcement of the Statute of Laborers, but he knew a man who had. His own family had suffered, according to Isobel. Was this reason enough to do murder? Walter’s father had been fined many years in the past. But Walter had said Sir Henry was a good lord.

I had suspected at various times Squire William, Lady Margery, Sir Geoffrey and Sir John of doing Sir Henry to death, because with each I saw a motive. That Walter the valet might have done murder had not seemed likely, as I at first saw no reason he would do so.

I bid Isobel “Good day,” and sent her off to her duties with Lady Margery. From the hall I climbed the stairs to the solar, where I hoped to find Lord Gilbert. I did. He was alone.

My employer sat behind his desk, a parchment before him, but I think he did not heed the document, for his head rested in his hands. He saw my shadow in the doorway, looked up, and invited me to enter.

“What news, Hugh?”

“I had hoped to tell you the conclusion of the matter of Sir Henry’s murder this day, but I cannot.”

“When will you do so? Foolish question… I must not vex you about your duty. You know it as well as I do.”

“I believe that next week at this time I may know who has killed Sir Henry and Sir John.”

“Next week? One man slew both?”

“So I believe, but the evidence I seek I am not likely to find here. I must travel to Bedford.”

“But murder was done here. You think some man from Bedford came here, did the felony, and then returned to his home?”

“Nay. But the evidence I seek, if it is to be found, will tell us which of Sir Henry’s household did the murders.”

“Bedford is a long way – two days’ hard travel.”

“So I have heard. I will return in five days. One day at Bedford will suffice, I think. I would take Arthur with me.”

“Very well. ’Tis always good to have a companion when upon the roads. When will you leave?”

“This day.”

“Sir Henry’s manor was at a village near to Bedford. Wootton, I believe. What do you seek there?”

“Sir Henry did harm to many men in the course of his duties as a Commissioner of Laborers. But few traveled with him to Bampton.”

“You believe his office led to his death? You suspected Sir Geoffrey, I thought.”

“It may be that he is guilty. He had cause.”

“Aye. And with Sir Henry dead, he might assume the post of Commissioner of Laborers. Will you take Bruce?”

“Such a journey will be too difficult for the old horse, I think. You have several palfreys in the marshalsea.”

“Take whichever you wish. Just return with these murders solved.”

Such an admonition was unnecessary. I was as anxious as my employer to see the business ended. I bowed my way from Lord Gilbert’s presence and sought Arthur. The groom always seemed ready to travel when I needed his company, and when I told him to prepare two of Lord Gilbert’s palfreys for travel, and to tell Cicily that he would be away for five days, he smiled and set immediately to the work. I told him also to bring a sack with an old, worn cotehardie, and a tattered pair of shoes. Arthur lifted an eyebrow at this instruction, but he has known me for such a time that odd requests from me no longer surprise him much. I left the castle and hurried to Galen House.

Kate was not pleased that I would be away, but her displeasure softened when I told her that I hoped to learn the identity of a murderer by leaving Bampton for a few days.

“A murderer?” she said. “You believe one man killed both Sir Henry and Sir John, then?”

“I believe it possible… no, I believe it likely.”

“Then godspeed, husband. I am pleased that Arthur will accompany you.”

“He is a good companion, and no fool. And has an arm as thick through as a gate post.”

I took Kate in my arms, kissed Bessie upon her head, and returned immediately to the castle. Arthur had two palfreys saddled and ready, the grey which he often rode, and a chestnut mare which Lord Gilbert had recently purchased. We would seek an inn at Oxford for our dinner, and continue east until we might find an abbey or priory where we would be made welcome when night fell.

Our beasts were well rested and young, so we passed Osney Abbey and entered Oxford by way of Bookbinders’ Bridge by the time our stomachs demanded dinner. We left the palfreys at the stables behind the Fox and Hounds, with instructions that they each be fed a bucket of oats, while we entered the inn and consumed a roasted capon and several maslin loaves.

Days in late June are warm and long. I nodded drowsily upon the mare as she carried me from Oxford across the verdant countryside. Men, and women also, were busy in the fields. The last of the hay was being cut, and as men swung their scythes, their wives turned the hay so it would dry evenly. In some fields hay which had been cut some weeks past was being raised into tall stacks. Children were busy in pea and bean fields, cutting thistles and dock, and in a few fields plowmen were at work behind oxen and horses, turning the soil for the second plowing of the summer.

We did not press the palfreys, the better to save them for the long day’s travel, and the next. Nevertheless, we found ourselves near to Buckingham when night drew nigh. Across a field from the road we saw an abbey, nearby a small village called Chetwode.

I pointed to the abbey rooftops, and told Arthur we would seek lodging there for the night.

Chetwode Abbey is a house of Augustinian Canons, and is not large or wealthy. We received what hospitality the place was prepared to offer, which was a bowl of pottage and a bed, and hay and a small measure of oats for our beasts. I think the abbot was not over pleased to learn that we would return to enjoy their hospitality in a few nights.

Next day, as we neared Bedford, I drew Arthur to the side of the road. The sack of his worn clothes I had slung across my palfrey’s rump. This I now took a few paces into a wood, and exchanged the old clothes for my fine chauces and cotehardie. Kate had not cut my hair for several weeks, nor had I trimmed my beard for many days, so with Arthur’s tattered garments I looked the part of an unkempt laborer seeking employment.

A half a mile beyond this place we found a lad weeding a bean field. I sent Arthur to ask him of Wootton. I saw the youth gesture in response, and soon Arthur returned.

“A mile ahead we will come to a way which leads to the manor of Lower Shelton, the lad said. A mile beyond that we will see a path which leads left to Wootton.”

The day was far gone when we came to the place where the path to Wootton diverged from the main road. I dismounted and told Arthur to do the same. It would not do to be seen entering the village upon two well-fed horses. Not if the subterfuge I had in mind was to succeed.

A small wood bordered the track to Wootton. We led our beasts into this grove until they were well hid from any traveler who might pass this way. We removed their saddles and tied them to trees a few paces apart, so they should not entangle themselves, then set out afoot for the village and manor of Wootton.

Sir Henry’s manor house was in great need of repair. Daub had peeled away from the wattles in several places, and the thatch was rotting and thin. Had I not before known
of his impoverished state, I would have learned of it upon seeing his house. I wondered what Lady Margery thought when she laid eyes upon the place for the first time.

Beyond the manor house the single street of the village extended perhaps two hundred paces to a small church. Between the church and Sir Henry’s house this street was lined with the homes of tenants and villeins. A few of these houses were in disrepair and uninhabited. Sir Henry would not reduce rents upon his lands to attract men to take up holdings abandoned due to the pestilence. Near the church I saw a thing which brought me great pleasure. A pole was erected before one of the houses, and atop it there was an upturned basket. Some ale wife had fresh-brewed ale and was advertising her supply. I pointed toward the place and Arthur and I made our way there.

A child played in the toft before the house, and within the place I heard a babe voice its displeasure over some matter probably having to do with food. I knocked upon the jamb, for the door was open, and a moment later a wary female face peered suspiciously at me from the dark interior of the house. There are surely few visitors to a place like Wootton.