Unhallowed Ground (14 page)

“Did you inquire in Bampton and Aston about the stolen beast?”

“Aye. None saw them with it. ’Tis my belief they took it to Witney or Eynsham or Brize Norton or some such place an’ sold it.”

“They will not trouble you more,” I replied.

“I heard that Henry’s dead. What of Thomas?”

“Dead also. Found hanging from an oak at Cow-Leys Corner, to the west of Bampton.”

“Hanging? Did the scoundrel take his own life?”

“So some believe.”

“But not you, eh? Else why would you seek knowledge of me, who was injured by the knave? When was he found?”

“The day after St George’s Day.”

“I’m not sorry the rogue is dead,” Sir Reynald admitted, “but you can see I’m not the man who slew him, though if some fellow did do away with the rascal, I wish him well.”

There was no reason to inspect the knight’s riding boots. He could not have murdered Thomas atte Bridge, nor could he have run from my toft a week past. I apologized for disturbing the peace of Sir Reynald’s home.

“’Twas no imposition,” he smiled. “You brought me a good report.”

“That Thomas atte Bridge is dead?”

“Just so. When I am able next week to rise from this chair I will have double reason to rejoice.”

Arthur and Uctred heard the conversation from their place in the passageway which divided the house. As we left the place Arthur offered an opinion, a thing he was never reluctant to do. “Seems lots of folks had reason to wish ill upon Thomas atte Bridge, an’ if they didn’t do ’im harm they’re not regretful someone else did.”

To solve the puzzle of who murdered Thomas atte Bridge I needed to eliminate men from suspicion for the deed until but one possible felon remained. Instead I was discovering more folk Thomas had wronged. How many more such men might I find?

I thought on this as we three retraced our steps through Aston and back to Bampton. The day was far spent when we entered the town. I released Arthur and Uctred, saw them off to the castle, and walked through quiet streets to Galen House. I had departed the town with high hopes four hours earlier; now I was again frustrated in my pursuit of a murderer. And my arm ached.

Kate is well able to renew my mind and cause aches and pains to fade. Perhaps it is well that the law gives women so little power, as God has given them so much. She had removed her cap, and allowed her hair, the color of an oak leaf in autumn, to fall to her shoulders. A respectable matron wears her hair up, and Kate is respectable, but I like her hair as it was that evening when I returned to Galen House.

“What have you learned?” she asked. I had told Kate where I was going and what my purpose was.

“That Sir Reynald suffered a broken leg at Hocktide and could not have attacked Thomas atte Bridge or fled from our toft.”

“Oh,” she replied quietly. “Well, an empty stomach will not help solve the puzzle. I have mortrews and a maslin loaf, and ale fresh brewed from the baker’s wife.”

The meal was simple but toothsome. I have enjoyed great feasts at Bampton Castle and Goodrich, but few meals there were so delectable as this plain fare taken across the table from my beloved Kate.

“You have become quite shaggy,” Kate teased when the meal was done. I had grown a beard last autumn after three days in Oxford Castle dungeon. Rather than shave the stubble when Lord Gilbert saw to my release, I chose to allow the whiskers to grow, being persuaded that my appearance was improved by having as much of my face covered as possible. But this beard I kept trimmed short, until an injured arm made it difficult to comb and trim the whiskers.

I managed to lift my tender right arm, and protested that the work required to trim my beard would provoke much discomfort should I lift and hold my hands to my face with comb and scissors. Kate rolled her eyes to the excuse, having less sympathy than she might. So I challenged her to take up the task, under my instruction, and make me presentable by her own hand. To my surprise, she accepted the invitation.

I retrieved scissors from my instruments chest, found my comb, and moved a bench to the toft with my good arm. I sat in the warmth of the setting sun and instructed Kate in the use of scissors and comb against beard. She had barely begun when I heard her exclaim, “Hah!”

I felt a sharp tug against my chin and a moment later Kate held a whisker before my eyes. It was white.

“I have wed an old man,” she laughed.

“’Tis but a mark of wisdom.”

“Then the more I discover the more likely you will be to discover who murdered Thomas atte Bridge and tried to roast us in our bed.”

“We may hope this is so.”

The trimming of my beard continued with no further discovery of silver whiskers and no damage to my neck. Or, if Kate did find more pale whiskers, she held her peace about it.

T
hree days later was Corpus Christi. All who owned red garments wore such in the procession. Kate donned the deep-red cotehardie she had worn a year and more past when I first saw her at her father’s shop in Oxford. I am unlikely to forget the event or the gown. The vicars of St Beornwald’s Church led the march, taking turns holding aloft the host before the throng as we passed through Bampton’s streets. Master Wyclif takes a contrary view of this holy day, although to avoid angering the bishops he does not make his opinion known to any but those who are like-minded. Only in the Third Lateran Council of the past century, he points out, was it decided that the bread and wine of the mass became the flesh and blood of the Lord Christ when blessed by a priest. Was it possible, he asks, that bread and wine did not change in their nature until the past century? Or did they do so from the beginning of Holy Church, but no one thought to notice? I must admit that I see wisdom in his position. I do not fear to write this. The bishops are unlikely to read my words and will think me too insignificant to trouble with even should they do so.

Had the man found dead at Cow-Leys Corner been some upright townsman, I would have been more diligent in pursuing the felon who took his life. But Thomas atte Bridge’s death was no more mourned in Galen House than under any other roof in the town. Each day which passed found me with fewer thoughts on how I might find the man responsible for atte Bridge’s death, and also with less interest in doing so. It is to my chagrin I admit this. Life in Bampton continued, pleasant summer days were upon us, and if the town knew I sought a murderer and had failed to discover him, no man seemed remorseful of my failure, not even me.

So long as I moved my arm slowly and made no contact with any object, my wound no longer gave discomfort. Twilight yet illuminated the windows of our bedchamber the night of Corpus Christi when I fell to sleep, untroubled either by my lack of success in finding a murderer or by a punctured arm.

I was startled from my slumber, however, when from the window we had left open to the mild June air came an unintelligible roar, then a shout that someone should halt. Kate and I sat upright in unison, and I then leaped to the window as the bellowing faded. Whoso created the tumult had passed from the toft to the side of Galen House and seemed to be making for the street, all the while bawling out that some other man must halt. Kate’s hens then also added to the racket.

It is sure that when a man hurries to do a thing, the doing will take him longer than if he was at leisure. I hastened to pull on chauces, don kirtle and cotehardie, and find my shoes in the dark. While I scrambled about the chamber Kate added a shriek or two to the shouting without. I thought dawn might come before I was dressed and able to investigate the uproar. It did not.

I remembered to arm myself with my dagger, then plunged down the steps in the dark, managing to bounce against the wall upon my right arm. Pain is nature’s way of telling a man not to repeat some action. I slowed my pace, reached the ground floor with no further insult to my arm, unbolted the door, and ran into the street. It lay silent before me in the starlight.

I walked ’round the house to the toft, alert should some assailant wait there to pounce, but as there was little moonlight I could see nothing there amiss. I caught movement from the corner of my eye and saw Kate leaning from our bedchamber window.

“Is it you, Hugh?” she whispered, sensing rather than seeing me, I think.

“Aye.”

“What mayhem is there?”

“Nothing. No man is here to be seen or heard, and no mischief done… perhaps when day comes we may learn different, but whoso was here a moment ago did no harm that I can see.”

“Two were here,” Kate reminded me.

“Aye. Some fellow woke us crying out for another to halt.”

“’Twas me,” a voice replied from behind me.

“Who is there?” I demanded.

“Arthur,” came the reply, and it was then I recognized his voice.

“What are you about, here in my toft so late at night?”

“Watchin’, to see did some man make another bid to burn Galen House.”

“I released you from the duty.”

“Aye, but after I thought on it for a few days I decided to return an’ watch, to see did the villain make another attempt. Should’ve told you.”

“How many nights have you spent in my toft awaiting the felon?”

“’Bout a week. Was ready to give it up, thinkin’ the man had forsaken the idea, then he come back this night.”

“A man appeared this night? Are you certain he meant harm? ’Twas not just some drunken fellow who escaped John Prudhomme’s notice?”

“Nay. I was near to sleep on them reeds you put by the hen coop when I saw a flash an’ ’eard somethin’. Woke me right quick, it did, an’ I knew what the fellow was about. Strikin’ flint against steel, ’e was, an’ tryin’ to be quiet about it so’s hens wouldn’t hear an’ raise a fuss.

“Them reeds is dry, an’ when I stood to chase after the man ’e ’eard ’em snap an’ took to ’is heels. Hens ’eard me rise an’ began to squawk, too.”

“That is when you woke us?”

“Aye. Yelled for the man to halt, but I can’t run as when I was a lad. Took out down Church Street, ’e did, an’ I followed as far as Broad Street. Too dark to see for sure, but ’e went through the marketplace, I think, an’ last I seen ’e was off toward St Andrew’s Chapel.”

“Not toward the Weald?”

“Nay, I think not.”

Here was a puzzle. If it was Peter Carpenter who sought to burn Galen House, he would have run down Church View Street to seek safety at his home. If Arnulf Mannyng was the man, he would have sought escape across Shill Brook and to the Weald. Neither man would have gone east, toward St Andrew’s Chapel. Then again, to confuse a pursuer, perhaps they would.

“Whoever the man was, he will not return this night. You may return to the castle and your bed.”

“Wilfred won’t like bein’ turned out to open the gate an’ raise the portcullis,” Arthur replied. “Had a cozy place made in them reeds. Think I’ll just stay right here, an’ you’ve no objection. I’ll speak to Uctred and Anketil. They can join me tomorrow. Anketil will run the fellow down, an’ that’s sure.”

“’Twill not be needed,” I said.

“What? The man tried twice to burn you an’ Mistress Kate in your bed. He’ll not give over without another try.”

“Perhaps, but now he knows some watcher may lie in wait for him in my toft he’ll not approach the business from here again.”

“Think ’e’ll try to toss a torch on your roof from the street?” Arthur asked skeptically. “No place there to hide hisself. ’Course, does ’e return some night when there be no moon, an’ wear black clothes, he might stand in the open an’ no man see ’im ’til ’e strikes flint against steel again.”

“If he does,” I said, “there will be no one here to burn.”

“How so?”

“Kate and I will remove this day to my old chamber in the castle. I’ll not risk again her safety, nor my own. If some fellow wishes to kindle a flame on the roof of Galen House he will do so with the place empty.”

I left Arthur in the toft and climbed the stairs to Kate.

“I heard,” she said when I entered the chamber. “We will abandon Galen House?”

“Aye. Arthur and Uctred and Anketil might spend a fortnight or more in the toft to no purpose. Then, when we think the arsonist frightened away, he may return, biding his time until we have relaxed our guard.”

“But what of Galen House? Will you permit it to be destroyed?”

“Not if I can prevent it. But I will not rest easy any night with you sleeping under this roof. We will make our home in the castle ’til whoso wishes me dead and silenced is discovered.”

“You will be more diligent in seeking who slew Thomas atte Bridge?”

“I must… else we will make our home in my bachelor chamber at the castle, which is no fit place for a man with a wife.”

“And soon to have a child,” Kate reminded me.

“Aye,” I smiled. Kate heard the pleasure in my voice and drew me to her there in the dark chamber. Returned to our bed, we lay in each other’s arms ’til sleep once again came to us. A house may be lost and replaced. A beloved wife, once gone, is forever so.

At dawn I found Arthur yet faithful at his watch. I told him to return to his wife and rest until mid-day, then, after his dinner, bring a horse and cart from the marshalsea, and several more grooms, to move Kate and me and our possessions to the castle.

I did not wish this transfer to be concealed. If the town knew of it, whoso wished my death might no longer seek to burn Galen House, knowing I was no longer resident there. My absence might save me, Kate, and the house.

Kate and I spent the morning preparing our goods for removal to the castle. We consumed a last meal – last for a short while, I hoped – at Galen House and were ready when the clop of hooves and creak of axle told that Arthur was at our door.

Many folk passed Galen House while the grooms were at their work. Some halted to ask what I was about, as I had wished, and I told them of our removal to the castle. By the time the cart returned for a second and final load I had told the tale to a dozen folk or more. Soon the wives of Bampton and the Weald would bend every ear with the news. Any who did not hear of it from them would learn of the business from their husbands. This, I was sure, would preserve Galen House from future assault. This was not my first mistaken assumption, nor will it, I think, be my last.

My old chamber off the Bampton Castle hall was too small for Kate, me, and our possessions. Our bed, two chests, a table, a bench, and two chairs filled the space. Another bench, our cup board, and my bath barrel I left in the hall. When Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla returned at Lammastide this would no longer serve, the hall being put to Lord Gilbert’s service. But by that time I hoped to have discovered who wished to end my life and my pursuit of a felon. I was sure that by finding one man I would solve two mysteries. Then Kate and I could return to Galen House and a peaceful life. Certainly Galen House would await our return unmarred now it was known we no longer inhabited the place.

Hubert Shillside I could discount, as my attacker was surely right-handed. But Peter Carpenter, Arnulf Mannyng, Walter Forester, and Edmund Smith remained as potential murderers. I could not envision Peter or Arnulf attempting to silence me if to do so would harm Kate. Fear, however, may drive a man to do what he otherwise would not consider. My thoughts of Walter and the smith were not so benign. They seemed less likely than Peter and Arnulf to concern themselves with an innocent victim of their vengeance, but seemed also less likely than the others to have wished harm to Thomas atte Bridge. Edmund had reason to resent Thomas and the blackmail he did, but it seemed to me the smith would not have delayed revenge for more than a year. Edmund never seemed a patient sort.

I had seen Arnulf ride a horse, and this he did often enough that he owned a saddle, crude as it was. But did he possess a dagger with such a long blade as the one which pierced my arm?

Peter Carpenter also possessed a horse, but would own no riding boots. He would have chisels among his tools as well as a dagger of some sort, and the injury done my arm could have come from a chisel as well as a dagger. The wound was caused by a thrusting stroke rather than a slash.

And what of Edmund? Like Peter, he would own no shoes suitable for stirrups, but he was a smith, and could at his forge make any weapon he desired.

Kate and I sought our bed as darkness fell upon the castle, secure behind gate and portcullis from him who sought to do us harm. I lay abed considering Arnulf, Peter, Walter, and Edmund, but before sleep came I found reason to dismiss all four. Was it possible there was another man in Bampton or the Weald whose hatred of Thomas atte Bridge washed beyond that miscreant to engulf me?

I woke before the Angelus Bell with the same thought occupying my mind. If some man I did not yet suspect murdered Thomas atte Bridge, and sought my life to preserve his own, I must devise some way to learn of him. I decided that after I broke my fast I would seek Father Thomas de Bowlegh.

Since my return from Exeter I had spoken but briefly to the vicar. I am like most men, I believe. I see little merit in reviewing my failures with another. This may be mistaken behavior, but conceit often interferes with wisdom. I had traveled to Devon seeking a murderer and, as Father Simon predicted, I found instead a walking skeleton who was not at all the man who once served as curate at St Andrew’s Chapel. That earlier John Kellet might have taken the life of another from spite, but it was difficult to envision the new Kellet doing so. Nor could I see Kellet with the strength to subdue Thomas atte Bridge and carry him to Cow-Leys Corner, even with the aid of another.

I found Father Thomas at his vicarage, preparing to cross the lane to the church for nones.

“Master Hugh,” he greeted me with a sober expression. “A good day to you… although my wishing will not make it so, I fear. I have heard of your removal to the castle.”

“And you know the cause?”

“Aye. ’Tis an evil thing, that a man would seek to burn another man’s house. There has been little rain the past fortnight. All roofs are dry. Set alight one roof and half the town might burn to ashes.”

Concern for my own danger had obscured the plight of the town should Galen House have caught fire. Would Peter Carpenter have done such a thing? His house and shop are but two hundred paces from Galen House. A conflagration begun there could engulf his property. But perhaps he did not think of that in his determination to end my probe of Thomas atte Bridge’s death, if he was the guilty man, which I increasingly doubted.

“Since St George’s Day, when Thomas was discovered at Cow-Leys Corner, have you seen any man joyful of his death?”

The vicar chewed upon his lower lip and pondered the question before replying. “I’ve seen no man sorrow for it. Thomas had done injury to many folk.”

“Including me,” I smiled ruefully, and rubbed my skull where atte Bridge had twice delivered strokes in darkened churchyards which raised knots upon my pate. As I rubbed my scalp I thought I could yet detect the lumps left there by his blows.