Rest Not in Peace (3 page)

“Heard nothing amiss ’til Walter shouted for help,” Sir Geoffrey said.

“When he did so you went immediately to Sir Henry’s chamber?”

“Aye.”

“Who entered first?”

“I did,” Sir Geoffrey replied.

“What did you see? Tell all, even if it seems of no importance.”

“Walter stood at the door, which was flung wide open, bawling out that Sir Henry was dead. I pushed past and saw ’twas so.”

“Were the bed clothes in disarray, as if he’d thrashed about?”

Sir Geoffrey pursed his lips in thought, turned to Sir
John as if seeking confirmation, then spoke. “Nay. All was in order. Not like Sir Henry’d tossed about in pain before he died.”

Sir John nodded agreement, then said, “His eyes were open. You being a surgeon would know better than me, but if a man died in his sleep, they’d be closed, seems like.”

I agreed. “Unless some pain awoke him before he died.”

“Then why’d he not cry out?” Sir Geoffrey asked.

I had no answer.

“When did you last see Sir Henry alive?”

“Last night,” Sir John said.

“After the music and dancing,” Sir Geoffrey added. “We retired same time as Sir Henry and Lady Margery.”

“Did he seem well? Did any matter trouble him?”

The two knights seemed to hesitate, slightly, but I noted it, before they replied.

“Nay,” Sir Geoffrey said. “Lord Gilbert had musicians and jongleurs to entertain here in the hall after supper. Sir Henry danced an’ seemed pleased as any.”

“When he went to his chamber did he stand straight, or was he perhaps bent as if some discomfort afflicted his belly?”

Again the knights exchanged glances, but this time Sir John spoke with no hesitation. “Sir Henry always stands straight, being shorter than most men. Wears thick-soled shoes, too. Was he bent last eve we’d have noticed, that being unlike him.”

“Think back again to this morning, and when you first entered Sir Henry’s chamber. Was anything amiss, or in disarray?”

“When a man is found dead,” Sir John said, “other matters are trivial. I paid no heed to anything but the corpse.” Sir Geoffrey nodded in agreement.

I thanked the knights, bid them “Good day,” whether it was or not, and motioned to Lord Gilbert that I wished to speak privily to him.

“What have you learned?” he asked when we were out of Lady Margery’s hearing.

“You saw the corpse?” I asked.

“Aye,” he grimaced.

“Sir Henry’s eyes were open in death.”

“Aye, they were. What means that?”

“I do not know, but the fact troubles me.”

“Why so? You think violence was done to him?”

“Nay. I examined the corpse. I found no injury. If a man dies in his sleep, his eyes will be shut. I’m sure of this. If Sir Henry awoke, and felt himself in pain, he would, I think, have called out. But no man, nor Lady Margery, heard him do so.”

“The castle walls are thick,” Lord Gilbert said.

“As are the doors. But between the bottom of the door to Sir Henry’s chamber and the floor is a space as wide as a man’s finger is thick. If Sir Henry cried for help I think he would have been heard through the gap, unless the affliction had greatly weakened him.”

“Mayhap the malady took him of a sudden.”

“Perhaps,” I shrugged.

“You are not satisfied to be ignorant of a matter like this, are you?” Lord Gilbert said.

“Nay.”

“’Tis why I employed you. But you must remember that only the Lord Christ knows all. There are matters we mortals may never know.”

Lord Gilbert Talbot, baron of the realm, valiant knight, now theologian and philosopher.

“You wish me to abandon my inquiry?”

“The longer you continue, the more distress for Lady
Margery. If you think it unlikely you will ever discover the cause ’twould be best to say so sooner than later. Men often die for no good reason.”

“There is always a reason, but other men are ignorant of understanding the cause.”

“And you do not like being deceived, even by death, do you?”

“Nay. And if I cannot discover what caused Sir Henry’s death, Lady Margery will tell all that ’twas my potion which did so.”

“Another hour or two, then. Have ready an opinion by dinner.”

I promised to do so. As I left the hall Sir Henry’s daughter entered, as red-eyed and puffy-cheeked as her stepmother. Lady Anne, I had been told, was Sir Henry’s daughter by his first wife, the Lady Goscelyna. The lass looked to be about nineteen or twenty years old, and was followed by two youths – squires, I remembered, to Sir Henry. The lads were somber, but showed no sign of terrible loss. Lady Anne is a beautiful maid, and surely accustomed to being followed by young men.

I returned to Sir Henry’s chamber, nodded to Arthur and Walter, and entered the room. Perhaps, I thought, murder was done here in some manner I had not discovered, and when Sir Henry was dead all marks of a struggle had been made right. But if such had happened, why did Sir Henry not shout for assistance when he was attacked? Whether the man died of some illness, or was murdered, I could make no sense of his silence.

I sat upon a chair, ready to abandon the loathsome task I had been assigned. The Lord Christ gives to all men their appointed tasks, but occasionally I wish that He had assigned another profession to me. My eyes fell upon the fireplace. It was cold, and the ashes of the last blaze of
winter were long since disposed of, but ’twas not the hearth which seized my attention.

A poker stood propped against the stones, and my mind went to a rumor which passed among students while I studied at Balliol College. A rumor concerning the death of King Edward II. Mortimer and Edward’s faithless queen deposed him nearly a half-century past, and he was taken to Berkeley Castle where, some months later, he was found dead of a morning. Folk living near the castle were said to have heard terrible screams in the night, but, as with Sir Henry, no mark was found upon the King’s corpse to tell of violent death.

A red-hot poker, rumor said, was thrust up the deposed King’s rectum, doing murder and cauterizing the wound at the same time, so no blood flowed to disclose how the felony was done. And no visible wound was made to indict the murderers.

There had been no blaze in Sir Henry’s fireplace, but I went to the hearth to examine the poker nevertheless. The iron bar was dusty with ashes from its last use, which had been as was intended, not to do murder.

I replaced the poker against the wall, but the thought of Edward II’s death caused me to consider again Sir Henry’s corpse. Surely if a man was murdered as the King was, his screams would have been heard throughout the castle, stone walls and oaken doors notwithstanding.

But what if he was silenced with a pillow over his face? Would that muffle his shrieks? Or might a pillow have been enough to suffocate the man and silence his protest at the same time?

I turned to the door of the chamber to seek Arthur and Walter and conduct an experiment with the pillow. ’Twas then I saw the tiny brown droplet upon the planks. I knelt to inspect the mark, thinking at first it might have been
made by a drop of Sir Henry’s wine. The color so matched the wood that ’tis a wonder I saw it at all. Some man, or men, did not.

The circular stain was smaller than the nail upon my little finger, and when I scraped a thumbnail across it I was able to lift some of the substance from the floor. Wine will not thicken so. A tiny drop of dried blood lay before me.

Could this be Sir Henry’s blood? If so, whence did it come? I approached the corpse, turned it upon the bed, and spread the legs so I might inspect the rectum for some sign of violence. I saw none, although I admit I might have performed the examination more carefully.

When Sir Henry was again upon his back I made another search of the corpse for some wound from which the drop of blood might have come. As before, I found none. Was there some other orifice of a man’s body whereby he might be stabbed and murdered, the wound invisible? I had already peered into Sir Henry’s mouth and seen nothing amiss. I tilted the head back and inspected the nostrils to see if any trace of blood was there. None was.

Sir Henry was stiff in death, but I managed to turn his head so that I could inspect his left ear. ’Tis all dark within a man’s ear, so at first I saw nothing, but it seemed to me that Sir Henry’s ear was darker than might be expected. I drew my dagger and with the point teased from the ear canal a flake of dried matter identical to the drop of dried blood upon the floor. If a man died in the throes of apoplexy would the strain cause an eardrum to burst? I had never heard of such a thing, and Galen and de Mondeville wrote nothing of such a phenomenon.

I needed my instruments. I bid Arthur and Walter maintain their watch, told Lord Gilbert my examination was near complete, and hastened to Galen House. Bessie toddled to me, but I could spare her but a peck upon a
cheek before I seized a sack which I keep always ready for a time when my skills are called for.

Often when I walk the bridge over Shill Brook I stop to observe the water pass beneath, but not this day. I hastened to the castle, and at Sir Henry’s chamber I selected my smallest scalpel with which to prod the dark recess of Sir Henry’s ear. A moment later I drew forth a clot of dried blood.

If an awl is driven through a man’s ear, into his brain, will he die so suddenly that he does not cry out in pain before death comes? I did not know, and do not know yet, for there is no way to make experiment to learn if it may be so.

But I was then sure that Sir Henry was murdered. Some man thrust an awl or thin blade through his ear. If such a wound bleeds much – I had no experience of such a wound to know, and no writer has treated the subject – the felon had mopped up the blood so as to befuddle all who sought to find the cause of Sir Henry’s death. They had overlooked one drop.

I must now report this sad discovery to Lord Gilbert, and he must send for Sir Roger de Elmerugg, Sheriff of Oxford. Murder upon Lord Gilbert’s lands would generally be my bailiwick, but not when the deceased was a visiting knight. I was pleased that seeking a murderer would be another man’s business. Sir Roger entertained other thoughts.

I
had no authority to summon the sheriff of Oxford to Bampton. Lord Gilbert must do that, and before he would do so I must explain the need. I found my employer in the hall, deep in conversation with Lady Petronilla and Lady Margery, sitting in chairs drawn aside while grooms erected tables for dinner.

Lord Gilbert saw me enter the hall. I did not wish to tell him of my discovery in the Lady Margery’s presence, so stopped at the entry and with a nod of my head invited him to join me. He did so.

“What news, Hugh? Have you done with your examination?”

“I have, m’lord.”

“And?”

“Sir Henry died at some other man’s hand.”

“What?” Lord Gilbert said, startled by this news, then peered over his shoulder to see if Lady Margery had observed or heard his response.

“Murder was done last night,” I said.

“You are certain? How so?”

“Come with me and I will show you what I have found.”

I motioned for Lord Gilbert to leave the hall before me, and as I turned to follow saw Lady Petronilla and Lady Margery look to me, their conversation halted, questions from their raised eyebrows. Few things will stop ladies’ gossip, but I had managed to do so.

“Sir Henry,” Lord Gilbert said as we strode the corridor toward the dead man’s chamber, “had no wound upon him that I could see. How could this be murder? Have you found some poison?”

“Nay… no poison. I will show you. Come and see.”

Lord Gilbert hesitated at the door to Sir Henry’s chamber, where Arthur and Walter stood watch. I pushed past and motioned for him to follow. At Sir Henry’s head I stopped and turned to Lord Gilbert.

“I had nearly given up learning the reason for this death,” I admitted, “when my eyes fell upon yon poker.” I pointed to the iron rod.

“Sir Henry was beaten to death with that?” Lord Gilbert asked incredulously.

“Nay.”

“Stabbed, then? But where?”

“Nay. Not stabbed with the poker, but he was pierced.”

“But there is no sign.”

“There is if one seeks for it in the proper place. You have heard the tale of the death of King Edward’s father?”

“Aye,” Lord Gilbert grimaced. “Mayhap ’tis no tale, but true. But you said that poker was not employed to do murder.”

“It was not. The soot of the last fire of winter is yet upon it. But when I saw it I wondered if another weapon might have been used to penetrate some other orifice.”

“And you found it so?”

“Aye. So I believe. Look there.” I pointed to the fragment of dried blood which I had teased from Sir Henry’s ear, and which yet lay upon the pillow beside his head.

Lord Gilbert bent to examine the clot and perceived readily what it was he saw.

“Blood?” he said.

“Aye.”

“From whence has it come?”

“Sir Henry’s ear.”

Lord Gilbert scowled. “Could not some spasm cause such a rupture?”

“I have never heard nor have I read of such a thing,” I replied.

“But yet it could be so.”

“Mayhap. But if Sir Henry died of a fit, I think he would have thrashed about in its throes, left his bed in disarray, and made some racket before death came upon him.”

“Hmmm.” Lord Gilbert stood from examining the blood, raised one questioning eyebrow, then spoke again.

“Some man within Bampton Castle walls did murder last night, then?”

“Or woman.”

“What woman would wish Sir Henry dead?”

“What man?” I replied.

“Surely some man has done this.”

“Why so? ’Twould take little strength to plunge a bodkin through a man’s ear and into his brain.”

“But would a woman have the stomach to do so?”

“That, m’lord, I cannot say. There are some men, I think, who could not bring themselves to do such a sleeping murder, no matter the provocation. As there be some men who could not, there may be some women who could.”

“Oh,” Lord Gilbert said thoughtfully. “Just so. Well, if you are certain of murder you must discover who has done it.”

“Is that not the sheriff’s duty?”

“He must be told, of course. I will send for him straight away.”

“And we must bring Hubert Shillside to see what has happened here.”

Shillside is Bampton’s haberdasher, and has been the
town coroner since before I came to the place. I have had many dealings with him and his jury. More than I would wish. I do not dislike the man, but it seems that whenever I have discourse with the fellow some man has died.

“We will have our dinner first, then you must travel to Oxford and fetch Sir Roger.”

“Me?”

“Aye. You must explain to Sir Roger what has happened, and why you suspect murder. John Chamberlain or some valet could not do so in convincing fashion.”

June twenty-first was a fast day, so Lord Gilbert’s table was not so lavish as otherwise would be. Lord Gilbert, Lady Petronilla, Lady Margery, Lady Anne, Sir John and Sir Geoffrey sat at the high table. In times past I had also had a place there, but not this day. There was room enough. Perhaps Lord Gilbert thought that Lady Margery might take it amiss, being yet convinced that my potion had slain her husband. Neither Lord Gilbert nor I had announced yet the cause of Sir Henry’s death.

The first remove this day was sole in cyve, wheaten bread with honeyed butter, and mussels boiled in wine. I watched Lady Margery consume her portion of this first remove. I thought she might have little appetite, but not so. She attacked her dinner eagerly. Her cheeks were yet pink and swollen from the morning’s tears, but her conversation with Lord Gilbert and Sir Geoffrey, who sat on either side of her this day, showed little sign of bereavement. Sir Geoffrey, I was surprised to see, stuffed himself crudely, and wiped honeyed butter from his lips with the back of his hand. Lady Margery did not seem to notice.

For the second remove the cook presented boiled salmon and a pottage of whelks. During this remove I turned my attention to Lady Anne. She seemed less enthusiastic for discourse, speaking to Lady Petronilla and
Sir John only when spoken to, and ate but a small portion of the boiled salmon.

Directly across from me, at the head of the other side table, sat the two squires. I watched them as valets brought the third remove, eels in bruit and a pike fried and anointed with sobye sauce. One squire ate heartily, and spoke frequently to his companion, but the other seldom made reply, consumed little of his meal, and from a corner of his eye seemed intent on those who sat at the high table.

For a subtlety there was gingerbread and a chardewarden. I gave up trying to learn anything from Sir Henry’s household and enjoyed these sweets.

Sir Henry’s and Lord Gilbert’s grooms and valets, who sat at the far ends of the side tables, received only maslin loaves, eels, and stockfish, of course, but they seemed to enjoy the meal as much as we who dined on more refined fare.

“Your chaplain,” I said to Lord Gilbert when the meal was done, “has he offered Extreme Unction?”

“Aye. When Sir Henry was discovered dead. Before I sent for you.”

“What is to be done with the corpse? Will Lady Margery return her husband to Bedford?”

“Nay. She said ’tis too far. June days are warm. Sir Henry will begin to stink before he can be got home. She will have him buried here, in St Beornwald’s churchyard.”

“She does not wish him interred in the church?” I asked. I was somewhat surprised that a knight would await the Lord Christ’s return under the sod with common folk.

“What she wishes and what she will pay for seem two different things.”

“Lady Margery will not pay for Sir Henry to be buried within the church?”

“Will not, or cannot,” Lord Gilbert said.

“Surely a knight’s widow has coin enough to see him rest under the church floor.”

Lord Gilbert shrugged. “Father Thomas has been sent for. Lady Margery will treat with him about costs. But when I asked this morn, before you were sent for, she named the churchyard as his burial place. ’Tis my belief,” he added after a moment of silence, “that Sir Henry was in straitened circumstances.”

“Ah… I understand. He’s been under your roof, dining at your table, since Ascension Day.”

“Day after.”

“Had he said aught about taking himself home?”

“Nary a word, though I’d begun to hint of it. Gambled a bit, did Sir Henry. Lost often in France, while we awaited battle. He’d wager upon nearly anything; dice, two lads wrestling, which dog would win a fight. Lost ten shillings when he wagered Sir Ralph de Colley that next day there’d be no rain.”

“There was rain?”

“Came down in buckets. Sir Henry had little luck when he put his coin at risk.”

“That’s why he came to Bampton, you think? Because of his poverty he wished to take advantage of your table?”

“Aye,” Lord Gilbert answered. “And likely why he’ll sleep under the churchyard rather than under the church floor, or in his own parish church.”

It is no dishonor to be poor. The dishonor in poverty is often found in the manner in which a man becomes poor. Or remains so.

I wondered that Lord Gilbert would not offer funds to see Sir Henry laid under the floor of the Church of St Beornwald, but there are things even a bailiff finds it injudicious to ask of his employer.

It was by then past midday, too late to travel to Oxford,
seek the sheriff, and return before night, even as the longest day of the year drew near. And Bruce, the old dexter given to my use, has such a jouncing gait that such a journey all in one day would be a torment to my nether portion.

I told Lord Gilbert that I would take Arthur with me to Oxford, and return next day with the sheriff, was Sir Roger not otherwise engaged. Lady Margery could, with Father Thomas, make plans for her husband’s funeral, and after Sir Roger had seen the corpse, and been shown the damaged ear, Sir Henry might be placed beneath the grass of St Beornwald’s churchyard, there to await our Lord Christ’s return.

Kate awaited me, hands on hips, lips drawn tight, when I returned to Galen House. She had expected me for my dinner, a chevet, which is a meal I enjoy. Well, as Kate knows, there are few meals I do not enjoy.

“I left it upon the coals so long, awaiting your return, that it is scorched and gone dry,” she said through pursed lips.

The subject was troublesome. I thought to change it. “There has been murder done at the castle,” I said.

“Oh.” Kate put a hand to her mouth. “Sir Henry?”

“Aye. Found dead in his bed this morning. ’Twas not a natural death.”

“What has happened?”

“Some man thrust a bodkin or awl or some such thing through his ear and into his brain whilst he slept.”

Kate’s eyes grew wide and she shuddered. “I am sorry that I was short with you. The pie is not so badly burnt.”

“Lord Gilbert asked me to dine at the castle.”

“You did so?”

“Aye. I wished to observe Sir Henry’s family and retainers.”

“Because one of them slew him?”

“It must be. Lord Gilbert wished him away and back to his own demesne, but would not have murdered him to be rid of him, nor asked another to do so.”

“What did you learn, watching them eat?”

“Nothing. Sir Henry’s wife believes my sleeping potion to blame, and ate heartily of her dinner. But only one of Sir Henry’s squires had appetite for his dinner. Lord Gilbert has promised to tell Lady Margery how Sir Henry died, and I must travel to Oxford and return tomorrow with the sheriff. The murder of a knight is more his business than mine. It happened in my bailiwick, but his shire.”

Sir Roger de Elmerugg possesses champion eyebrows. They cross his face like a hedge through a meadow. When I told him of death at Bampton Castle and its cause, his ruddy forehead furrowed above his brows.

“You do not know who has done this murder?” he said.

“Nay. Lord Gilbert wishes you to attend him and seek the felon.”

“You are bailiff there. Does he not trust your competence?”

“Sir Henry,” I shrugged, “is… was a knight. And,” I added, “I am suspect.”

“You? How so?”

I explained that Sir Henry had slept uneasily and had asked for a sleeping draught.

“You provided this?”

“Aye. ’Twas but the pounded seeds of lettuce, a physic I have often used to bring slumber.”

“What if a man took your potion, yet could not sleep, so consumed more? What then?”

“The seeds of lettuce are a mild soporific. We may see how much remains in the pouch of what I gave him,
but he could have consumed all and it would not have stopped his breath. Lettuce seeds may poison a man if taken to excess, but there were not enough in the pouch to sicken Sir Henry. And I told you of the blood I found in his ear.”

“Aye. Well, Lord Gilbert asks, and I will come. You may sleep this night in a guest chamber, and your man may sleep with the castle sergeants. We will set out tomorrow after we have broken our fast.”

I had slept in Oxford Castle before, but not under a clean blanket. I had been charged with stealing another man’s fur coat, which I had not done, so until I was freed at Lord Gilbert’s command I spent several days in the castle dungeon. The experience returned to my mind and so occupied my thoughts that I did not readily find sleep.