Rest Not in Peace (2 page)
U
nwelcome guests may be a tribulation, and when they depart ’tis usually considered a blessed occasion. But not so if the visitor is a knight, and he departs to make his new home in St Beornwald’s churchyard.
Sir Henry Burley was a small man, with a face that sloped back in all directions from a prominent nose, like a badger’s. I should probably not be commenting upon the size of another man’s nose. If ability to detect a scent was dependent upon the size of one’s nose I could likely track a stag as well as Lord Gilbert’s hounds.
Evidently in battle at Poitiers more than a decade past, Sir Henry had done some service for my employer, Lord Gilbert Talbot. What this service was I did not learn ’til later. Lord Gilbert said only that it would cost him little to repay the knight’s valor. From this brief explanation I judged that Sir Henry had distinguished himself in battle, to Lord Gilbert’s advantage. How this could be was a mystery to me, for Lord Gilbert is nearly as tall as me, and is squarely built, while Sir Henry is – was – small and slender and, I judge, weighed little more than eight stone.
But after nearly a month entertaining Sir Henry, his wife and daughter, two knights and two squires in Sir Henry’s service, and several valets and grooms, Lord Gilbert was clearly ready for them to depart. Sir Henry was a demanding sort of man who seemed to delight in finding fault with Bampton Castle and its inhabitants; the garderobe was not perfumed to his liking, and Lord Gilbert’s grooms and valets did not show him proper deference.
Three days before St John’s Day, in the year of our Lord 1368, Sir Henry went to his bed hale and healthy after enjoying a long evening of music, conversation, and dancing
in Bampton Castle’s hall. The next morn his valet found him cold and dead. Death is but the path to God, but most men would prefer to travel that way in some distant future day.
Shortly after Sir Henry’s valet made this disagreeable discovery I was breaking my fast when a loud and insistent thumping upon my door drew me from my morning reverie. Kate was feeding bits of a wheaten loaf to Bessie and continued her occupation, an early summons not being unusual in Galen House. I am often sought at such an hour, either because of my profession, surgeon, or due to my service as bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot’s manor of Bampton. My summons this day was because of my training as surgeon, but soon called for a bailiff’s work as well.
John, Lord Gilbert’s chamberlain, stood before me when I opened the door. I knew immediately some great matter had brought him to Galen House. A groom or valet would have been sent for some routine business.
“Come quickly, Master Hugh. Sir Henry is dead.”
Why the presence of a surgeon was required quickly, when the patient was dead, did not seem to have occurred to John, but I did as he bid. I had yet a part of a wheaten loaf in my hand. This I left upon our table before Kate, then explained my hasty departure, the reason for which my wife had not heard. Bessie has discovered language, and makes incessant use of the knowledge, often at great volume if she believes her words are not awarded sufficient importance. So Kate did not know who was at our door or what the reason until I told her.
Two days earlier a page had called at Galen House. Lord Gilbert’s guest, he said, was unable to sleep. Lord Gilbert wished me to send herbs which might calm a troubled mind and bring rest. I sent a pouch of pounded lettuce seeds, with instruction to measure a thimbleful unto a cup of wine an hour before Sir Henry went to his bed.
Usually when I am called to some place where my skill as a surgeon is required I take with me a sack of instruments and herbs, so as to be prepared for whatever wound or injury I may find. I took no implements this day. Of what use would they be to a dead man?
I questioned John regarding the matter as we hurried down Church View Street to Mill Street, crossed Shill Brook, and approached the castle gatehouse. As we spoke I heard the passing bell ring from the tower of the Church of St Beornwald.
“Lord Gilbert wishes your opinion as to what has caused this death,” John said. “The man was in good health yesterday. Complained of no illness. Lord Gilbert, I think, fears poison or some such thing which might cast blame on him and his household.”
John did not say, but I suspect Lord Gilbert worried that the lettuce seed I provided to aid Sir Henry’s sleep might have contributed to his death.
“Is there reason to suspect evil in this?” I asked.
“None… but that the man was robust one day and a corpse the next.”
“Men may die of a sudden. ’Tis known to occur.”
“Aye, when they are aged.”
“But Sir Henry was not. I dined with him a week past, when Lord Gilbert invited me to his table. How old was the man?”
“Forty-six, his wife said.”
Faces of those who greeted me in the Bampton Castle hall were somber, lips drawn tight and thin. Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla sat in earnest conversation with an attractive woman whom I recognized as Lady Margery, Sir Henry’s wife. Lord Gilbert stood when he saw John usher me into the hall, spoke briefly to the widow, then approached. Over Lord Gilbert’s shoulder I saw Lady Margery rise from
her chair, her face twisted into a venomous glare. She began to follow Lord Gilbert, but Lady Petronilla laid a hand upon her arm and spoke, and the woman resumed her place. The hate in her eyes remained.
“I give you good day,” I said to my employer.
“Much thanks, Hugh, but the day is ill. John has told you?”
“Aye. Your guest was found dead this morning.”
“He was. And no sign of what caused the death… which is why I sent for you. A surgeon or physician might more readily see what indisposition has caused this.”
“You have seen the corpse?”
“Aye.”
“And you saw nothing out of sorts?”
“Not a thing. All was as a man should be when asleep, but for his eyes. They were open. The body is unmarked. Sir Henry was not a young man, but he was in good health yesterday.”
“John Chamberlain said you feared poison?”
Lord Gilbert shrugged, then whispered, “’Twas but the thought of a moment. We are all baffled. I would not have Lady Margery hear of poison.”
“John,” Lord Gilbert continued, “take Master Hugh to Sir John’s chamber.” Then, to me he said, “’Tis an odious business, I know, to ask of you, but I wish to know if Sir Henry’s death is God’s work or man’s.”
“You suspect man’s work?”
“Nay. I do not know what to think. So I have called for you. Is it possible that the sleeping draught you sent did this?”
“Nay. The seeds of lettuce are but a mild soporific. A man would need to swallow a bucket of the stuff to do himself harm.”
Lord Gilbert turned back to Lady Margery and left me to John, who nodded and led me to the stairs which would
take us to the guest chambers beyond Lord Gilbert’s solar.
Past the solar the passageway grew dark, but at its end I saw two figures. I recognized one. Arthur, one of Lord Gilbert’s grooms, stood at the closed door of a chamber, and another man, wearing Sir Henry’s livery and badge, stood with him.
The two men stood aside as I approached, having been notified, no doubt, that I was to inspect the corpse and give reason for the death. I opened the heavy door and entered the chamber, but none followed. Death is not pleasant to look upon, and the three men who stood outside the door were content to allow me to do my work alone.
Sir Henry lay as he had been found, upon his back, sightless eyes staring at the vaulted ceiling and boss of his chamber. Would a man die in his sleep with his eyes open? Perhaps some pain seized him in the night and awakened him before death came.
A cresset was burning upon a stand, where it had been all night should Sir Henry have wished to rise and visit the garderobe. I lifted it and held it close to the dead man’s face. Two windows gave light to the room, but they were narrow, and one faced north, the other west, so that the morning sun did not illuminate the chamber.
I first inspected Sir Henry’s neck to see if any contusion was there. None was. I felt the man’s scalp, to see if any lump or dried blood might betray a blow. All was as it should be. I pried open the lips – no easy task, for rigor mortis was begun – to see if Sir Henry might have choked to his death upon regurgitated food. His mouth was clear.
Because Sir Henry was already stiffening in death I assumed that he was dead for some hours before he was found. De Mondeville wrote that rigor mortis begins three or so hours after death, and becomes severe at twelve hours after death.
A blanket yet covered the corpse. I drew this aside, and with my dagger slit Sir Henry’s kirtle so I might inspect the body for wounds or evidence of blows. There were none.
Beside the bed, next to where the cresset had been placed, was a cup. I held it to the window and saw in the dregs the few remains of the pounded seeds of lettuce which had been in the wine. Was some other potion added to the cup? I touched the dregs with my fingertips and brought them to my lips. I could detect no foreign flavor, although this is not telling, for there are several malignant herbs which leave little or no taste when consumed. Monk’s Hood is one. And for this they are all the more dangerous.
The walls of Sir Henry’s chamber were of stone, of course, and the door of heavy oak. If he felt himself afflicted in the night, and cried out for aid, he might not have been heard, especially if his call was weak due to an affliction which took his life.
I went to the door, where Arthur and Sir Henry’s valet stood, and asked the valet if anyone had heard Sir Henry shout for help in the night.
“Don’t know,” he replied. “I spend the night in the servants’ range. I wouldn’t have heard ’im.”
“Has no other, those whose chambers were close by, spoken of it?”
“Nay. None said anything.”
“It was you who found him?”
“Aye.”
“Has anything in his chamber been moved since then? Has Sir Henry’s corpse been moved?”
“Nay… but for Lady Margery throwin’ herself upon ’im when she was brought here an’ saw Sir Henry dead. Lord Gilbert drew her away. Told her he had a man who could tell why Sir Henry was dead. That would be you?”
“Aye. I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon, and bailiff at Bampton manor. You are…?”
“Walter Mayn, valet to Sir Henry… was valet to Sir Henry.”
“Two days past I was asked to provide herbs which might help Sir Henry fall to sleep. Was there some matter which vexed him, so that he awoke of a night?”
Walter did not reply. He looked away, as if he heard some man approach at the end of the passageway. A valet is to be circumspect, and loyal, and hold his tongue when asked of the affairs of his lord. The man did not need to say more. His silence and glance told me that some business had troubled Sir Henry. Whether or not the issue had led to his death was another matter. Might a man die of worry? If so, this was no concern of Lord Gilbert Talbot’s bailiff.
“Who slept in the next chamber?” I asked the fellow.
“Sir Geoffrey Godswein.”
“And across the passageway?”
“Sir John Peverel.”
“They are knights in Sir Henry’s service?”
“Aye.”
“And they did not speak of any disturbance in the night?”
“Not that I heard. There was lots of screamin’ from Lady Margery and all was speakin’ at once when Sir Henry was found.”
I decided that I should seek these knights, and the Lady Margery, if she was fit to be questioned. I told Arthur and Walter to remain at Sir Henry’s door and allow no man, nor woman, either, to enter the chamber ’til I had returned.
Lady Margery I had seen in the hall, so I returned there and found Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla comforting the widow. Lady Margery’s eyes were red and
her cheeks swollen. She had seen me an hour before, but through teary eyes.
“Master Hugh,” Lord Gilbert said, rising, “what news?”
“Hugh?” the woman shrieked. “This is the leech who has poisoned my husband?”
Lord Gilbert answered for me. “Nay, Lady Margery. Master Hugh is as competent as any at his business. He has assured me that the potion he sent to aid Sir Henry’s slumber could not cause death.”
“Of course he would say so. Something did. And Sir Henry took none of the potion until the night he died.”
The woman stood, her fists clenched, as if prepared to strike me. Lord Gilbert saw, and took her arm.
“’Tis of that night I would speak to you,” I said. “Your chamber is not far from your husband’s. Did you or your maids hear anything in the night? Some sound which might now, when you think back upon it, have told of Sir Henry’s distress, even if in the night, when you heard it, you paid no heed?”
“Nay, I heard nothing. ’Twas the potion you gave which caused his death. It was to bring sleep, you said. So it did, the sleep of death. This man,” she turned to my employer, “should be sent to the sheriff for trial before the King’s Eyre for the murder he has done.”
“Surely Master Hugh has done no murder,” Lady Petronilla said. “If so be his potion brought death ’twas surely mischance, not felony.”
Lady Margery stared skeptically at Lady Petronilla, but said no more.
Across the hall, as far from the grieving widow as could be yet remaining in the chamber, I saw two knights sitting upon a bench, their heads close together in earnest conversation.
“Sir John and Sir Geoffrey occupied chambers near Sir Henry, is this not so?”
“Aye,” Lord Gilbert replied, and nodded in the direction of the solemn knights.
I walked in the direction of his gaze and the two knights stood when they saw me approach.
“I give you good day,” I said courteously, although my words were but an affectation, for no such day could be good. “You are knights in service to Sir Henry?” I asked, although I knew the answer.
“Aye,” the older of the two replied. “I am Sir John Peverel. This is Sir Geoffrey Godswein.”
Sir John was a large man, taller than me and three stone heavier. His hands were the size of a dexter’s hooves. Sir Geoffrey was smaller, a man of normal size.
I introduced myself and my duty, and asked if they had heard any cry in the night, or any other sound to indicate that Sir Henry might have been in distress. Both men shook their heads.