Unhallowed Ground (18 page)

“’Twas Sir Simon,” the squire blurted.

“What?” I asked. “Sir Simon accompanied you?”

“Nay. ’Twas not that way. I accompanied Sir Simon.”

“To Bampton?”

“Aye. Near so. Sir Simon stopped near a small chapel to the east of the town and bade me remain there with the horses. He went on afoot.”

“How many journeys to Bampton in the night did you and Sir Simon make?” I asked.

“Three.”

“What transpired on these nights?”

“The first two times Sir Simon ran back to my place and urged me to mount quickly, as did he, and we galloped away.”

“Did he tell you what he intended?”

“Nay. Not ’til the third night.”

“Two nights past?” Sir Roger asked.

“Aye. Sir Simon was in no hurry the third time when he returned to the chapel. When I asked if we were to be off he said, ‘Nay,’ and watched the sky over the town. Soon flames lit up the sky. This seemed to satisfy Sir Simon. He then instructed me to mount my horse and together we rode through the night back to Oxford.”

“Did you ask Sir Simon what meant this glow in the night sky?”

“Aye, I did so. When we were well on our way from the town.”

“What was his reply?”

“He laughed and said a lass who made sport of him would regret it, did she live.”

“A lass?”

“Aye.”

“So it was Sir Simon’s plan to burn my house? Not yours?”

“Why would I wish to burn your house? I knew you only as the surgeon who bathed my wounds and stitched Sir Simon’s cuts.”

“Sir Simon did not tell you whose house he intended to set alight?”

“Nay.”

“Do you remember Thomas atte Bridge?”

“Thomas who?”

“Atte Bridge.”

Homersly was silent, thinking. “Nay,” he finally replied. “Should I?”

“Your father hired him and a brother to plow some years past.”

The squire shook his head. “I remember my father speaking of finding workers. Don’t remember that he named ’em.”

“Did he speak of their theft?”

“Ah… were they the thieves who made off with the calf?”

“Your father believes so.”

“If he spoke their names, I do not remember.”

“And you say ’twas Sir Simon’s plan to set my home ablaze?”

“Aye.”

“Why, again, would he do so?”

“His friends made sport of him, mocked him because a maid chose another, a bailiff, Sir Jocelin said, over him.”

“So he wished to kill the lass?”

“I did not know his intent,” Homersly pleaded. “I would not have accompanied him had he told me his plan.”

“For a third visit? You did not ask what he was about the first two attempts?”

Homersly did not immediately respond. “Sir Simon does not appreciate questions from his inferiors,” he finally said. “He says, ‘Come,’ and I come.”

“We will see how he likes questions from his betters,” Sir Roger said, then arose from his chair and approached the chamber door.

He opened it and called to the two sergeants who remained with Arthur and Uctred in the anteroom. “Return to the Fox’s Lair and find Sir Simon Trillowe. Place him under arrest and bring him to me.”

“He required the stable boy to have his horse ready at the twelfth hour,” I added. “It is nearly that hour. If you make haste you will have him before he may depart the city.”

“Take Master Hugh’s men with you,” the sheriff advised. Arthur and Uctred sprang to their feet and followed the sergeants from the room.

Sir Roger then spoke to his clerk. “Bring the warder.”

To me he said, “We’ll allow this squire to spend a few hours in the dungeon. Might serve to aid his memory and loosen his tongue, do we need more from him.”

The warder must have been close by. He appeared nearly as soon as Sir Roger finished his explanation, and a moment later he dragged Homersly from the chamber. As the squire disappeared into the passageway he continued to object that the destruction of Galen House was none of his doing. I began to believe him, as did Sir Roger, I think, but there might be more knowledge to be prized from the fellow and some hours of contemplation in the stink of the dungeon might help bring it forth.

A castle valet appeared in the anteroom just then, and announced to Sir Roger that his supper awaited.

“Excellent. Master Hugh, you will join me. Perhaps when we are fed Sir Simon will have been found and will be awaiting examination.”

Sir Roger’s cook prepared an excellent meal. The sheriff’s stout frame gave evidence that this was not uncommon. I was so sated after two removes that I could consume little of the third, and ignored the subtlety. Sir Roger noted, and asked if I was ill. It was nearly so, but this was not the cause of my failed appetite but the result of my eager consumption of the first two removes. I hoped the coming confrontation with Sir Simon would not add to my indigestion.

It did.

I followed Sir Roger into his clerk’s anteroom and over his shoulder saw Arthur, Uctred, the two sergeants, and a furious Sir Simon Trillowe. I think at first he did not notice me, the sheriff being so constructed as to block the view of any behind him.

“What means this?” Sir Simon roared as he turned to face Sir Roger. I saw then the result of my surgery six months past. The scar upon his cheek was pale, no longer red and fierce, as are fresh wounds. His beard covered much of this blemish, but his left ear stood from the side of his head like a pennon in a gale. The fleshy organ was not lost to him, as I feared it might be when I sewed it to his head in the infirmary of the Augustinian Friars, but my needlecraft had left the appendage standing abruptly from his skull. He was no longer symmetrical. Rather than thank me for preserving his ear, I suspected he was irate at its appearance. This proved true.

Sir Simon should thank me for more than saving his ear. Pride is a great sin. With such an ear extending from the side of his head it will be difficult for the man to feel pride in his appearance. Of course hate is also a grievous sin. Perhaps my labor caused Sir Simon to exchange one sin for another.

Sir Roger strode to his chamber door without answering. It was then Sir Simon saw who it was who followed behind the sheriff. The knight’s mouth opened and closed spasmodically, but no words came forth. Sir Simon surely believed me dead in the ashes of Galen House. Perhaps he thought he saw the ghost of the man he had burned alive.

Sir Roger opened his chamber door, nodded to Sir Simon and growled, “Enter.” A man would no more argue with Sir Roger when he speaks so than with an alaunt snarling at his throat. Sir Simon glared at me, his surprise now become anger, and did as he was commanded. I followed.

Sir Roger seemed short of vocabulary. His next utterance was, “Sit.” He pointed to the chair Geoffrey Homersly had recently occupied. I, having a fine command of language, knew to keep silent. Sir Simon remained standing, intimidated, but not cowed enough to place himself in an inferior position.

“What means this imposition?” he finally spluttered. “I’ll see that my father learns of this.”

“Your father,” Sir Roger rejoined, “is busy convincing King Edward that he did not do fraud when he occupied this office.”

Sir Simon made no reply.

“I am told you travel the roads of Oxfordshire at night. Where is it you go when good men lie abed?”

“Who says so?” Sir Simon snorted.

“Two who have no reason to deceive.”

Again Sir Simon made no reply.

“Your silence means agreement, I think,” Sir Roger growled. “And there is no need for you to tell us what you have been about. We,” he nodded to me, “know all. Are you surprised to see Master Hugh standing here, fit and unburnt?”

Sir Simon glowered sullenly in my direction but I cared little for his black look. I would have accused him also but Sir Roger needed no assistance. I held my tongue and awaited a propitious moment.

The sheriff circled Sir Simon and peered intently at the knight’s misshapen ear. “Do the maids approve of your new ear? You should thank Master Hugh you have two. Had I been he I’d have lopped it off and completed the job that abbey servant began.”

Sir Simon’s expression said clearly he did not agree.

“The King’s Eyre will meet again in a fortnight. I think you will remain a guest here in the castle until the court decides what to do with you. Burning a man’s house and attempting his life might be cause enough for the scaffold, I think.”

Sir Simon had faced us haughtily until these words. I saw him blanch and unconsciously put a finger to his gentlemanly neck.

“Two weeks in the dungeon will give you leisure to consider your sins and prepare your soul to meet God. He may be more lenient than the judge. Lord Gilbert Talbot is a man of influence, and he sets great store by this bailiff of his, as I know. A word from him to the judges of the King’s Eyre and their finding will not go well for you.”

All this time Sir Simon made no protest of innocence. At the sheriff’s last words I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he gulped at the thought of Lord Gilbert’s involvement in the matter. He had seen my employer shape the decision of a court once before.

“Describe your house in Bampton, Master Hugh. What was it this scoundrel burnt?”

“Galen House was two stories,” I began, “of oaken timbers, wattle and daub. Two rooms below and two above, with a newly thatched roof. Had it been otherwise, were the reed old and rotting, this miscreant might not have succeeded in setting it alight so readily. And a new brick chimney also, with fireplaces above and below.”

“Hmmm,” Sir Roger pondered my description of the house. “The chimney may be of use. All else is ruin?”

“Aye.”

“To rebuild such a house will cost… what would you say, Hugh? Eight pounds?”

I was about to agree, when Sir Roger continued before I could speak: “Nay. Should the chimney need to be pulled down ’twill be nine pounds or more, I think.”

Sir Roger turned again to Sir Simon and lowered his brows in a scowl. He understood, I think, how effective the expression was. Sir Simon stared back at him, but arrogance was gone from his open-mouthed features.

“Ten pounds, I think,” the sheriff said. “Bring to Master Hugh ten pounds so he may rebuild his house and I’ll not charge you before the King’s Eyre.”

“I… I have not ten pounds,” Sir Simon protested.

“Your father does. I will release you to his custody. Leave the castle, go to the inn, claim your horse, and ride to Abingdon. If you do not return by the ninth hour tomorrow with ten pounds I will send sergeants to convey you hither and you will see out the next fortnight in the dungeon.”

Sir Roger spoke with conviction. I felt certain that there must have been in past months other disputes between the two knights which the sheriff now saw means to settle. If doing so rewarded me with ten pounds to rebuild Galen House, I was pleased to be of service.

“Then, after you place the coin in Master Hugh’s hand you will leave Oxford and not return for a year… no, two years. Neither do I wish to learn that you have been seen about Bampton.”

“But,” Sir Simon stammered, “where am I to go?”

“I would make a suggestion,” Sir Roger said balefully, “but those who go there are sent by a greater authority than mine. Now begone! Remember, tomorrow at the ninth hour, in this place, we will meet again.”

Sir Simon gave me one more glance, fraught with hostility. If Sir Roger saw he did not comment. I thought then that I had not seen or heard the last of Sir Simon Trillowe. Even should he obey the sheriff’s commands, two years would pass swiftly.

Sir Simon stalked from the chamber with as much dignity as he could muster, and when he was gone Sir Roger turned to me and grinned. The corners of his eyes crinkled beneath those massive brows, which I saw could express mirth as well as wrath, although in truth Sir Roger’s brows are most capable when displaying choler.

“What of Geoffrey Homersly?” I asked when Sir Simon had departed.

“What is it you wish? You believe he had part in the plot, or was he obedient to Sir Simon’s demands?”

“Sir Simon is a hard man against those beneath him in rank,” I suggested.

“Aye. A rabbit before his betters, a wolf to those inferior. What is your desire?”

“Leave him for a night in the dungeon, then tomorrow send him to his father in Cote. And tell him also he may not reside in Oxford for a year, nor set foot near Bampton. His father was recently injured and requires assistance on his manor. The youth will be well served doing useful work rather than following some rogue knight about Oxford.”

“Very well. It will be done.”

T
he night was again spent in my father-in-law’s upper chamber. The evening was warm, so Caxton left open the windows. Any who violated curfew would have heard from the openings a quartet of snores, grunts, and snorts. I slept little, partly because of the racket, and partly because of thoughts I could not escape.

Sir Simon was the man who had plunged a dagger into my arm, and would have driven it through my back but for my good fortune. My supposition that these attempts upon my life were designed to bring an end to my search for Thomas atte Bridge’s murderer was now proved wrong. Sir Simon knew nothing of Thomas atte Bridge, and from Geoffrey Homersly’s testimony Sir Simon’s wrath was turned against Kate as much as to me. I had come to Oxford convinced that Homersly was responsible for all. He was responsible for none.

I turned on my pallet and entertained more pleasant thoughts. I would soon return to Bampton with ten pounds in a pouch, enough to rebuild Galen House. Indeed, enough to build better than the house Sir Simon burnt.

Arthur, Uctred, and I consumed a leg of lamb and bowls of pease pottage at an inn on the Canditch for our dinner next day, then made our way to the castle. Several men awaited the sheriff’s pleasure in the anteroom, but Sir Simon was not among them.

The clerk was instructed, I think, to notify Sir Roger when I arrived. So soon as I entered the chamber the man sprang to his feet and hurried to the door. Sir Roger appeared a moment later, ushering some petitioner from his presence. When the fellow had departed the sheriff motioned me to enter his chamber.

“I expect Sir Simon at any moment. If he arrives past the ninth hour he knows I’ll see him in the dungeon.”

“What if he does not return?” I asked.

“Then the devil take him… after I’ve done with him. He’ll come.”

“With ten pounds?”

“He is his father’s youngest son, apple of his eye, ’tis said. Such a lad can do no wrong. Sir John will fume a bit, but he’ll not withhold ten pounds if the sum will keep his lad from Oxford Castle dungeon, or a gallows.”

“Would the King’s Eyre send Sir Simon to the scaffold even though he failed to murder me and Kate?”

“Likely not. Sir John has displeased the king, to be sure, but he has yet some influence. Sir Simon knows this, but he does not know how much authority his father yet commands. Would you risk your neck on such an uncertainty? For ten pounds?”

The question required no answer, nor was there need for one. We heard voices in the anteroom and a moment later the clerk’s face appeared at the door.

“Sir Simon Trillowe is arrived, sir,” he announced.

Sir Roger opened the door between his chamber and the anteroom. Sir Simon stood stone-faced before the clerk. Behind him were two others. I recognized one: Sir Jocelin Hawkwode. Sir Jocelin had suffered some from his association with Sir Simon, but evidently not enough to cause him to end the relationship.

“You have Master Hugh’s coin?” Sir Roger asked abruptly. Sir Simon took half a step back as the sheriff approached him.

“Aye,” Sir Simon muttered, and produced a leather pouch of great size.

Sir Roger looked to his clerk. “Count it,” he ordered. To Sir Simon and his cohorts he commanded, “Sit, ’til Master John has made sure the amount.”

Sir Simon dropped the purse heavily upon the clerk’s table and sat sullenly while the clerk dumped the contents upon his board. I saw groats and pennies, some half-pennies, and golden gleams indicating Sir Simon had included many nobles in the heap.

Sir Roger and I stood while the clerk ordered the coins into piles, each with its like, then scratched upon parchment with his quill the number in each mound. He rubbed his chin, reviewed his count, then said, “’Tis two pence short, Sir Roger. Here is nine pounds, nineteen shillings, and ten pence.”

The sheriff glared at Sir Simon as if the knight had robbed a widow of her last two farthings. Sir Simon turned to Sir Jocelin and muttered something I could not hear. Sir Jocelin reached for his purse, produced two pennies, and after peering up at Sir Roger to be sure his standing from his bench would not be taken amiss, quickly thrust the coins toward the clerk. Master John placed them with their brothers, then proceeded to count the piles again. There were sixty-two nobles, and perhaps four dozen groats. All else were pennies and half-pennies, with a few farthings. The coins made a considerable heap, gleaming dull silver and gold upon the table.

“Ten pounds,” the clerk affirmed. Sir Roger, who had stood all the while with his arms folded across his chest, observing his clerk’s work, turned to Sir Simon. “Two years. Do not be found in Oxford or near Bampton for two years. It will go hard for you should you defy me. Now, begone from Oxford before nightfall.”

Sir Simon managed a weak scowl in my direction, but otherwise seemed eager to do the sheriff’s bidding. He was immediately upon his feet and with Sir Jocelin and his other companion disappeared into the corridor beyond the anteroom. I heard their rapid footsteps fade as they descended the steps at the end of the passage which led to the ground floor and the castle yard.

“Come,” Sir Roger said, and waved me before him into his chamber. From a window in that room we watched as the three knights entered the yard, took the reins of their horses from grooms, mounted, and spurred their beasts through the gatehouse into Great Bailey Street.

I was pleased to see Sir Simon’s back disappear past the gatehouse, and hoped he would heed the sheriff’s warning. Perhaps in two years’ time his ire would cool and his companions no longer bait him regarding Kate and his misshapen ear. Mayhap he would discover some other lass, one who would not mind a jutting ear, overlooking the deformed appendage for his better qualities. Of these I was unaware, but there must be some, else Kate would not have one time considered the man. I must ask her some day. Then again, perhaps not.

We bid Sir Roger good day, and I took my leave of the sheriff with much thanks. The leather purse hung heavy from my hand, and attracted some attention as we walked the Canditch to Holywell Street and Caxton’s shop. Arthur noted this scrutiny and when we arrived at the stationer’s bid me wait there with Uctred while he retrieved our horses from the stable behind the Stag and Hounds.

“Seen too many folk eyin’ the purse,” he explained. “Won’t do to have you about the streets. Even in day there be folk willin’ to risk their neck for a takin’ like that.”

I thought Arthur’s advice of merit, and while he was gone asked my father-in-law for a length of cord. This I tied under my cotehardie and fastened the purse there, hidden. I appeared then as a young man too much given to his trencher, but when I was seated upon Bruce the bulge would be little noted.

June days are long. The afternoon sun warmed my face as our beasts passed Osney Abbey, but we would reach Bampton before night fell. I was somewhat relieved for this, for although we were three men armed with daggers it would yet be well to be off the roads before darkness overtook us. Several times I turned in my saddle, uneasy that some miscreant might have seen my pouch and collected a band of ruffians and be even now in pursuit.

But not so. We met few men upon the road, and none caught us up. Perhaps the lack of travelers was due to the season. Soon after we passed Osney Abbey we saw families at work haymaking, singing at their labor. Men had swung their long-handled scythes since dawn, and were surely weary, but warm, sunny days must not be lost. Behind their husbands and fathers women and children followed, prodding and turning the hay with forked sticks so it might dry evenly.

There is no rest for tenants and villeins. When the meadows have been cut ’twill then be time to shear the sheep and plow fallow fields once more.

Fatigue etched men’s faces as they swung the scythes, but there was joy there also. Rains had been plentiful, but not so much as to rot the hay in the fields. If there was no deluge until the hay was dried and stacked there would be abundant winter fodder. More beasts might be kept this next winter, for fresh meat come the lean days of April and May. No wonder the laborers smiled as they toiled.

Shortly after the twelfth hour we crossed Shill Brook and turned our horses into the Bampton Castle forecourt. Kate, sitting upon a bench in the sun, awaited me there and was ready with questions of how matters stood with Geoffrey Homersly.

I dismissed Arthur and Uctred, told them to see the horses to the marshalsea, and instructed Arthur to seek the cook and tell him Kate and I required a light supper in our chamber.

While we supped on slices of cold mutton, bread, cheese, and ale, I told Kate of events in Oxford and placed before her Sir Simon’s purse. She stared at it with troubled expression.

“’Twas he, then, who stabbed you,” she said, glancing to my arm.

“Aye. And this eve you have more work. The wound has healed and ’tis time to cut the stitches free.”

“You suffer no more discomfort?”

“None.”

“It was me Sir Simon wished to slay, was it not?”

“Both of us, I think.”

“But I rejected his suit and made of him a laughingstock before his companions.”

“And it was I who won you from him. He had ample reason to resent both of us. No matter; Sir Roger has ordered him from Oxford for two years, nor is he to come near Bampton.”

“Will he obey?”

Kate’s lovely face was clouded with concern. The sheriff’s commands did not bring her much comfort.

“Sir Roger threatened the scaffold did he disobey.”

At this the lines upon Kate’s brow relaxed. She softened more at my next words.

“Tomorrow I will seek Peter Carpenter and Warin Mason and make plans to rebuild Galen House. There is enough coin there,” I nodded to the purse, “to build a house with a fireplace in each room and chimneys at either end.”

“That will be well,” she smiled. “Our babe will be born in November, when winter will be nearly upon us.”

We had nearly finished our meal when Kate spoke again. “What will you now do in the matter of Thomas atte Bridge?”

I had asked myself the same question since speaking with Geoffrey Homersly. I had no good answer.

“Many men had cause to wish him harm, but when I seek to assign the death to one or another I find reason to exonerate rather than blame.”

“Is that what you seek?”

“What I seek?”

“Aye. Do you seek guilt of some men, as Geoffrey Homersly, but innocence of others? What a man seeks, I think, he will often find.”

“I cannot tell,” I admitted. “There are men who, are they guilty of murder, I would rather not know of it, and others, did they slay Thomas atte Bridge, I would have little distress for their penalty.”

“Such are my thoughts,” Kate admitted.

“I have no strategy whereby I might find a murderer,” I sighed. “I intend to set myself to rebuilding Galen House, which thing I can do, and dismiss the death of Thomas atte Bridge. The matter has vexed me long enough. Mayhap, in time, some new clue will appear, or some guilty man will let his tongue slip.”

“If that does not happen,” Kate asked, “will you be content to leave the matter unresolved?”

“I do not know of all the mischief Thomas atte Bridge did in his life. What I do know is vile enough. Perhaps his death was justice for some evil he did, and if I found who took his life, and hallmote or the King’s Eyre send the man to the scaffold, that would be the greater injustice.”

“Do you say this because you believe it so, or to salve your pride that you have not found what you sought?”

“I do not know,” I replied. “I do know that my wound has been stitched long enough.” I arose from my place at table, brought forth scissors and tweezers from my instruments chest, doffed cotehardie and kirtle, and set my arm before Kate. She snipped the sutures with as much skill as she had employed creating them, and I thought then she might make a fine assistant. Mayhap I should instruct her in some rudimentary surgical practice so if some man injures himself while I am distant she might offer aid until I return.

I woke early next day, before the Angelus Bell or the poulterer’s rooster could summon other castle folk from their beds. I had dreamt of beams and bricks and rooftops, and was eager to spend Sir Simon Trillowe’s purse on a new Galen House.

I sought first Peter Carpenter. He walked with me to the pile of cold ashes which had been Galen House, and I explained to him what I wished him to build. I would have a house somewhat larger than Galen House had been, of posts and beams. The spaces between timbers on the ground floor I would have filled with bricks, in the new style. For the upper floor, wattle and daub, whitewashed, would suit. I would have two windows, of glass, in each room, and Warin Mason I would have build another chimney to match the one which yet stood sentinel over the acrid stink of what once was my home.

“And for the roof,” I concluded, “I will have tile.”

“No more will a man set thatch alight and burn your house, eh?” Peter agreed.

“Nay. Does some felon seek my life in future, he will need to devise some new way.”

Peter told me he would assemble workmen and set to work with his horse and cart hauling away the debris this very day, as he had few other obligations before him. I next called upon Warin Mason and found him hoeing weeds from cabbages in his toft. I told him of the brickwork I wished him to do, and the fellow seemed pleased to leave the hoe to wife and children and set his hand to masonry.

No tilers reside in Bampton. I thought Warin might know of such a man in some greater town. He did, and promised to send for the fellow.

I took dinner in the castle and while we ate I told Kate of my plans. She seemed much pleased at the new house I described. Glass windows particularly caused her cheeks to glow and her eyes to sparkle. I entertained a brief worry that my plans might be beyond Sir Simon’s contribution, but I could not disappoint Kate after making much of her forthcoming residence.

Late in the day I sought a groom of the marshalsea, ordered Bruce made ready, and set off for Alvescot. I found Gerard limping about his wood yard, where were stored beams and poles cut from Lord Gilbert’s forest.