The Unquiet Bones (20 page)

As I studied the beast the wrestler passed me on his way to the castle yard and his tent.

“A fine animal,” I commented.

“Aye, he is that. Too fine for me, you think?” The wrestler seemed agitated at my observation and I looked about to see if any were near enough to hear, should I need help. And if the man took offense at my words and decided to attack, I would certainly need help. I tried to soothe him.

“Not at all…I…I think you and your cohorts are much skilled at what you do. You must reap great rewards. Enough to buy a fine animal such as this.”

“Won ’im,” the man said gruffly.

“Oh?” My favorite question, again.

“We was in Winchester at Corpus Christi. A young gentleman brought his villein to challenge me. Big, strong lad. The young lord bet large, but I defeated his man. He could not pay, so I took his horse in fee.”

“I see. A valuable animal, worth forty pounds, perhaps more,” I calculated.

“Aye. He be an insurance policy, like. An’ we hit a streak o’ bad luck, I can sell ’im an’ keep us fed ’til better days.”

With that the wrestler turned and left the marshalsea. I followed him out, but we turned in opposite directions. He joined the tents of his troupe in the northwest corner of the castle yard. I directed my feet to the inner yard, and found Lord Gilbert’s chamberlain. I told him I wished a word with Lord Gilbert on a matter of some importance.

Lord Gilbert appeared at the door to the solar a few minutes later. He seemed a bit unsteady and quite jovial.

“What? Master Hugh! You will not join us?”

“I thank you, m’lord, but I wished to be about other business this night.”

“Business? What business? It’s Christmas; a time for pleasure, not business.”

“Yes, and so this day has been…”

“It has, indeed,” he interrupted.

“But I wished to be about some tasks I owe you before the day passes.”

“Eh? What work do you owe me which cannot wait until the morrow?”

“I wish for you to look at a horse, then I will tell you.”

“A horse? Where? When?”

“Here, in the marshalsea…and now, if you will.”

“Is a horse of mine ill? Surely the farrier will deal with it?”

“No, not that. I would have you view a horse belonging to the acrobats. To learn if you have seen it before.”

Lord Gilbert, like most of his class, considered himself a judge of horses, hounds, and falcons, and in his case there was justification for his attitude. He gave as much attention to a fine horse as to a fair lass.

He followed me, a bit unsteadily, across the muddy yard to the marshalsea. I led him to the stall containing the wrestler’s fine beast. The horse had withdrawn to a far corner of the stall, but when we stopped before the door he moved to face us. Perhaps he expected a carrot, or a measure of oats.

“Should I have seen this animal before?” Lord Gilbert asked. “’Tis an uncommon fine one, for such as have it, don’t you think?”

I agreed. I did not wish to sow a seed of suspicion in Lord Gilbert which might grow to a plant with bitter fruit, so I did not voice the apprehension I felt about the horse’s history.

Lord Gilbert opened the stall door and approached the animal. He inspected the white blaze down its forehead, then bent to the left foreleg and hoof, also white.

“A fine beast. But, you ask, have I seen it before? I cannot say with a surety. I think I may have done. What is your interest in this horse, Master Hugh?”

“I would not like to say yet…only to know if you have seen the animal before.”

I feared that, in his condition, Lord Gilbert might not remember well. Or that he might recall that which never occurred. There was much good wine in the solar this night, I felt certain.

“I have,” he said finally, and with some conviction. “The blaze and hoof I know. This is Sir Robert Mallory’s horse, or its twin.”

The wine-induced haze which had afflicted him seemed abruptly gone. Lord Gilbert’s eye was sharp and his speech suddenly clear. “These jugglers and acrobats know something of Sir Robert. Perhaps they came on his murder and drove off the thieves.”

“Perhaps,” I agreed.

“Ah…yes…” Lord Gilbert continued, pulling on his chin, an arm draped over the stall door, “I see how it might have happened. The thieves attacking Sir Robert suddenly found themselves outnumbered and ran off. These jongleurs found themselves in possession of the field, and so, poor men that they are, seized the spoil.

“But,” he continued, “if so be it happened that way, who buried poor Sir Robert and his squire?” Lord Gilbert answered his own question. “Thieves would not return to do so. The wrestler’s men must have done it. They surely believed the taking of dead men’s goods to be criminal, and wished to avoid discovery. What think you, Master Hugh? Mayhap the affair followed that course?”

“Perhaps,” I agreed. “But it would be well not to speak of this to anyone. I wish to question their leader, the wrestler, more closely on this matter. I would not have him aware of our suspicion and so prepare a fable to divert our pursuit of truth.

“I believe,” I continued, “that the troupe might be persuaded to remain here another day. The wrestler told me they have no appointment. They will go to Gloucester to seek profit in the market there. Direct your chamberlain to retain them for another performance for St Stephen’s Day. Offer them good pay and I’m certain the troupe will stay.”

“You are free with my money, Master Hugh. But I will do it. One day will be enough to get to the truth of the matter, you think?”

“If I seek truth properly, with true questions, one hour will suffice. If I do not, the next year will not be time enough.”

“Then, Master Hugh, think carefully how you will proceed. I will send the chamberlain to do as you ask.”

“Direct him to do so now, and report the wrestler’s answer to me this night. I will await his tidings in my chamber.”

“Very well. Good night, then, Master Hugh. And may the saints attend you on the morrow.”

I lit a candle from coals in my chamber fireplace and waited for news from the chamberlain. The wrestler must have accepted Lord Gilbert’s offer readily, for the chamberlain rapped at my door but half an hour later with word that the troupe would be pleased to perform again on St Stephen’s Day.

Lord Gilbert was firm that those in his household observe the liturgical hours. So I arose before the first hour, while it was yet dark – though a faint glow above the eastern forest showed that day was not far off – washed myself, and made my way to the chapel. Phillip, the chaplain, and Ralph, the clerk, were already at their preparations for matins, and others of the household filed sleepily in after me, with much yawning and staring at the candle flames. The Christmas festivities, I guessed, went on late into the night. Lady Joan and Sir Charles de Burgh contrived to enter the chapel together, though how this adroit timing was managed I know not.

Lady Joan’s arrival, and her greeting, distracted me. I did not attend the liturgy of the mass, may God forgive me. Soon, however, my mind wandered from Lady Joan, who was again in occasional dialog with Sir Charles, to the entertainers I must deal with this day. I resolved to seek out some member of the troupe other than their leader for my first questions.

The knife-thrower was a young man, or so he appeared. He was short and solid of body, with muscular arms and wrists. On observation of his build and skills, I would not wish to be one to quarrel with him, even without his daggers. He wore a pale green cotehardie and I found him readily when I approached the tents where he and his cohorts had spent a chilly night.

The knife-thrower had erected two planks against the castle wall and was about to practice his craft when I approached. A human figure was carved on the boards, and the youth began to throw his knives at the fringes of the outlined body. He saw me approach, but continued to hurl his blades until he had surrounded the effigy with eight daggers.

“Do you ever miss?” I asked him.

“Nay,” he replied, and strode to the planks to retrieve his weapons.

“The girl who is your target, did she require much persuading to serve you so?”

The youth turned to me and smiled. “Some, but we showed her what I could do, and offered fair pay…a poor lass will do more than that for a silver penny.”

He said this as he walked back to his mark and prepared to toss the knives again.

“If you chose to pierce a man’s heart, I suppose you could aim to strike as well as miss?”

The youth said nothing, but threw his first weapon with some vehemence. The blade stuck and vibrated squarely in the center of the outlined form.

“I am Hugh,” I said, “surgeon to Lord Gilbert on his estate in Bampton.” I extended my hand. The youth took it and replied, “I am Walter.” He grinned, “surgeon to any who step foolishly before me.”

“Hah. Just so. I shall heed where I place my foot. Have you traveled long with the troupe?”

“All my days,” he answered. “I was born to the life.”

“Your parents are among the entertainers?”

“Aye,” he answered. “The wrestler, Hamo Tanner, is my father.”

“Ah, I see. It was your sister, then, who ran off with her lad when you were at Bampton.”

At this Walter Tanner started and stepped back from his mark. “’Tis common knowledge at Bampton,” I continued, “that she did so.”

At this remark he seemed to relax, and turned from me to resume his practice. But his aim seemed less sure than before, and two of his throws would have drawn blood from under the arm of the girl had it been her at the planks rather than a tracing.

I remained at the mark as Walter retrieved his blades. As I watched him tug his knives loose from the plank, it struck me, so that my hand sought my forehead: Walter Tanner wore a pale green cotehardie.

I recovered from the shock of this discovery before Walter turned to resume his place at the mark. He scuffed the line deeper in the mud and began his third practice round.

“Was your sister the object of your blades before she ran off?”

“Aye,” he replied, without turning from his occupation.

“You did not fear to wound your own sister with a misplaced throw?”

“I know my competence.”

“But did not a thought of what a slip of your hand might do never shake your aim before a throw?” I asked.

“Oh, I thought of it,” he admitted, “but such musing never displaced my aim.”

“Your work must take great courage,” I complimented him, “to perform with the life of another in peril.”

“There is no peril,” Walter scoffed. “I have said, I do not miss my mark.” He hesitated briefly, and I knew a disquiet thought had crossed his mind.

“And courage for the lass who faces your blades as they whirl toward her.”

Aye. Some we’ve tried who cannot do it. They scream and run when I launch the first dagger.”

“But not the maid you have now?”

“Nay. She’s not fearful, now she sees what I can do; she will even keep her eyes open and smile to the throng.”

“Others…your sister…would shut their eyes?” I asked.

“Aye. ’Twas the cause of her only wound.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. She took her place at the boards, an’ as I released the first dagger she moved her hand – her eyes bein’ fastened shut, she saw not the blade on its way.”

“It struck her, then?” I asked.

“Aye,” he admitted, pursing his lips. “The blade pierced her hand and pinned it to the plank. But when we released her and bandaged the wound she wished to continue the performance. What applause she gained, and coin also, when I had done.”

“Was she much injured?”

“Aye. Could not carry on her act for the pain in her hand. Not able to do handstands or such for a month and more. But she was sound again, an’ could do all after three months. She never again moved when she’d got in place, so such a thing never happened again.”

“The knife may have shattered a bone in her hand as it passed through,” I mused.

“I thought so,” Walter agreed. “Else she would have been whole the sooner.”

As we spoke I noted a seam in Walter’s cotehardie where a tear had been repaired. It was much like the unmended cut in Sir Robert’s blue cotehardie found in the coppiced woods. But torn and mended garments are common enough among the poor. I wear such myself.

“I will disturb your training no longer,” I promised. “I look forward to your performance this day.”

Walter Tanner went back to his practice and I sauntered off between the tents, seeking some other member of the troupe. I found one. One of the jugglers was stretching and scratching himself, standing between his tent and a fire on which a kettle of pottage was steaming.

“Breakfast?” I asked.

“And supper,” he replied.

“Well…Lord Gilbert will feed you well at dinner for your performance again this day.”

“I trust so. He did so yesterday. It is well to dine at a lord’s table rather than on fare one must catch out of hand.”

I sniffed the vapor rising from the pottage and the juggler laughed. “Pork; rare enough in our pot. A bit o’ the boar Lord Gilbert’s kitchen gave us yestere’en.”

“This life you lead is a hard one, then?”

“Life is hard for all, ’cept lords an’ ladies, I suppose. An’ even them, sometimes. ’Tis better, what I do, than livin’ as villein at some lord’s pleasure an’ owin’ work week an’ all.”

“You will be another day here, then off to Gloucester and perhaps Bristol, I am told.”

“Aye,” he replied, holding his hands to the fire. “Might be some warmer there…closer to t’sea.”

I agreed that might be so, as the juggler moved even closer to the fire and turned his hands to the flames.

“’Tis hard to do what I do an’ my hands be cold. I’m not so young; my fingers grow stiff when winter comes.”

“Lord Gilbert’s hall will be warm.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “It would be well to toss the balls an’ knives there ’til sun returns,” he grinned ruefully, “’specially t’knives.”

“Have you ever caught a knife wrong?” I asked. In answer he drew his hands from the fire and lifted his palms to me. I saw the scars of several wounds across his hands – one fairly new, and yet red.

“Ah, I see. And this is more likely to happen when ’tis cold?” I asked.