The Unquiet Bones (7 page)

“I will return tomorrow to treat you. Can you find a flagon of wine?”

“You wants your pay in wine?” she said incredulously.

“No…no. I will bathe the wound in wine, to speed healing.”

“Wound,” she said limply.

“A small incision only. But I must tell you that we must do all we can to aid healing. You are not a young woman. The young heal more quickly than the old. And wounds of the extremities in the old heal even more slowly. I do not know why this is, but I have observed it so.”

“What fee, then, do you ask?”

“Some information. Is that reasonable enough?”

“Aye, if I got it.”

“If you do not, perhaps you can get it for me when I return tomorrow.”

“If I can. What you want t’know?”

“Perhaps we should go inside to talk. Here, I’ll help you stand.”

I assisted the woman to her feet. She leaned heavily on me as I helped her into the dim interior of her hut. She sat heavily on the first bench we came to. I went back for the other outside.

“The smith’s girl…Margaret. Had she other suitors than Thomas of Shilton?”

“Oh, la, she were always popular with the lads. But I don’t know as you could call all who gave her a look suitors.”

“What would you call them?”

“Pleasure seekers, maybe.”

“Were they likely to find it with Margaret?”

“Couldn’t say. Rumors ’bout town said maybe yes, maybe no. But folks didn’t gossip much ’bout Margaret ’cause they didn’t want to explain theirselves to her father, if you take my meanin’.”

“Then she was an attractive girl?”

“Oh, aye. A beauty. Could’ve had most any lad hereabouts, but she seemed set on Tom.”

“‘Seemed,’ you say?”

“Oh, she’d flirt with the lads some. You’ll not credit it now, but I were pert when I were a lass. I seen her with men a time or two, an’ I remember how it was.” Her eyes, once fixed on mine, wandered over my shoulder to the window. “A villein’s daughter has little to look forward to. So a little harmless dalliance wi’ the boys…it’s ’bout all she’s got.”

“Harmless?” I asked. “Is it always? Does dalliance sometimes lead to serious matters?”

“Aye, it does that.” She pursed her lips. “I could tell you stories…”

“Of Margaret?”

“Oh, no. I were thinkin’ of times long past, though there be folk hereabout younger’n me who’d remember well enough.”

“So Margaret’s flirting with other young men was not so serious as to lead them on, or cause Thomas to be jealous?”

“Well, I can’t say as what’d cause a lad to be jealous. Margaret was that pretty, I guess a fellow’d get anxious whenever she spoke to other lads.”

“You think Thomas of Shilton the jealous sort?” I asked.

“Can’t say. He don’t live in town, ’course. Seems a quiet lad. I probably heard him speak a time or two, but I couldn’t recognize his voice were he callin’ outside the door this moment. Not very helpful, eh? What you want to know all this for?”

“Lord Gilbert Talbot has charged me with finding Margaret’s killer.”

“Oh!” She sat up straight, eyes wide. “You think her Tom mighta done it, or one of t’others she’d trifle with?”

“I know not what to think,” I answered. “Perhaps you can help me. Can you find answers to my question by tomorrow, or should I wait another day or two?”

“I got friends who know what I don’t,” the woman smiled. “An’ I don’t wanna live with me toe a day longer than I got to. You come back tomorrow. I’ll have somethin’ for you, if there’s anythin’ to be knowed.”

“Don’t forget the wine.”

I intended to speak also to the smith that day. But I was of two minds. Should I interrogate a man, who two hours earlier had buried his daughter, about her friends and activities? Should I wait until the morrow, when my presence in the town would be bandied about? I’d ridden up and down the streets often enough that many saw me. A stranger in such a place is likely to create questions anyway, particularly one who seems to wander the streets aimlessly. The smith lived on the opposite bank of the river Windrush, but gossip would carry that far soon enough.

I turned Bruce north when I reached the High Street and crossed the bridge. As I approached the smith’s hut, I saw a wisp of smoke rise from his forge. Bereaved or not, a man must earn a living.

I heard the rhythmic pounding of his hammer before I dismounted. I had to speak his name twice before Alard laid down his hammer and turned to me.

“Oh. You have news? I must finish this hinge before it cools.” And he turned back to his work. A few more skilled blows, and the work was done.

“Now, then, you said as you’d tell me soon as you learned what befell my Margaret…” He left the phrase dangling, not as a question, but as an acknowledgment of either my competence or his faith.

“I did, but I do not know that yet. I am here to learn more of her, that I may solve this puzzle.”

“What good will that do? Know what you will of her…won’t tell who killed her,” he said with bitterness in his voice.

“It might. I think most who are murdered are done to death by someone they know, not some stranger or unknown thief on some deserted byway.”

Alard shrugged. “Then ask what you will.”

“Had Margaret any other suitors?”

“You mean more than Tom? Aye, she was one who caught men’s eyes. Like her mother.” He crossed himself.

“Any in particular?”

“None as had a chance with her. She’d set her cap for Tom Shilton.”

“Did the others know that?”

“Yer askin’ did she lead lads on, like?”

Alard was no fool. He saw the answers I sought before I asked the questions. “Yes, that’s what I wish to know.”

Alard looked down at the hammer dangling from his right hand. “We had words ’bout that. A few times.”

I thought, from his manner and tone, that Alard and his daughter might have visited the subject more than a few times. I said nothing, waiting for him to continue on his own.

“She liked the attention, y’see. ’Twas Tom she’d chosen. Most other lads hereabout knew it. Didn’t stop ’em as thought the matter weren’t settled.”

“Did Margaret give them reason to think ‘the matter weren’t settled’? Is that what you had words about?”

“Aye.” He hesitated. “Told her as it wasn’t right, leadin’ lads on. She’d laugh an’ say ’twas but a lark. I told her they might not see it that way.”

“Any young men in particular who thought they might have a chance with her?”

Alard paused and contemplated his hammer again. “’Bout all of ’em, I suppose. Maybe John, the miller’s boy,” he bent his head toward the mill, just in view upstream, “was most taken with her.”

“What kind of fellow is he?”

“Oh, he’ll do well. Inherit the mill with but a small fine to the Earl. His wife’ll not want for bread nor ale.”

Spoken like a true father. I asked again, phrasing my question differently. “What of his appearance? Tall? Short? Handsome? Ill-favored?”

“Oh…well, not so handsome. Short, stocky fellow. Some lasses might not care for his looks, but he’ll get more appealin’ to his wife as the years pass an’ the family grows an’ he provides.”

“Are there girls who are interested in him?”

“I suppose. I think Theobald’s daughter – he’s in trade, wool merchant – would have him.”

“Would have him, or wants him?”

Alard smiled thinly. “All right…wants him.”

“What did the merchant’s daughter think of Margaret?”

“They wasn’t close. Her bein’ of a different station. She didn’t much like it that the smithy’s daughter could dress plain an’ get more attention than her in fine clothes.”

I thought my next appointment should be with the miller’s son. I bid Alard farewell, took Bruce by the reins, and led him up the path along the river to the mill.

The creaking and grinding machinery drowned out my call, so I walked through the open door and found the miller at his work in the dusty interior. He peered through the haze at me, trying to place me among his circle of acquaintances. He held up a finger to indicate a brief delay, then resumed his work. When he finished he pushed past the sacks of flour recently ground and made his way to me.

“I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon of Bampton. You know of the fate of Margaret, the smith’s girl?”

The miller motioned me to follow him out the door to the relative quiet of the yard. “Aye…woeful thing.”

“Did you know her well?”

“Watched her grow up.”

That did not answer my question, but I could see that the miller thought it did. I was to learn that he was a man of few words.

“I’ve heard she was likely to marry Thomas of Shilton.”

“So it’s said.”

“Had she other suitors?”

“Nay. How am I to know?”

“I heard your son was interested.”

“More the fool he.”

“Oh…Why do you say so?”

“Always puttin’ on airs. Nose in the air. A smith’s daughter, mind you. Thought she was too good for my John…or most o’ the rest ’round here.”

“But not too good for Thomas Shilton?”

“Even him.”

This was a surprise. “How so?” I asked.

“He’s to come into a yardland an’ hopeful of another. She probably thought he was as good as she could catch. But she made ’im work for it.”

“Work?”

“Followed her about like a slave, he did.”

“So you’d not have been pleased had she set her cap for your John?”

“Nay. I suppose a babe or two would have shifted her mind…but there are those it don’t.”

“Is your son about? I would speak to him before I go.”

“Nay. Gone to Swinbrook.”

“Does he return today?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tell him I will call.”

The miller stared at me, unblinking, and said, “Why?”

“I should have explained. Lord Gilbert Talbot has charged me with the discovery of Margaret’s killer, as her body was found on his land.”

“My John had naught to do with anything like that.”

“I do not suspect him. But perhaps he may know something of Margaret’s friends or activities which might point me to the guilty party.”

The miller shrugged. “I’ll tell him you will call.”

B
ruce knew the way home and would have broken to a trot had I not held him back, so eager was he for oats and a warm stall. I was eager for my own warm hearth. Well, it would be warm after I renewed my fire. I had learned much this day. Whether it would lead me to a killer or was but gossip, I could not know. Such is the way with knowledge; we cannot know when we acquire it when, or if ever, it will be useful to us.

I was pleased to see the spire of the Church of St Beornwald rise above the nearly naked trees when I neared Bampton. The spire is impressive for a town the size of ours but not, perhaps, as graceful as some others. It is solid and substantial, like the villagers who worship under it.

It was near dark when I left Bruce at the castle and made my way to my own door. I lit a candle, built a small fire of the few sticks of wood remaining to me, and made a supper. Days were short. Nights were long. I should have slept well in preparation for a return to Burford, but I did not. Rather, I lay in the dark and reviewed what I had learned. But I could find no pattern.

As soon as dawn gave light I was at the castle gate. I had forewarned Wilfred the evening before, so he was prompt in releasing the bar and swinging open the gate. The marshalsea had Bruce ready. I swung my bag of instruments over his broad rump and set out for Burford once again.

I had seen several forests along the road to Burford which in the recent past had been coppiced, then left unattended; due, no doubt, to the reduced number of laborers available for the task. As I passed one of these thickets but a few miles north of Bampton, I heard a rustling in the grove and saw through the leafless saplings a sow and two of her offspring, which had thus far escaped the autumn slaughter, rooting for acorns in the fallen leaves. The sow raised her head suspiciously as Bruce and I passed, but determined that we were no threat and went back to plowing the forest floor with her snout. Her passage through the coppiced woods was clearly marked, and I idly scanned the upturned leaves as Bruce ambled past the scene. The pigs were soon lost to my sight, but as I turned to the road before me, I caught from the corner of my eye a flash of color which seemed out of place in an autumn wood.

I halted Bruce, and turned him to retrace our path. I peered into the grove, and there, a hundred feet into the forest, among the upturned leaves, was a patch of blue. I dismounted and made my way through the thick-grown pollarding to the object. One sleeve of a blue cotehardie lay above the fallen leaves where the rooting pigs had left it, and was thus visible from the road. I swept away more leaves with my hand, and uncovered the garment, stained and dirty, but whole. I lifted it from the mold for inspection. It was a gentleman’s cotehardie. A sumptuous one. It was cut short, in the fashion worn by young men who wished to show a good pair of legs. It was of dark blue velvet, woven in a diamond pattern, and lined with light blue silk. The long sleeves were cut in dags, ornamented with a trim of yellow velvet, and embroidered with gold thread. Even through its filthy condition, it proclaimed its owner a young man of pride and station. Its chiefest flaw, besides the earth and leaves accumulated on it, was a small slash, about two inches long, at the front of the garment. Dirt and mold clinging to the cotehardie obscured a dark stain about the tear. Only later did I discover this discoloration.

I found a fallen limb and used it to scrape about in the leaves, but found nothing more. I saw on closer inspection that the cotehardie might be dirty, but it was not worn or frayed. Indeed, other than the filth, it seemed nearly new. Its owner would not have discarded it in these woods intentionally. I thought for a moment that I might clean it and use it for my own. This idea I dismissed immediately. The garment was far above my station. I would seem foolish to observers who knew me. Perhaps in London I might wear it – or even Oxford – and be thought a young lord. But in Bampton people would snicker behind their hands at my presumption. And sumptuary laws, though mostly ignored, forbid a man of my quality wearing such a garment. I resolved to show the cotehardie to Lord Gilbert. It had an unusual pattern. Perhaps he would know its owner. I slung the cotehardie across Bruce’s muscular withers, where it remained for the day, and continued my journey.

The November sun was well up over Burford’s rooftops when I reached my patient’s cottage. The door swung open before I could find a convenient fencepost to which to tie Bruce.

“I remembered the wine,” the woman said by way of greeting.

I would have returned a salutation but did not know her name. I had been more interested in the information she could provide, and the condition of her toe, than the woman herself. I view this now as a flaw in my character, but it was a flaw I took steps to rectify when I understood it. I asked her name.

“Edith, Edith Church…account of I live behind the churchyard.”

“Well, Edith, I have brought my instruments. Shall we begin?”

“Aye. Sooner the better. I’ve had no sleep for days for the ache in me toe.”

I dragged her table out into the sunlight in the toft at the rear of her cottage. Neither of us desired spectators, which, if I performed the surgery at her front step, her shrieks would likely attract. I warned her that the procedure would be painful.

Edith peered at me beneath narrowed brows. “I’ve borne seven children – four yet livin’ – naught you can do to me toe will teach me anything about affliction.”

I could not argue with her logic, so got her on the table and went to my work. She was as good as her word. She stifled a groan or two, and twitched as I incised the offending toenail. That was all. I completed my work quickly, bathed the toe once more in wine, then helped the old woman to her feet.

“Do not wear a tight shoe until you see all redness depart from the wound. This might be two or three weeks.”

“Hah! Tight shoe? I’ve but one pair of shoes, tight or no. Will you dress it now?”

I seem to make a habit of explaining my surgical philosophy to patients. It is usual practice, I know, to dress a wound or incision, so I am required to explain why, in most situations, I choose not to do so.

“The wound may yield pus for a few days. Dab it clear, but do nothing to restrain the flow. If the pus turns clear and watery, and releases a putrid smell, send for me instantly.”

“Why so?” she asked.

“Because that will likely signify gangrene.”

Edith put her hand to her mouth. “What’ll you do then?”

“I must then amputate the toe…but I think that unlikely. Walk little, keep the wound clean of the filth of the streets, and raise the foot on a stool when you sit. I believe then all will be well.” So it was, for when Edith sent for me a few days later, it was not to discuss her toe.

I helped Edith hobble into her cottage and sat her in what was clearly her accustomed bench before the fire. The house was once grander than now. It was built with a fireplace. I drew up a stool, lifted her foot to rest upon it, then placed the remaining bench before her.

“Now my work is done. Yours begins. What have you learned?”

“’Twasn’t easy, gettin’ round town w’me toe as ’twas.” She waited, seeming to expect some agreement from me that her share of our bargain had been most arduous. So I agreed.

“Like I said, Margaret was never short of admirers. An’ she seemed to admire ’em right back. Folks I’ve talked to say as her Tom didn’t seem to mind over much. Told some as how ’twas a kind’a honor, bein’ chose by one as had as many choices as she’d want.”

“So Thomas Shilton was not the jealous sort?”

“Not regular. But they did have a quarrel, him an’ Margaret.”

“I suppose most lovers do, once in a while,” I replied. “When was this quarrel?”

“Some time past. In t’spring. A week or so before hocktide. Or maybe ’twas after hocktide. ’Bout then.”

“What was this quarrel about – do you know?”

“Another man,” Edith replied.

“How did you learn of this?” I asked.

“It was me friend, Muriel. Her husband’s a wool merchant, you know.” I didn’t, but I remembered hearing of the wool merchant’s daughter. “She was at the river, comin’ back from t’mill. Margaret an’ her Tom had spoke to her when she walked by the smithy. Reckon her pa wasn’t there, ’cause when Muriel got ’cross the bridge she heard ’em yellin’ at each other.”

“Did she hear what was said?”

“Muriel’s hearin’ ain’t good. She’s of an age for that.” The same age as Edith, I guessed.

“She did hear Tom say as to how she was bein’ a fool. He said, ‘He’s a gentleman. He’ll not take up with the likes of you.’”

“Some screechin’ from Margaret next, but nothin’ she could make out. Not for want of tryin’, I’d guess.” Edith grinned and put a finger beside her nose. “Muriel likes a good story.”

“Then why did she not tell you of this before?”

“Well…” Here Edith looked away for a moment. “I don’t get to see her much any more.”

I waited. I thought the woman too needy for conversation not to tell me more.

“Her man don’t like it. Wants to buy me eggs an’ cabbages himself. I can get more from others than from him. He’s tried to put the guild on me.”

“The grocers’ guild? He’s a wool merchant.”

“That kind stick together. They don’t like folks as horn into their business. Even widows with but four eggs a day to sell.”

“Would Muriel speak to me about this?”

“Oh, aye. You’ll not get her to stop. So long as Theobald, that’s her husband, ain’t about.”

“He’s a hard man?” I guessed.

“Flint. An’ a miser, as well.”

“Where is Muriel likely to be at this hour?”

“At home. Where she should be, anyway. House behind the shop. Her man’ll be countin’ his pennies at his business.”

“Where is that?”

“On t’High Street. First merchant you’ll see past Church Lane.”

I thanked Edith for her discovery and led Bruce back to the High Street. I found the merchant, as Edith predicted, in his shop attending his accounts. I knew no way to assure myself that he was there than to enter and feign interest in a purchase. After a reasonable time spent fingering his wool, I headed south on the High Street, then led Bruce east, around behind the block of timbered, thatched shops.

The merchant’s daughter answered the door. I understood then the miller’s conclusion. She was a plain girl, who had enjoyed a few too many of the offerings of her mother’s kitchen. She was not ugly, but she would attract little attention if standing near a beauty – which all assured me that Margaret, the smith’s daughter, was.

The girl’s mother peered at me over her daughter’s shoulder, and invited me in when I mentioned Edith. Muriel asked about the surgery, and nodded approval when I announced likely success. I think she would have listened to a complete retelling of the procedure had I not diverted the flow of her conversation.

I will spare you the particulars. She confirmed what she had told Edith, but had no more for me. It was clear from her glistening eyes and enthusiastic delivery that she wished she had. The daughter sat silent during the conversation; as quiet as her mother was voluble. I remember wondering at the time if she would remain so as the years passed, or if there was some curious work of nature that loosened a woman’s tongue about the time of the birth of her second child. I decided not, as I have known talkative women not yet wed, and a few – a few, mind you – silent to old age.

I managed to escape the wool merchant’s wife before the sun was over the church spire. I had two more visits to make this day: I must see the miller’s son, and ask Thomas Shilton about the gentleman who had attracted Margaret’s interest – and perhaps more.

I found the miller’s lad assisting his father. One glance, and a few minutes’ conversation, went far to explain Margaret’s lack of interest in the young man as a suitor. He was shaped like the barrels which contained the flour the Earl’s mill produced. He ate well, I decided, from the largesse he skimmed from the tenants who brought their grain to the mill to be ground. I explained that, many months earlier, Margaret and Thomas Shilton had been seen – and heard – arguing on the mill-side bank of the River Windrush. Had he heard them?

The youth glanced over his shoulder at the mill wheel. Its labored groans were accompanied by the sluicing of water off the wheel. “Not likely to hear much, workin’ about the mill,” he replied. Nor had he seen the couple at any time during the early summer.

The track leading back past the smithy to the bridge curved through thick gold and brown autumnal vegetation. The forge was invisible but for a wisp of smoke above the low trees. I heard Alard’s hammer ring but allowed Bruce to amble on toward the bridge. I decided I could learn no more on the north side of the river.

The hamlet of Shilton is but two miles south of Burford on the road to Bampton. I had ridden Bruce through its single street often enough in the preceding days that I might be considered a regular visitor. Always before I had continued on my way, but not this time. I saw a woman at the village well and asked of Thomas. She pointed me toward a house at the south end of the village.

“But you’ll not find ’im there,” she added. “He’s got the oxen for the day. He’ll be ploughin’ a furlong.”

Villagers in a place like Shilton leased strips of land in several locations surrounding the town. Together these parcels might amount to perhaps thirty acres: a yardland. I led Bruce to the appointed home and knocked at the door.

The house was one of the larger of its type in the hamlet. Like the rest, it was made of wattle and daub, with a thatched roof, but this one, unlike a few others in the village, was in good repair. At the rear, filling most of the toft, was a cultivated plot, now barren, which had evidently produced the year’s supply of carrots, cabbages, and turnips.

A woman in a flour-dusted apron answered my knock and directed me with pointed finger over the small rise at the southwest corner of the hamlet where, she said, I would find her husband and son and the team of oxen the villagers owned collectively.

I tied Bruce to a sapling and set off for the designated field. The ground was soft with recent rain, but not mud. Ideal for plowing. The two men looked my way as I crested the hill, but continued their work. The older man led the team, the younger held the plow expertly in the furrow. I met them at the end of the long, narrow field, where they would turn the team.