The Unquiet Bones (15 page)

Arthur and I retrieved our horses from the inn stable, and made our way through the inevitable throng on the High Street and New Road to the bridge over the Castle Mill Stream. I turned back at the bridge for a look at the ancient motte and keep of Oxford Castle, rising above the newer fortress. I thanked God that He led me to Margaret Smith in time to prevent a dreadful injustice, and spoke a silent prayer that He would again intercede if in the future I was about to do some similar witless act.

Arthur and I splashed across the river at Swinford, and a half-mile farther on took the track for Bampton. Ahead in the distance, far down the road to Witney and Burford, I saw two brown-clad figures, their cloaks blending with the muddy road and autumn foliage. One was tall, the other short; both were striding purposefully west toward Eynsham. The shorter figure seemed to walk with a limp.

A
rthur chattered on as we rode, pleased to go home, and animated by the performance he had witnessed that morning. He commented on the strength of the wrestler, the skills of the acrobats and jugglers, and the daring of the knife-thrower. I thought he might have mentioned the daring of the girl who served as the fellow’s target. He did remark on her ability to wind her slender body into such miraculous shapes.

When he finished his review of the performances he began over again, this time comparing their execution this day with their efforts at Bampton five months before. They had lost none of their abilities, he concluded, but for the girl. Marvelous as her talents were, she could not compare to the lass who had performed even more phenomenal feats of contortion earlier in the year. I paid him little attention. I thought rather of the error I had made which nearly cost a man his life. But when he finished his review a new thought intruded upon my reflection.

“The girl today was not with the troupe at Whitsuntide?” I asked.

“Nay…’tis another, I think. This lass was dark. The girl with them before was fair, hair the color of barley-straw at harvest.”

“’Tis not unknown for a woman to change the color of her hair?”

“Aye,” he agreed. “That sort might do so. But ’twas a different lass, all the same.”

“You are certain?”

“T’other had pale skin, burned red on her cheeks from the sun. The lass today was dark. She’d not burn red like that.”

I agreed such a hue was unlikely for the girl I had seen that day at Oxford. This news unsettled me.

After Arthur reviewed the entertainers’ repertoire the second time, he found little more to speak of, so we rode on in silence. There was little to do but sway in synchronization to Bruce’s easy gait and think of Arthur’s revelation about the other contortionist; the one with barley-straw hair.

“How old would you say the girl was?” I asked.

“Eh? What girl?”

I had forgotten that Arthur was not privy to my thoughts. His mind had wandered in its own directions, which were not the same as mine.

“The other girl with the troupe, the one at Whitsuntide.”

“Oh…ah, well, quite young, as was her replacement. Can’t imagine any but the young able to do such as that.”

“So then, how old did you take her for?”

“Sixteen…seventeen years. No more.”

“And how tall was she, do you guess?”

“Oh, like the lass today. Short.”

“So she might have been younger than seventeen?” I pressed.

“Might have been. But her face, you know, not the face of a child, nor a child’s manner.”

“What of her manner?”

“Throwin’ glances at the men as was watchin’, to get ’em to toss more into t’basket when it come ’round.”

“Did it work?”

“Huh?” Arthur feigned ignorance.

“How much did you pitch in, Arthur?”

“I don’t remember. I do recall as how Father Simon was that offended, he went to Lord Gilbert and asked for him to send them off, the lot of them.”

“And did Lord Gilbert do so?”

“Nay,” Arthur chuckled. “He brought them to t’castle to perform in the hall next day. ’Twas a feast for Sir Robert. I helped serve. Thought we’d hear that Lady Joan was betrothed before the festivities was done, but not so.”

“And the troupe left the next day?”

“Aye. ’Twas late when supper was done. They stayed t’night in t’castle yard. Set up their own tents. One slept in t’stable. Had horses an’ a cart for their stage an’ other goods. Was gone next mornin’.”

“Did they leave early? At dawn?”

Arthur mulled this over for a minute. “Nay. ’Twas an odd thing ’bout that. ’Twas past third hour when they left. The wrestler – he’s leader, I think – was wantin’ to see Lord Gilbert, but chamberlain put him off. I was about my duties. Don’t know if he ever did see Lord Gilbert. Wanted more coin for his work, I think.”

“The contortionist…did she attend Sir Robert while she performed?”

“Can’t say. I was in an’ out from t’kitchen, you see. I suppose she did. She didn’t seem to take notice who she fluttered her eyes at.”

We rode on in silence. I thought I now knew who the girl in the cesspit was, and perhaps even how she might have got there. But did Sir Robert’s death have to do with the bones in the cesspit? I had been wrong before. I reviewed other possible explanations for the fair-haired skull which had lain on my examination table. None seemed to fit the pattern Arthur had introduced, at least not so well as the solution taking shape in my mind. But how to prove it, and prove it this time without mortal error.

The sun was setting behind the village as we approached Bampton, casting a long shadow from the church spire across the village and fields to the east. Arthur and I rode on silently, pleased to be home. After three days of thaw the weather was turning cold again. I wrapped my cloak about me and thought of the fire I would have laid in my chamber.

I thought also of how I might test my new suspicion regarding the information Arthur had provided since leaving Oxford. By the time I swung stiffly down from Bruce’s back and turned him over to the marshalsea, I had a scheme in mind to answer, I hoped, my misgivings. But this plan I would not put into effect soon. I was too unwilling to trust my wits, having failed so badly in the matter of Thomas Shilton. I determined to think through my design for a few days. I had made one serious error already. Delay was preferable to making another.

I left Arthur with instructions for the kitchen for food and a fire, then sought my chamber and peace. There was to be none; peace, I mean. At least, not immediately. I had but settled to a chair when there was a knock at my door: ah, a fire, I thought. As too many times before, I was mistaken. I opened the door to find John Holcutt standing before me. I greeted him and asked his business, and as I did, I guessed it would be no pleasant thing.

“’Tis Walter atte Lane, Master Hugh. He avoids his week-work these last four days. We mend fences, but he will not come.”

“He owes two days each week to Lord Gilbert, does he not?” I asked.

“Aye. He has a yardland of Lord Gilbert and for that owes two days from Michaelmas ’til the gules of August.”

“Is he ill?”

“He complains so, but he told Alfred that he would try the new bailiff and see had he stomach for the work. I came to you as soon as I heard you had returned.”

So that’s how it will be, I thought. If Walter atte Lane can shirk and not be held to account, other villeins will hear of it and soon I would be once again Master Hugh, surgeon. Not bailiff.

“Seek Walter tomorrow,” I advised John, “and tell him I will call on him should he yet be ill when next week he will owe four days repairing demesnes fences. Perhaps he may need some surgery, which I will be pleased to perform, to cure him of his malaise.”

John smiled broadly at my response. “I think Walter will be well next week,” he observed.

“I trust it will be so. But you may tell him also that as you left me I was preparing to sharpen my instruments.”

“Ha; I will do so!”

The reeve turned to leave my door as a figure approached through the great hall carrying a bundle of wood. The hall was nearly dark, so I could not see that it was the child Alice who approached until she stood before me.

“Cicily says I’m to lay a fire for you, Master Hugh.”

“Aye…enter.”

The girl busied herself at her work and soon, with a tin box of coals from the kitchen fire to aid her, she had a fire crackling in my fireplace. Heat, and the smell of woodsmoke, slowly permeated my room. Does the smell of smoke also warm a man, I wonder? As the odor is associated with fire, perhaps it is so, that the scent of warmth is of itself warming.

“I’m to return for more wood, an’ bring your supper, too,” Alice interrupted my thoughts. “I’ll be back,” she promised, and scurried off.

“A basin,” I called after her. “I would have a basin of hot water, also.”

The wood, enough for an evening and more, and supper, arrived as planned. And my basin of water. Supper was a rabbit pie and cabbage in marrow sauce. When a man is particularly hungry and cold he is more likely, I think, to remember his meal and the fire that warmed him.

I spent that evening staring into the fire, reflecting on what I had learned these two days. I had learned much, so there was much to ponder. Who had Margaret met in the churchyard? What became of the barley-haired contortionist? Rather than one day, it seemed to me I had lived half a lifetime since morning.

But the meditation of even a wise man, which I do not claim to be, is not always sound. And my experience of the last two days convinced me I was not so wise as I once thought. I stared into the fire for an hour or more, forming, then casting aside, one plan after another. Finally I rose from my chair and knelt before it. I needed guidance. Where better to receive it than from Christ, God’s Son?

You may find it odd that I did not beseech Mary, of the holy well at Bampton, or St Beornwald, to whom the church was dedicated, to intercede in heaven for me and my cause. Most in Bampton will, when trouble comes, go to the church, light a candle, and ask St Beornwald or the mother of Christ to intervene. But I had studied the scriptures as a student at Balliol and sat under the teaching of Master John Wyclif. Theology was not part of the trivium nor the quadrivium, but I read the sacred texts when I could, preparing, as I thought at the time, to study as a Master and spend my life as a clerk. These were not the first, nor the last, of my plans to go awry.

I rented a text of the gospels in my third year and burned many candles low copying the Gospel of St John. I well remember two passages. Actually, I remember more than two passages, but I mean there were in St John’s Gospel two verses which stayed in my mind and ever after directed my prayers. In one, Christ told his disciples, “If you ask anything in my name, I will do it.” In another, he said to them, “Until now, you have asked nothing in my name. Ask, and you will receive, that your joy may be full.”

From my third year at Balliol I dispensed with prayer to the saints as unnecessary and perhaps even useless. Christ himself directed his disciples to ask God for His mercy in Christ’s name, not in Mary’s name or St Peter’s name or the name of any other saint, no matter so holy they might be.

By the time the fire was reduced to embers and my prayers done, I had contrived a plan. I could not put it to purpose ’til morning, so crawled into my bed to sleep on it. I did slumber, eventually, but the cock in the poulterer’s yard was considering whether or not it was time to crow before I fell to sleep.

Because of my fitful slumber I was not yet alert when Arthur beat upon my door. I stumbled to it, barely able to see my way in the half-light of dawn. The fire was out, and the stone floor was shockingly cold against my feet. The frigid flagging jolted me awake.

“Master Hugh,” Arthur blurted apologetically, “Sir John Withington is here. He rode yesterday and most of the night to fetch you.”

“What does Sir John wish of me?” I stammered.

“He has come to tell you that Lady Joan has broken her wrist and is in great pain. Lord Gilbert would have you attend her.”

Those words caused the careful scheme I had devised during the night to fall to pieces. This was excellent, for the unexpected course set before me at that moment brought success. Would my plan have done so? Who can know? I see now that when God answers a prayer, it may not be in the manner we would wish him to. Surely Lady Joan would have chosen another method.

There were few things I would rather do than attend fair Lady Joan. Given the opportunity, I would have selected a different occasion. I do admit, however, to thinking that my skills devoted to her in this trouble of hers might soften her heart to me. Such thoughts were selfish, I know, and beneath the dignity of a charitable man. But I admit to them, anyway.

“Where is Sir John now?” I asked.

“In the kitchen, breaking his fast.”

“Tell him I will see him there. Has he had any rest this night?”

“Aye…some. He and his squire sought shelter in a barn at Sherborne.”

“We will need bread and meat to sustain us. And ale. ’Tis a hard road to Goodrich this time of year. Tell the cook to prepare food. I will come shortly.”

I washed the sleep from my eyes and the dirt from my hands and face in the basin Alice brought. The water was cold, so I was cleansed and completely awakened as well.

I walked across the castle yard to the kitchen, where I knew I would find warmth as well as Sir John, for in the twilight of dawn I saw a vigorous cloud of smoke rise from the kitchen chimney.

Sir John and his squire were chewing on the remains of the rabbit pies from last night’s supper. The pies were cold, but the loaves just set before them were warm, taken from the oven as the morning baking began. I picked a warm loaf from the basket and sat at the table across from Sir John. “Tell me what has happened,” I said between mouthfuls of warm bread.

“You know that Lady Joan enjoys the hunt,” he commented.

I did.

“And she has a good seat upon a horse…for a lady.”

That I also knew.

“Lord Gilbert thinks her over-confident of her skills.”

I knew that, as well. And I knew that Lord Gilbert had told her of his opinion. But informing Lady Joan of a conviction which differed from her own was not sure to effect a change in either her views or behavior.

“We were chasing a stag when her horse refused a jump. She was thrown to a wall and put her hands before her to break the fall.”

“And broke a wrist?”

“Aye.”

“When did this happen?” I asked.

“Two days ago. ’Twas but a few days after they reached Goodrich. Lord Gilbert sent us to fetch you next morning.”

“How bad is the fracture? Did you see, or have you been told?”

“’Tis severe. Lady Joan was taken straight away to her chamber. A maid who attends her said the bone broke through the skin.”

“Is there no physician nor surgeon near Goodrich?”

“There is,” Sir John admitted. “But Lord Gilbert will have you.”

Evidently my expression required more from Sir John, for he continued, “There is a man in Gloucester, but Lord Gilbert will not call for him. He is old and knows little of your new knowledge of medicine. And he is reported to be often drunk.”