The Unquiet Bones (17 page)

“Hmm…yes, I see. You believe such a thing occurred in the matter of Margaret Smith and Thomas Shilton? That I compelled your mistaken pursuit of the lad?”

“I do not blame you, m’lord. I sought assurance for what I knew otherwise was weak evidence.”

“And I was willing to provide it, so that I could then claim justice done in my demesne. You make a sound argument. Very well, keep your council, but I will be told of your discoveries so soon as you are sure of them!”

“I will do so, m’lord. As soon as I am certain of what I now suspect.”

Lord Gilbert dismissed me, and a valet led me through the great hall to the southwest tower, where a circular stairway led to rooms above the pantry and the buttery. “I have laid a fire,” he announced as he opened the door.

The room prepared for me was circular, as were others in the towers, and hung with tapestries depicting hunting scenes. There were two glazed windows in this room. It was light and luxurious and warm. A man, I decided, could do worse than spend a fortnight or so in such a place keeping careful watch over a patient like Lady Joan.

T
wice each day I visited Lady Joan in her chamber. For the first two days I left each interview with a sense of optimism, for her progress seemed good. But on the morning of the third day I was alarmed to see what appeared to be reddened stripes on the back of Lady Joan’s hand, proceeding from under the stiffened linen.

I tried not to show my unease at this development, and resolved that, three days hence, should the redness increase, I would cut away the plaster and splints to treat the wound with egg albumin so as to draw out the poison.

I was not successful at disguising my concern. On the fourth day, as I inspected her injury late in the afternoon, she confronted me. “You observe something which troubles you, is that not so, Master Hugh?”

“’Tis but a small matter,” I lied. “Some discoloration of your hand.”

“I saw it appear two days past. I knew it to be worrisome, for I recall your words that discoloration or swelling point to misfortune.”

“I thought…I am sorry, m’lady…I thought the draught had done its work, and you were sleeping.”

“The draught did cause me to doze, but not so deeply that I could not hear you speak to my brother. I have been watchful since for the signs you warned against. I see but little swelling, and the redness. There has been little change since yesterday.”

“I agree. The color does not deepen.”

“Is that good, or ill?” she asked.

“Good, m’lady. Very good. It means the toxin does not increase. If it does not advance tomorrow, it will then soon fade.”

“I am reassured. Will you take a cup of wine before you go?” she asked. Foolish question. Any excuse to remain longer in her presence was sufficient, a taste of Lord Gilbert’s wine all the more so.

“Agnes,” Lady Joan turned to her maid. “Fetch wine from the buttery…a flagon…enough for two.”

The girl darted off and left us alone. Lady Joan turned in her chair, looked me in the eye, and spoke quietly: “I wish to thank you privily for your care.”

I shrugged. “I am pleased to be of service, m’lady.” That was no simple pleasantry. I really was.

“A woman of my state is never alone, to speak what she pleases to whom she will and no other.”

I knew that was true. Great lords and ladies pay for their position in the coin of privacy. They can neither live nor die alone. Most gentlefolk, I am sure, think this a fair bargain. I could think of no rejoinder to Lady Joan’s remark, so remained silent, awaiting illumination. I have learned that when I have nothing to say it is best not to say it.

“My brother would hear of no other surgeon but you to deal with this,” she lifted her right arm to punctuate the assertion. “I protested that I wished not to impose such a winter journey on you.”

I nodded understanding and said something deprecating the hardships of the journey.

“But,” she continued, “my heart was delighted when he insisted, and again when you came.”

“I am satisfied if my poor talents may serve you, m’lady.”

“Your talents seem to me splendid. Do not belittle yourself so. Modesty is a virtue only when it is honest. I think you know your worth to we who may be ill or injured. And I do not speak only of your talents as a surgeon.”

“I have few others,” I laughed.

“Ah…you have a talent I think you know not of,” she smiled.

This was a puzzle to me. I would have made a witty reply but could think of none. Lady Joan seemed always to have that effect on me. When in her presence I did not think well, and the repartee I should have said came to me only after I was gone from her presence for an hour. “I do?” I muttered.

“Aye. You are a thief of great skill.”

“Not so, m’lady. I take from no man what is his,” I protested. “Is something from the castle missing? Am I blamed for this? I have heard of no theft!” I protested the accusation with perhaps more warmth than was seemly. She raised the index finger of her uninjured hand to quiet me.

“I do not accuse you of common thievery. Your trespass is of another sort. You steal from ladies.”

“But I never…I have not…” I spluttered.

“You mistake me, Master Hugh,” she smiled. “You steal only that which they wish to give anon; you steal hearts.”

Her words shocked me to renewed silence. I am certain I appeared discomfited. Lady Joan smiled at my stupefaction. I was about to reply when Agnes returned with a tray. Upon it was a pitcher of wine and two goblets. It was well the maid returned just then, else I am sure I should have said something foolish. Why? Because I felt foolish.

Agnes poured wine and we sipped it in silence. I sorted through responses I might make to Lady Joan’s assertion but could find none with the combination of wit and solemnity I sought.

“Agnes,” Lady Joan called. “Go fetch John and tell him I would have more wood for the fire.”

I thought the fire quite suitable, but realized heat was not her goal, although her words warmed me more than the blaze when the girl was again absent.

“You are silent, Master Hugh. Are you offended?”

“Oh, no, m’lady. I…I am often struck dumb in the presence of a beautiful lady.”

“You have little opportunity to practice such speech in Bampton,” Lady Joan agreed.

“Aye. Nor are scholars at Oxford trained to be students of witty repartee.”

“You think my words call for wit,” she pouted, “and nothing more?”

“No, m’lady. Such was not my meaning. I…”

“Pray, tell your meaning…your true meaning.” She leaned to me as she spoke, and gazed unblinking into my eyes. I blinked.

I thought to change the subject. “Who are these ladies whose hearts I have stolen? None have protested to me, or asked the return.”

“They are not few, I am sure, but I know only three of a certainty.”

“Are these ladies known to me?” I asked. This was becoming an interesting conversation. I began to see through the fog of metaphor a possible end to my loneliness and single condition.

“They are.”

“I would know who I have robbed thusly. Will you tell me?”

“Perhaps I should not. The others might take my words as betrayal.” Her hand flew to her lips, and I then realized the significance of the word “others”. “And, in truth,” she continued, once again composed, “not all are ladies.” She smiled at me.

“I am at a loss, and you toy with me,” I protested.

“I am sorry,” she said. “You would know of whom I speak? Truly?”

“I would, for I have observed no sign of this effect you claim for me over female hearts.”

“Well…” she began slowly. “I overheard the new scullery maid say to Cicily that Master Hugh was a grand man and she hoped for a husband like him.”

“Alice? A child! And a cotter’s daughter. This is a heart I have stolen?”

“Do not belittle her, Master Hugh. A child she may be, but she is woman enough to see what others have seen, but child enough to speak it without reserve.”

“I am well rebuked. Alice is a pleasant child…but a child, nonetheless.”

“And a cotter’s child,” Lady Joan reminded me. “Heaven knows we must not wed outside our station. You, Master Hugh, must find a wife from the gentry, or perhaps the daughter of some landless knight. Is this not so?”

I agreed that convention so limited my choice. “But the others; are they of the station you identified?”

“One is,” she admitted. Before I could ask she spoke again.

“There is a merchant in Bampton who has a daughter who thinks highly of you.”

I knew of but one merchant in the town who had a daughter of marriageable age. The girl was moderately attractive, but seemed dull of wit. I had never found myself attracted to her.

“And the third lady,” I asked, “is she known to me also?”

“She is. She would be better known did not barriers hinder the apprehension.”

“And these barriers, may they be overcome?”

Lady Joan sighed. “Perhaps. But the lady cannot surmount such an impediment alone.”

“I create no impediment,” I protested. “I would seek a consort. I would beat down barriers did I know what they were.”

“You are not a bachelor by choice?”

“No, m’lady. I well remember the companionship shared at my parents’ hall. I would find the same, but it has eluded me. A solitary life among men and their books holds no attraction.”

“You dislike books?” she laughed.

“Not so…but no book will warm a bed of a cold night, nor share my joy and woe.”

“Well said, Master Hugh. It is your intent, then, to marry?”

“Aye, should the right lady appear, and she be willing.”

“Might the proper lady be unwilling, you think?” she asked.

“I’ve not found a lady yet, willing or unwilling, so how can I know?”

“How will you recognize this lady?”

“I cannot tell. Until she be known to me, I know not.”

“Are you certain?” Lady Joan smiled. “Perhaps she is known to you and you mistake yourself.”

“Perhaps. Does love smite a man suddenly, or does it grow slowly, as a vine upon an oak?”

“I have seen men smitten of something all a-sudden,” Lady Joan observed.

“Aye. Whatever that is which smites a man has battered me on occasion. But I think ’tis not love.”

“Oh? What, then may this be? When did this last occur?”

My face felt warm, but I answered her. “I think, m’lady, it is desire which so attacks a man.”

“And when did this fiend last assault you, Master Hugh?”

I stood, took two paces toward the door, then turned and told her truthfully, “When I last entered this room, m’lady.”

I walked quickly to the door and escape, but as I approached it swung open and a servant appeared behind an armload of wood.

We startled each other, and he dropped his burden. On my toes. I jumped back in pain and surprise and might have cursed but remembered the presence of a lady.

“Pardon, Master Hugh,” John stammered. “Didn’t know as you was there. You’re all right, then?”

I assured him my toes remained serviceable and helped him gather the scattered logs. While I collected wood I stole a glance at Lady Joan. She grinned at me behind an uplifted hand, and when she saw me peek in her direction, she fluttered her fingers. And then – I am sure of this, though the time was late and the day grew dim – she blew a kiss.

I escaped through the great hall, where Lord Gilbert’s valets were erecting trestle tables for supper. I had lost my appetite. I should say I had lost my appetite for food. Nevertheless, I met Lady Joan again an hour later when a horn announced the evening meal.

Since my arrival four days earlier I had been assigned a place at the high table beside Sir John Withington. This was an honor. I was the only layman placed there. My seat was at the far left of the table. On the far right, beyond her brother and next to Lord Gilbert’s chaplain, sat Lady Joan.

Some lords use every meal as an opportunity to display their plenty. Not so Lord Gilbert, who, as I have related, could be parsimonious. His dinner table was as lavish as any other, but he thought supper should be a lighter meal. This was acceptable to me that day in particular; my stomach was churning, for reasons you will understand.

I sat before the trencher assigned to me, and washed my hands when servants brought pitcher and towel. Sir John had suffered no event that day to reduce his hunger, so sliced off a large chunk of bread when loaves and butter were brought to the table.

I remember the meal well. Even now, so long after, it is as if I could sit at the table and relive each course. The first dish was a pea soup; hot, to warm a man on a cold winter eve. The second remove was likewise simple; a dish of squabs and eels. The eels were caught fresh in the River Severn and brought to Goodrich that day. I saw the barrels unloaded from a cart that afternoon. There was ale, of course, and cheese, and to conclude, a dish of baked apples and pears freely sprinkled with spices from Lord Gilbert’s cellar. At the conclusion of the meal, valets brought goblets of hypocras to us who sat at the high table. Others in the hall, the commons and the poor (who had received no squab, either), had more ale poured into their earthen cups.

During the meal I had opportunity to turn in conversation to Sir John, who sat to my right. When I could do so without his notice, I peered beyond him, past Lady Petronilla and Lord Gilbert, to Lady Joan, who plucked with dainty fingers at her squab.

It seemed to me that each time I stole a glance at her she was aware of it, and lifted her eyes to mine. How she could feel my gaze I cannot tell, for when I bent round Sir John to view her, I never found her already engaged at looking in my direction. She always caught my eyes on her, rather than the other way round. How she contrived to do this I know not. I think it an intuition of the female sex – to know when a man’s eyes have fallen on them.

The diners departed the hall when the meal was done, the commons to the east range hall or the huts in the castle yard. We who sat at the high table made our way to the solar, where a great fire had been laid in the fireplace. Lord Gilbert and Sir John fell to conversation about some unrest on the Welsh border. There is always unrest on the Welsh border. It provides ample topic for discourse if no other offers. An outlaw, or patriot, depending on whether one was English or Welsh, was vexing the country to the west of Abergavenny. I listened, half awake, staring into the fire, until Lady Joan addressed me.

“Master Hugh, do scholars from Oxford learn chess?”

“They do, m’lady…some better than others.”

“I should like to know how well you were taught. Will you give me a match?”

Chess is a man’s diversion. But I was trapped. How could I deny her? I agreed. Lord Gilbert looked up from his conversation with furrowed brow as we began.

She defeated me in the first match. I would go on the attack, about to seize a bishop or rook, when she would find a chink in my defense and capture my attacker.

“’Tis an admirable flaw in a man,” she observed after vanquishing me, “to be aggressive in pursuit of a goal. We women, being weak, must always look to our defenses. Would you not agree, Master Hugh?”

I agreed. I would have even had I thought her in error. But she spoke truth, and, I thought, imparted a message. I hoped so.