Unhallowed Ground (19 page)

“You’ll want elm for the beams what’ll be upon the ground,” Gerard said when I told him of my plans. “Oak an’ beech’ll do well for the others. Tiles is heavier than thatch, so for rafters you’ll need stout poles. I got enough, I think, dryin’ in the shed there.”

I left the verderer with the understanding that Peter Carpenter would soon call upon him with a list of the timbers needed. Gerard assured me that the wood yard held all Peter would need, and a few glances about the place in the fading evening light told me he spoke true.

Bruce had carried me near to Bampton when I saw, a great way ahead of me, a figure standing in darkening shadows beside the road. As I approached I saw that a man was flinging something about at Cow-Leys Corner. The fellow glanced up from his work, saw me while I was yet far off, and immediately fled. Bruce lumbered up to the place where the man had been busy and I reined him to a halt, curious about what I had seen. From atop the horse my eyes discerned nothing of interest, but surely there must be something here, I thought, else why the fellow’s actions and hasty departure when he discovered he was seen?

I dismounted and searched among the foliage at the verge. The place, I noted, was where Thomas atte Bridge had been buried near two months past. And then I found what had been cast about the grave.

Entrails lay scattered there, near to the wall which enclosed Lord Gilbert’s meadow. I could not identify the beast from which the guts had been torn, but surmised a goat had perished so the ritual I had observed from a distance could take place. Many believe that spirits will not rise in the dark of night to vex the living if the entrails of a goat be strewn about the burial place.

Was there some man of Bampton who feared the ghost of Thomas atte Bridge? Why else undertake to keep his spirit below the sod? Who might so fear a ghost? The murderer? I mounted Bruce and prodded him into motion with a conviction I had seen a thing which might lead me to a felon.

I dismounted at the castle gatehouse and sought Wilfred the porter. He appeared at the sound of Bruce’s great hooves against the cobbles, somewhat surprised at my halt at that place.

“Have you seen a man approach Mill Street from Cow-Leys Corner?” I asked. “He was in haste,” I added.

Wilfred scratched his balding pate and peered beyond me into the dusk. “Seen folk about, but none as was in a hurry,” he replied.

“Were any of these traveling alone? Did you note where they went?”

Wilfred chewed his lip in thought before he replied. “Two was alone. They went on past the castle. That’s the last I seen of ’em. Mill Street can’t be seen from the gatehouse once folk near Shill Brook,” he explained.

Nor can an observer at the castle gatehouse observe those who might turn away from Mill Street to enter the Weald. I began to think I might guess who it was I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner. The fellow had waited ’til near dark, the better to complete his errand unseen, yet early enough that John the beadle would not yet be about the streets of Bampton to enforce curfew. And if the man entered the Weald John would not see him, for the beadle’s duty lay only in Bampton. The vicars of the Church of St Beornwald, as representatives of the Bishop of Exeter, have responsibility for enforcing curfew in the Weald, a thing which neither they nor any other men trouble themselves to do.

I sent Bruce to the marshalsea with the porter’s assistant, advised Wilfred that I might return late, and set off for the Weald. Behind me I heard Wilfred cranking down the portcullis.

If it was Edmund Smith I saw scattering entrails about Thomas atte Bridge’s grave, I wondered where he might have found a goat. Wealthier tenants of Lord Gilbert and the bishop possess a few sheep, and some own goats. I did not think Emma in such company, and before the smith wed her he owned nothing but a few hens.

I walked in the dark to the end of the path and Arnulf Mannyng’s house. A faint gleam through the skins of his windows told that the family had not yet sought their beds. No man wishes to hear pounding upon his door at such a time, but I was impatient to learn the reason for what I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner.

I rapped upon Mannyng’s door and shouted my name to ease the fellow’s mind about who his late visitor might be. A moment later I heard him raise the bar and lift the latch.

I did not seek Arnulf Mannyng because I thought him the man I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner. Rather, I thought he might know who in the Weald possessed goats.

I apologized for disturbing the peace of his evening, then asked about goats. Mannyng stared at me for a moment, then invited me into his cottage and shut the door behind me.

“Why do you ask of goats?” he said. A cresset upon his table provided enough light that I could see a puzzled expression upon his face.

I did not wish for Arnulf, or any other man, to know yet what I had seen along the road. “Have any in the Weald who own goats seen one go missing?” I asked next.

“Strange you ask,” Mannyng replied. “We began shearing the wethers today. I keep six goats with the sheep, but this day I found but five. No sign of the other. Thought it’d run off, or got took by some wild hound.”

“It was killed, I think.”

“A hound?”

“Nay, a man.”

“Who?” Mannyng asked indignantly.

“I am yet uncertain.”

“But you have suspicion?”

“Aye.”

I bid Arnulf good eve, and walked north in the dark toward Mill Street until I stood in the path before the hut of Edmund and Emma.

I was about to put my knuckles to the door, then reconsidered. I am no coward, but neither am I a fool. No man knew where I had gone this night, or to what purpose. Was Edmund the man I had seen at Cow-Leys Corner, and he took amiss my interest in his business there, he might employ those muscular arms to silence me. Edmund has the heart of a cur in the body of a bull.

I have heard it said that the man who fears God need fear no man. That may be so, but I did wish to live to become a father. I set off silently for Mill Street.

Next morn, after Kate and I broke our fast, I sought Arthur, and with him to help draw explanation from Edmund, walked again to the Weald. Emma answered my knock and told me that Edmund was at work this day at his forge. Arthur and I retraced our steps to Mill Street, crossed Shill Brook, and found Edmund pumping his bellows over new-lit coals.

The day promised warmth, and already sweat stood upon Edmund’s brow and lip from his effort at the bellows. He glanced up at our approach, then resumed pumping, as if to say without words that his work was more important than any matter concerning me. Arthur recognized the slight and scowled at the smith’s back.

A smith cannot pump air to his coals forever. He must eventually set about his work. Edmund’s hammer lay upon a table, aside his anvil. I walked to it and picked it up. He would answer my questions before I returned the hammer to him, else he would accomplish no business this day.

Edmund saw me lift the hammer but continued at his bellows for some time, until the blaze was white with heat and even Arthur and I felt beads of sweat upon our brows. The smith finally ceased his pumping, folded his smoky, sweaty arms across his chest and glared at me. We had disagreed about his conduct in the past, so I did not expect a cheerful welcome, but the scowl now leveled at me bespoke more than a year-old dispute. So I thought.

“What have you done with Arnulf’s goat? You needed only the entrails to cast on Thomas atte Bridge’s grave.”

Edmund blanched. His face went from red with heat and exertion to white in a heartbeat. His words denied my accusation, but his visage said otherwise.

“Goat? Whose?” he protested. “I’ve no man’s goat.”

“You discarded the flesh after cutting free the entrails? A terrible waste.”

“Don’t know what you speak of,” he protested, seeming to gather his wits.

“Perhaps we should inspect your house, to see if there be some carcass there upon a spit. Mayhap Emma will remember if you left her last eve for a time, just before curfew.”

“You got no bailiwick in the Weald,” Edmund spluttered.

“True, but you are a tenant of Lord Gilbert, and I saw you last eve casting the entrails of some beast – a goat, I think – over Thomas atte Bridge’s grave, which lies upon Lord Gilbert’s land at Cow-Leys Corner. I suspect the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church will not take offense if I do their work and find a thief and murderer in the Weald.”

My words were not entirely true. I had seen a man at Cow-Leys Corner. This may have been Edmund, or mayhap not. I thought to show the smith confidence that I knew him to be the man and see what was his response.

“I’m no murderer,” Edmund protested, and cast his eyes about as if seeking some unremembered place in his forge where he might hide. There was no escape, for Arthur and I blocked the entrance. Arthur does better at obstructing a door than do I, but together the smith would not get past us. And I yet held his hammer.

“No murderer? But a thief. If one, why not the other?”

Edmund’s shoulder slumped, and he leaned against his anvil as if likely to topple over without its support.

“He torments me, does Thomas.”

“Thomas atte Bridge?” I replied. I was confused. Atte Bridge was two months dead. How could he vex another?

“Aye,” the smith mumbled. “Comes in the night, when all others be sleepin’, an’ wakes me.”

“Why? What does he wish? To trouble the man who took his life from him?”

“Nay. I’m no murderer. ’E was plowin’ Emma’s furrow before ’e died. When I was to wed Emma she told me of it. Thomas was dead an’ gone then, and naught but Maud to protest did I seize the land what Thomas took.”

“Maud protested?”

“Aye. To me an’ Emma. Not to the vicars, ’cause she knew I was right an’ the land Thomas was takin’ was Emma’s.”

“Maud and Emma had words about this?”

“Aye, but not after we was wed. Didn’t argue with ’er, just took back what was Emma’s.”

“And now Thomas afflicts you in the night?”

“Aye. Tells me I’ll soon join ’im do I not give over them furrows ’e took from Emma.”

“You cast the guts of Arnulf Mannyng’s goat upon his grave.”

“Aye,” Edmund reluctantly agreed. “’Eard tell that’ll keep spirits in their grave.”

“Did it? Last night did Thomas afflict you again?”

The smith brightened. “Nay. Worked well, as folk do say.”

“Thomas did not rise from his grave to trouble you because you took his life?”

Edmund blanched again. “Nay. Never murdered no man.”

I believed him, and did I not I had no way to prove otherwise. But I would see justice done in the matter of Arnulf Mannyng’s goat.

“You will pay Arnulf a shilling for his goat.”

“A shilling?” Edmund complained. “Was worth no more than ten pence.”

“A thief cannot bid the value of his plunder. A shilling, and you will pay the debt before hallmote or I will have you up on charges. Then you will pay a fine to Lord Gilbert as well.”

The smith’s shoulders dropped again in submission. I had made no friend here, nor had I discovered a murderer, as I thought I might. Edmund Smith had been no friend before this day, so I was forfeit nothing, and whoso hung Thomas atte Bridge at Cow-Leys Corner was no more unknown to me than when the day began. I had discovered the theft of a goat, so I could boast of some small achievement.

Next day was Sunday. Kate was pleased to see, as we walked to the church past the site of Galen House, that Peter Carpenter had seen to clearing the place of burnt timbers and ash, and Gerard had supplied the first cart-load of elm timbers with which Peter and his crew might begin raising a new house. All that remained at the site was some blackened earth and my new brick chimney.

There was much work for me in the next days. I must see to the shearing of Lord Gilbert’s sheep and the sale of the wool, and it was time for the last plowing of Lord Gilbert’s fallow fields. Villeins who owed week-work I set to these tasks. This did not please them, as they had their own labors to complete, but such is the way of the world and my work. I must persuade folk to do things they would wish to avoid, whether this be laboring upon their lord’s demesne or suffering me to repair their injuries and wounds. Both oft require pain from those to whom I must direct my toil.

At least once each day I made time to observe Peter Carpenter’s progress. On Tuesday he brought another load of timbers from Alvescot, and late in the week two carts loaded with bricks came from the kiln at Witney. Two more cart-loads, Peter said, and Warin would have enough to build a second chimney and fill the spaces between the timbers he was raising.

I watched the carpenter wield his mallet and chisel to cut a tenon and rubbed my arm where Sir Simon had pierced me. To think that I had once considered that Peter might have delivered the blow with a chisel. There is no more amicable man in Bampton, I thought.

He spoke fondly of his daughter’s child. Jane’s babe, he said, was strong. He was placed with the cooper’s wife, who had a babe of her own to nurse. Peter seemed not to wish to speak more of the child, which I understood, considering how the infant had come to be. The part of the babe that was Jane would be loved; the part that was Thomas atte Bridge would be despised. It would have been easier, I think, for Peter and his wife to have accepted a lass. I hoped, for the sake of the child, that as he grew he would resemble his mother in character rather than his father.

By St Botolf’s Day Peter had erected scaffolds and with his assistants and apprentice was at work raising posts and beams for the upper story of the new Galen House. Beneath the poles and planks of the scaffolding Warin was at work with mortar and trowel, filling in the walls with layers of red-brown bricks. I found myself drawn to Church View Street several times each day, to monitor progress and watch as craftsmen put together a fine house from wood and clay.

O
ne afternoon I stood in the toft watching Peter and his apprentice hoist a beam from ground to scaffold. This timber was heavy, hewn square, six paces or more long, and thick through as a large man’s hand from fingers to wrist. The weight of two men and the beam proved too much for one of the poles supporting the scaffold. It bent under the weight. I saw it begin to bow and shouted to the men to look to their safety. They did so, but not before the pole snapped. Three poles yet supported the scaffold, and Peter and the apprentice seized two of these and so were spared a fall which might have required my services to repair their injuries. They had released the beam when I cried a warning. It thudded to the earth, doing no harm.

Peter clambered down from his perch, thanked me for advising him of danger, scratched his head while he inspected the fractured pole, then set to work raising another so the scaffold might be made whole and he might continue his work.

I watched as Peter selected a solid pole from the stack Gerard had delivered for rafters and set it in place of the splintered shaft. When it was in place he instructed his apprentice, a slender youth whose wiry form was more suited to the work, to mount the scaffold and secure the plank to the new post with a length of hempen cord wrapped thickly about both pole and plank.

Hempen cord. I was not pleased with the thought which then came to me. It had not occurred to me that a carpenter might have use for hempen cord.

My enthusiasm for observing the rebuilding of Galen House withered with this discovery. I left the site and walked slowly to the castle, considering the import, or coincidence, of what I had learned. I was distressed at what it might portend, but could not allow the revelation to pass unexplained.

I kept my own counsel for the next hours, but as dusk darkened the window of our chamber I told Kate what I had seen.

“Many craftsmen may find need of rope in their work,” she advised. “You said such cord was common.”

“Aye, I did, but a common thing in the hands of a man wronged by another may be put to uncommon purpose.”

“You believe the carpenter capable of such cunning, doing murder made to seem suicide?”

“Do you think me capable of such a thing?”

“Nay,” Kate replied with some heat. “Why do you ask?”

“I am not a father… not yet,” I added, responding to Kate’s smile. “But when I think of the injury Thomas atte Bridge did to Peter, and consider what vengeance I might seek should our babe be a lass, and some felon deal with her as Thomas did with Jane, then I am no longer certain of Peter’s peaceable nature.”

“You could slay a man who did harm to a daughter?”

“If no other penalty seemed in store for the man.”

“You believe all men be of such a mind?”

“I do.”

“What will you do?”

“I will go to our bed. Mayhap a new day will offer new counsel.”

It did not. Sleep was elusive. It came reluctantly and departed eagerly. I arose from our bed in a sour mood, which Kate saw and so busied herself about our chamber wordlessly. A kitchen servant brought a loaf and pot of ale, and when I had broken my fast I felt ready to face my duty. I made ready to depart the castle and Kate finally spoke.

“What will you do?”

“I intend to seek first Father Simon. I have two questions for him which will go some way to resolving this business, I think.”

“I pray you succeed,” she replied.

“Best pray I do not,” I answered wryly.

Father Simon’s clerk responded to my knock on the vicarage door and admitted me to the house. The rotund priest soon appeared, puzzled, I think, by my early appearance and black visage.

“Good day, Master Hugh. How may I serve you?”

“Two questions, then I will depart and trouble you with the business of Thomas atte Bridge no more.”

“Atte Bridge? I’ve heard nothing of that matter for many weeks. Thought you’d given up pursuit of a felon an’ laid the death to suicide.”

“I gave up quest for a murderer several times. But each time I did so some new matter arose to restore my interest. I never thought Thomas did away with himself, nor do I now.”

“And you seek me now because some new evidence presents itself?”

“Aye. The hempen cord your clerk purchased to fashion your new belt, whence did it come?”

“Many in the town grow hemp, soak the stems in Shill Brook, and wind the fibers into rope,” the priest replied.

“This is so, but not all hempen cord sold in Bampton is missing a length which matches the span of rope used to hang a man.”

Father Simon made no reply, hoping, I think, that I would give over my questions and depart. I did not.

“Peter Carpenter,” he said finally. “But you should not assume the carpenter guilty of such a felony. Others may have known the unused cord was in my shed and snipped off a length.”

“Did Peter know you kept the unused coil in the shed?”

“Don’t know. Robert made the purchase of Peter. You might ask him.”

“I may. I have another question for you. Does Peter confess his sins to you, and seek absolution, or does he confess to Father Thomas or Father Ralph?”

“You know I cannot reveal what is said in confession,” Father Simon said indignantly.

“I do not ask you to do so. I ask only if Peter confessed to you, or to another.”

“I cannot say,” the vicar said firmly, and folded his arms across his belly as if punctuating his denial.

“Very well,” I replied. “Your answer is helpful.”

The priest’s brows lifted at this, but I saw no need to enlighten him. He had told me a valuable thing but knew not he had done so.

Had Peter Carpenter confessed to Father Thomas or Father Ralph, Father Simon would, I think, have had no reluctance to tell me he had not heard of the man’s sins. Since he refused to answer when I asked, I was sure it was Father Simon who had heard Peter’s confession. If this was a confession of murder, the knowledge would explain why he tried to deflect my suspicion from John Kellet and save me a fruitless journey to Exeter.

Or perhaps he feared that I might construe some evidence against Kellet which would see the man punished again, this time for a thing he did not do, and of which Father Simon knew him to be innocent.

I walked north from the vicarage, past the bishop’s new tithe barn, and watched as John Prudhomme directed the folding of new-shorn sheep on to demesne lands. He saw me and waved cheerily, but I had no heart for gladsome reply.

All I suspected might be coincidence. I hoped it was so, but I was not satisfied with uncertainty. I wandered the town until dinner, considering and disposing of methods whereby I might find truth, and above all fearing what knowledge of the truth might cost me, the town, and Peter Carpenter.

Kate saw my solemn demeanor at dinner and divined the cause. She did not ask of me what I had learned from Father Simon, but guessed it was unsettling. When we were alone in our chamber she asked of me what news, and I told her.

“The priest speaks true that many folk cultivate hemp and flax for rope and flaxen yarn,” she said. “Some have plenty and enough to sell.”

“But do they sell a length of cord which matches the rope found about Thomas atte Bridge’s neck, when joined together with the cord coiled in Father Simon’s shed?”

“Why would Peter seek cord in Father Simon’s shed if he had of his own enough to sell?”

“There has been little employment for carpenters since the plague,” I reasoned. “Perhaps he needed money and sold unneeded possessions to find it.”

“Mayhap,” Kate mused, “but he has rope now, you say, to fasten scaffold together.”

“And he has fifteen shillings I gave him as early payment, so he might hire laborers and begin the work. Enough cord to build his scaffold would cost little more than a penny.”

“How will you discover if Peter hanged Thomas at Cow-Leys Corner,” she asked, “and what will you do if it be so?”

“I do not yet know… on both counts.”

I could not stay away from Church View Street, no matter who it was who assembled my new home. I left Kate stitching a new kirtle for her enlarging form and set out.

Peter, his apprentice, and two laborers had nearly completed setting posts and beams for the upper story. One worker, a poor cotter whose family was large and whose lands were few, was at work fitting wattles between posts. Warin had nearly completed brickwork upon the ground floor and would soon set to work upon the second chimney.

Peter Carpenter glanced down from his perch above me on the scaffold, acknowledged my presence with a nod, then returned to his labor. The man had wife, children, and now grandchild to provide for. What poverty would come to them if I found Peter had indeed slain Thomas atte Bridge? But what guilt would I incur against my soul did I learn of a certainty of Peter’s guilt and allow the crime to go unpunished? Or was it a crime? Perhaps it was justice, wrongly discharged.

I felt drawn to the hempen cords which bound the scaffold together. Without considering why I did so, I drifted close to the framework and unthinkingly fingered a length of the brown cord, as if touch could tell me whence it came and what it knew.

The hemp remained silent. From the base of the scaffold I raised my eyes again to the place where Peter and his apprentice were driving home a tree nail to fix a beam in place. Peter swung his mallet a last time, wiped sweat from his brow, and glanced down through the lattice of the scaffold to see me examining the hempen cord and studying him.

Some unaccountable recognition flickered between us. I knew then from the look in his eyes what Peter had done, and he saw that I knew. He stared at me, sighed heavily, then turned back to his work.

Peter’s oldest child, now Jane was gone, was a lad of twelve or so years. I saw then how Thomas atte Bridge might have met his end.

I suspect Peter was lurking about Thomas’s hut, seeking how he might avenge his daughter, when he saw in the moonlight John Kellet enter atte Bridge’s toft and harry the hens roosting there. He saw Thomas respond to the troubled hens, watched as Kellet and atte Bridge spoke, and perhaps was close by to hear what was said.

Next eve, when all was dark and quiet in the Weald, Peter and his lad tried the same ruse, disturbing Thomas’s hens until the noise once more drew him to his toft. Perhaps atte Bridge expected to find John Kellet there again. But instead Thomas saw a shadow approach and from out of the dark came a blow which laid him insensible in the mud.

Peter then bound atte Bridge’s wrists and ankles, and perhaps crammed a wad of fabric in his mouth should he wake from the blow. Then with his lad Peter carried his victim from the Weald toward Cow-Leys Corner. Mayhap Thomas regained his senses while carried thus, and struggled, so that the child lost grip on his ankles and there were then two grooves made in the road; these ruts Kate and I found next morn, and also mud from the road on the back of the doomed man’s heels. Perchance Peter delivered another blow to quiet Thomas before continuing to Cow-Leys Corner.

But what of the stool? How would Peter have come by that object? He traveled the Weald to appraise Philip Mannyng’s shattered door. Perhaps as he passed he saw Maud sitting at her door, working at some task in the sun, and later made off with the stool she sat upon when she left it. Might he have even then had use in mind for it? Who can know?

Peter, the apprentice, and the laborers continued their work, stretching wattles between posts to make ready for the plaster. I lost interest in the business and departed the toft. As I set foot on Church View Street I saw and heard a large cart approach, drawn by two horses. I stopped to see what this conveyance was about and watched as a man atop its load pulled upon the traces and halted his beasts before Galen House.

“Where’s the carpenter?” he asked.

“He is at the rear of the house, framing wattles.”

“Peter requires these tiles an’ here they are. Not ready yet for ’em, I see,” the tiler said with a glance at the empty sky where ridgepole and rafters should soon be placed.

“Need another load anyway. We’ll just leave this lot in the toft an’ return next week with more. Wat,” he called to his apprentice, “lead the ’orses ’round back an’ stack the tiles. I’ll be there shortly. Good worker,” the tiler said to me, with a nod to his apprentice, “but bull-headed.”

“So long as he lays a roof which keeps me dry, his disposition is of no concern.”

“He’ll do that well enough. I’ll see to it. Got to return to Witney, so best help the lad.”

The tiler touched his cap with a finger and hastened off in the track of his cart. I set off for the castle, where I hoped a few circles of the parapet would clear my mind and set me toward my duty, when I decided where my duty lay.

I had made one circuit of the castle wall and leaned against a merlon, staring at the forest which hid Cow-Leys Corner from view, when I heard Kate call up to me from the castle yard. Her expression indicated peevishness that I had returned and not told her of it. She strode to the gatehouse and a moment later appeared on the parapet.

“What news?” she asked breathlessly. Climbing the circular stairs of the gatehouse was becoming more of a task for her as her belly grew.

“I have no evidence to charge a man before the King’s Eyre,” I replied.

“But you know the truth of Thomas atte Bridge’s death all the same,” she asserted, reading my unspoken thoughts.

“Aye, so I believe.”

I told Kate then of what I had seen in the hour past. She looked away as I spoke, and together we studied the Ladywell and Lord Gilbert’s millpond beyond.

“Will you seek more proofs against the carpenter?”

I could not answer, for I did not know.

“Mayhap he is innocent,” Kate brightened, “and you will be spared dealing with him… or if you charge him before the king’s judges a jury may discharge him.”

“I wish he was guiltless, but of all men he had best cause to slay Thomas atte Bridge, and because he is not a practiced miscreant he could not hide his guilt when I looked him in the eye an hour past.”

“The town needs a carpenter,” Kate added softly.