The Unquiet Bones (22 page)

“Aye,” Roger sighed.

“Then,” I continued, “the squire drew, and made for Walter, so Walter delivered a blade at him, also?”

Roger nodded his head, barely visible now in the gloom. Another sigh.

“Sir Robert and the squire made to ride off,” I resumed the tale, “but soon fell from their horses, being struck at the heart. Is this not so?”

Roger sat in silence for a moment, then replied. “They’d murdered Eleanor…least Sir Robert did so, an’ the squire was his man an’ helped murder poor Ralph.”

“How did Ralph know Eleanor was dead?” I asked. “Where did he see her with Sir Robert, and when?”

“’Twas near dawn, like. Ralph was sleepin’ in t’stable, as was his work to care for t’horses, an’ rose to relieve himself. He saw Eleanor wi’ Sir Robert creepin’ ’long the castle wall. ’Twas full moon, an’ before he thought to hide in t’shadows Sir Robert saw ’im. In t’mornin’, afore dawn, before we was about, Ralph said Sir Robert an’ t’squire come to marshalsea like to make an early start. Squire caught Ralph from behind an’ Sir Robert put his dagger to his heart.”

“And this was done while all others slept?” Lord Gilbert exclaimed incredulously.

“Aye. Ralph was only one who slept in t’marshalsea. An’ he feared to cry out lest Sir Robert see he yet lived and wound him again.”

“And they thought to strike him down because they knew he had seen Sir Robert with Eleanor?”

“Aye. Squire said as he’d put Ralph in t’same place, but Sir Robert said there was no time – folks would be stirring. Best to take him with ’em and leave his body in t’forest.”

“What then?” I asked.

“They threw Ralph on t’pack-horse, covered him, an’ set off while light was dim an’ t’porter could not see the shape of a man laid across the horse. ’At way they got poor Ralph out of t’marshalsea with no one t’wiser,” Roger explained.

“Ralph heard ’em speak of Eleanor dead,” he continued, “they thinkin’ he was, so didn’t mind their tongues.”

“What did they say of her?” I asked. “How she was killed? Where they hid the corpse?”

“Ralph did not say,” Roger continued, twisting his hands before him as he sat on the stool. “Hamo put his ear to Ralph’s lips to hear aught. Ralph said as t’squire was fearful, like, but Sir Robert told ’im not to vex himself wi’ worry; none would find her.”

“Well…we did,” I told him. But I did not say where.

“Then Sir Robert says, ‘Foolish wench. Had she not cried out she would yet live,’” Roger added.

“Why did she cry out?” I wondered aloud.

“Sir Robert promised to provide for ’er as his mistress. Ralph ’eard Sir Robert laugh ’bout it. When he’d had ’is way with her he made to send her off. She was not a lass to be put off so. Made such noise about it that Sir Robert slew her to silence her. So Ralph heard Sir Robert say.”

Roger, Lord Gilbert, and I were silent for a moment. What Roger said made sense, for Sir Robert had used a similar ploy with another. And with a third and more, I guessed.

“You took Sir Robert and the squire to the coppiced woods to bury them,” I said, “but stripped the bodies of valuables first. Is this not so?”

“Aye. But when we had done, we cast away some we’d taken.”

“Sir Robert’s blue cotehardie,” I completed his story, “and the squire’s dagger. You thought them too obvious for a troupe of jugglers and such.”

“Aye. An’ Sir Robert’s sword an’ dagger as well we abandoned in the forest.”

Lord Gilbert looked at me through the gloom. “The foresters?” he questioned.

“Them, or those weapons lay yet under the leaves,” I agreed.

“We have found the missing casket,” I concluded, “but as you have told us truthfully of this other matter, I recommend to Lord Gilbert that you be released. I believe you say honestly that you did not rob Lady Petronilla of her jewels. You would not, I think, be so foolish to hide the chest here had you done so.”

I looked to Lord Gilbert, whose face was now nearly invisible in the shadows. “I consent,” he agreed. Then, to the grooms, who had stood by the tent-flap and heard all, Lord Gilbert said, “You will speak of this to no one, until I release you of your oath. Take this fellow back, but hold him outside the hall. Do not permit him to speak to any of his fellows.”

“They will tell this tale before the morrow,” I advised Lord Gilbert when they had gone.

“Aye, they will…that I know. But they may yet hold their peace an hour or two, ’til we decide what must be done.”

“We, m’lord?”

“Aye. You have found a murderer. No…you have found out two murderers. And you are my bailiff. This business is now become your bailiwick as well as mine.”

“Hamo and Walter must be charged with Sir Robert’s death, and that of the squire,” I advised.

“Aye. You think the charge just?” he replied.

“A jury might say ’twas self-defense,” I answered, “and but justice done for Eleanor and the lad, but the charge must be made, I think.”

“What is your opinion of this business, Hugh? Will a jury release them? Do you wish that may be so?”

My mind had turned this very question for several minutes, so I could answer without hesitation. “I do, m’lord. I see no malice in Hamo or Walter, and I found nothing virtuous in Sir Robert.”

“Yet I would have welcomed him as brother-in-law,” Lord Gilbert mused. “My sister had better sense of the man than I.” He was silent briefly, then continued, “I hope her judgment of Sir Charles de Burgh is as valid, for she seems agreeable to his suit.

“I wish,” Lord Gilbert confided, “that when Hamo found his man left to die along the way he had returned and asked justice of me. This matter might have been resolved with less disorder and perplexity.”

“That is so. But you must understand that Hamo would fear miscarriage of justice.”

“How so?” Lord Gilbert frowned.

“You are a gentleman, as was Sir Robert. Hamo would fear a coroner’s jury – your men, all – might bend to your will and vindicate Sir Robert, heedless of the proofs against him.”

“He would mistrust me so?” Lord Gilbert muttered incredulously.

“He would mistrust any gentleman to find against another of his rank in favor of the commons.”

“Well, not so. But ’tis too late to persuade him of that. We must return to the hall and Sir John. I will place him in charge of the arrest.”

We did so. Sir John assembled a company of Lord Gilbert’s grooms and footmen, and together we entered the hall. Hamo, from a bench along the east wall, stood to his feet as we assembled. I think he suspected then that his deed was uncovered.

Had Hamo chosen to contest his arrest, I think the dozen men Sir John collected would have barely sufficed. But he did not resist, and so was seized there in the hall, with his son. Lord Gilbert approached from the high table and told him why. To this Hamo replied only, “He slew my daughter, and I repaid him in like coin.” Sir John took him and Walter to the keep. They offered no struggle, but neither did they leave the hall with bowed head or back bent in shame.

“I will release the others of Hamo’s company,” Lord Gilbert advised when the hall was finally cleared. “But not ’til you and Sir John have had time to return to Bampton with the prisoners. ’Tis an ill thing to travel in winter, but I would have you leave tomorrow. The weather remains clement, but who can judge when ’twill turn?

“Seek Hubert Shillside so soon as you reach Bampton. He must convene his jury. Roger the juggler must accompany you and the prisoners. Require of him that he tell the jurymen what he has told us. Should he resist, remind him of where the casket was found, and imply that I am of changeable passions.

“If the coroner’s jury charge Hamo and Walter, Sir John will conduct them and Roger to Oxford and put them in the hands of the sheriff.”

“And my work,” I sighed, “will be done.”

“Well…as regards this mystery you have revealed, aye. But my steward, Geoffrey Thirwall, will visit Bampton after Twelth Night to hold hallmote. You and John Holcutt must have the manor accounts ready for his inspection.”

Lord Gilbert wished to be certain that Hamo Tanner would not flee justice. His thick wrists were bound securely, as were those of his son. Roger was permitted to travel unencumbered. Six grooms accompanied Sir John and me as we made ready to depart Goodrich Castle so soon as there was light enough to travel.

“Ah…Master Hugh,” Lord Gilbert called as we made ready at the marshalsea to set off. “I forget me, with all that’s passed since Christmas. Wait a moment.”

He turned to speak to a valet, who immediately scurried across the muddy yard to the castle gatehouse and disappeared within. While the valet was off on his errand I remembered the business which brought me to Goodrich Castle.

“Lady Joan’s arm; she must seek the surgeon in Gloucester to remove the plaster.”

“When?” Lord Gilbert asked.

“Not before St Valentine’s Day. Even a week after if she does not chafe over the inconvenience.”

“St Valentine’s Day! Hah! Sir Charles will be pleased, I think.”

To this remark I made no reply. How could I?

At that moment the valet returned, a large, dark object I could not identify in the dim morning twilight slung over his shoulder.

“’Twas not ready ’til yesterday. The tailor would not be pressed,” Lord Gilbert explained.

I was confused and stood before him with empty expression. This he observed.

“Your cloak, man. I promised you a fur cloak as part of your wages. Here ’tis.”

I took the garment from the panting valet, who seemed for the briefest moment unwilling to give it up. It was soft and luxuriant and I understood his reluctance.

“Put it on…don’t just stand there,” Lord Gilbert demanded. I did so.

“I thank you, m’lord. ’Tis true you promised such a garment. I had forgot. But I did not expect such as this. ’Tis worthy of a duke.”

“Well, if you see one and he would have it, do not give it up to him,” Lord Gilbert jested.

I mounted my horse, last of the party to put foot to stirrup, wrapped in my new cloak. As we passed through the outer yard to the barbican I turned to look back at the castle and saw, through the gathering light, Lady Joan and a maid watching our departure from atop the gatehouse. She saw me turn, and waved her uninjured hand, then lifted it to her lips and blew a kiss. I turned in my saddle to wave farewell, but as I did so she was gone. I wondered if I would ever see Lady Joan again.

The cloak was as warm as it was soft, and protected me well from the gale which swept from the Forest of Dean across our path. We arrived in Gloucester before nightfall and again sought shelter with the monks of St Peter’s Abbey. The abbot seemed displeased to provide bed and board for miscreants, but as Hamo and Walter were not yet judged guilty of a crime he swallowed his objection and remained true to the rules of his order.

This abbot would have seen us on our way next morning, but the wind howled down from the mountains of Wales – better a wind should do so than the Welsh, Sir John remarked – and snow spattered the cobbles of the monastery yard. Sir John and I were uneasy, so elected to remain within the monastery’s hospitable walls another day. We did not wish to be caught on the way in a great snow.

The next day dawned bright and cold, the snow of the previous day leaving but a dusting on our path. The mud of the road froze in the night, so the road was firm beneath the horses’ hooves. But it was cold. Sir John gazed often at me that day, snug in my cloak, before, as the sun sank beneath the bare trees at our backs, we reached Bampton and shelter.

T
his tale has grown longer than I intended. My parchment is nearly consumed, and it will be many weeks before I can visit Oxford to replenish my supply. Your candle no doubt burns low and a warm bed calls. So I will conclude this account.

Hubert Shillside convened the coroner’s jury in the Church of St Beornwald on a bitterly cold first day of January. Twelve townsmen listened as Roger and I gave evidence. The juggler did not prevaricate, and needed no prodding from me to present a full report of all he knew. There was no reason he should not, for when the coroner questioned Hamo Tanner, the wrestler freely admitted his deed. His emotions came near the surface – remarkable in so sturdy a man – when he justified the revenge he had taken against his daughter’s slayer.

Nevertheless, the jury brought a charge of murder against Hamo and his son. Sir John and the grooms took Hamo to Oxford and the sheriff while I kept Roger with me at Bampton, where I could be certain he would not flee before we should be called to give witness at the trial.

Sir John returned two days later from his mission to the sheriff and reported that the king’s eyre would meet the next week. Sir Roger would send for me when a day was set for the trial. That week passed quickly, for there was much work on the manor for a new bailiff to learn.

Geoffrey Thirwall, the steward, arrived in Bampton two days before Twelfth Night. He searched diligently for some flaw in my work, or that of John, the reeve, but found only minor complaints to issue against us. Well, it is his business to root out that which is wrong and right it.

I was some worried that tenants and villeins might discover some defect in my labor and protest against me at hallmote. But none did. Perhaps because I had done so little on the estate that I had few opportunities to blunder. Given a full year before next hallmote, I was sure I could err often enough that some would find reason to complain of me.

Two days after Epiphany, Sir Roger sent a messenger to summon witnesses to the trials of Hamo and Walter Tanner. I was nearly as reluctant to attend as I had been for the trial of Thomas Shilton. In the days before Roger and I were summoned, I tried to think what I, had I been a father in Hamo’s place, would have done. I fear I would have acted no differently. This is not to say I justify the murder Hamo did. But any might be capable of the same crime in the circumstance.

I will say that I was not sorry when the jury made of my labors no consequence. The burghers of Oxford were mostly men who rose from the commons, and they understood Hamo’s remark that he did not trust gentlemen to do justice for him against one of their own. They brought a verdict of not guilty. As Sir Robert drew first, Walter and Hamo were justified in defending themselves.

The judge, Sir William Barnhill, was the same I had caused to interrupt his journey home two months earlier. He recognized me, I knew, when I was called to the stand to testify, for he glared at me through narrowed eyes all the while I spoke, as if to say, “You’d better have it right this time.”

When he dismissed jury and defendants, I watched to see how Hamo and Walter would receive Roger. I was too far away to hear their words, but they walked from the room in seemingly amicable conversation. Perhaps a good juggler was hard enough to find that Roger could be forgiven his disloyal truth.

I had no wish to return to Bampton that evening in the dark, so returned to my inn for another night. I stayed this occasion at the Foxes’ Lair, a more substantial place than the Stag and Hounds, suitable to my rising position in the world. The soup and ale were thicker, as well as the beds, at the Foxes’ Lair.

I retrieved my old friend, Bruce, from the inn stable at dawn and set out across Castle Mill Stream Bridge. But not for Bampton. There was another question I must ask before I could be satisfied that I knew all there was of the events I had seen and probed since St Michael’s Day. At Eynsham I took the road to Witney and on to Burford. Bruce would have turned for Bampton at Eynsham; it took a strong hand on the reins to persuade him that we could not yet go home.

I guided Bruce down Burford High Street, to the bridge across the Windrush. Ice clogged the riverbanks. The cold current flowed only in the middle of the stream. I turned from the road to the path which led to the smith and the mill.

Smoke rose from Alard’s forge, and I heard once again the clang of his hammer as I approached. But ’twas not the smith I sought. My question was for his daughter. As I drew near the building Bruce neighed. He was heard between the strokes of the hammer, for the tolling of the blows ceased and Alard appeared in the opening door. Behind him, craning her head to see past his broad shoulders, I saw Margaret.

I thought – perhaps I hoped – that I might not find her there. Perhaps, I mused, Thomas Shilton would take her for wife yet, and I would need to seek her in Shilton village. But not so. She pressed past her father to greet me, her belly large beneath her surcoat, her time near come.

“Master Hugh,” she greeted me. “Who do you seek?”

“You. I have news, and a question,” I replied.

Alard peered beneath bushy eyebrows from Margaret to me, then grunted and returned to his work. I was pleased, for I wished Margaret to speak freely and thought my question might be too raw for her to wish to answer before her father.

I left Bruce tied to a willow, where he began to munch contentedly on the stems. I led Margaret along the river while I told her of Eleanor and Sir Robert, of Hamo and Walter and the trial. She shuddered when I told her of Sir Robert’s death.

“And now,” I said, “I wish one thing of you. I have a question…I believe I know the answer, but I desire confirmation. The night last spring, when you were heard quarreling in the churchyard late at night with a man thought to be Thomas Shilton: that man was Sir Robert Mallory, was it not?”

She hesitated, then nodded “yes.”

“Do others know of this?” I asked.

“Aye. Thomas would be told…but no other.”

“Your father?”

“Nay. He has not asked. I have not volunteered.”

“Your words, in the churchyard; did you believe Sir Robert would make place for you?”

“Aye,” she hesitated. “He promised…if I was got with child, to provide. He promised a life of ease, would I be ’is mistress.” Margaret spoke in a whisper, a tear in her voice if not yet on her cheek. Perhaps there were in her no more tears to shed for this misery.

“What of Thomas?” I asked.

“You said, ‘one question,’” she replied. “That is a second. But I will answer. If the child be a girl, he will have me and rear it as his own. He will forgive my foolishness. If it be a boy, he will not. He will have only his own son inherit his holding, not another man’s offspring.”

“You are content with this bargain?” I questioned.

“Aye,” she whispered. “I betrayed him for riches and place I thought I might win with my appearance. How can I begrudge his wish for an heir of his own?”

We turned from our way at the mill. The grinding wheel and stone made continued conversation difficult, and there was little more to say. We returned in silence to the forge, where the rhythmic clang of the hammer proclaimed her father still at work.

I wished her well, retrieved Bruce from the willow he had munched so far as he could reach, and set off for the Windrush bridge and home. It was near dark when I arrived at Bampton Castle. Wilfred had closed the gate, and had to leave his quarters to heave up the bar and shove the gates open to admit me. He said he was pleased to see me home again. This I doubt, as my arrival took him from his fire into a cold January night.

A week later an ironmonger called at Bampton Castle. His was a regular visit, for he supplied Lord Gilbert’s farrier and the town smith from the stock in his heavily weighted wagon. I asked if he supplied stock to Alard, the Burford smith. He did.

“How does he?” I asked. “And his daughter, is she well?”

“Oh, aye,” he replied. “An’ Alard’s a grandfather. Margaret had a babe four days past. A fine, healthy little lass, too, she is.”