I had laid the blue yarn found in Alan’s scalp on my table. My eyes fell upon it as I awaited my bucket of hot water. I picked it up, sat on my bench, and twirled it mindlessly. I had contemplated that thread many times but was no nearer to its significance, if it had any, to the beadle’s death and his missing shoes.
While I toyed with the yarn I heard a soft rapping on my door. I bid the maker enter, and Alice atte Bridge pushed open the door. Her right shoulder sagged under the weight of a bucket of steaming water.
So it was that the girl saw me twisting the blue yarn about a finger. She stood watching, awaiting instructions.
“Any place will do, Alice,” I nodded at the bucket. She took me at my word and dropped her burden in the middle of my chamber, still watching the blue yarn. The girl turned slowly to leave, obviously curious about the yarn. I found myself eager to explain to her — to anyone — its importance. So I told her of finding Alan the beadle, which news she had surely heard already, and of the pale blue yarn found in his hair, and his missing shoes. I did not ask her if she knew of a garment of that shade. I should have. Alice seems incapable of falsehood. I might have been spared a brawl in a darkened road and a thump across my skull.
I dismissed her and went to scrubbing myself, attempting to wash away cobwebs of sleep as well as dirt, so as to prepare my soul and body for the celebration of our Lord’s resurrection. I was more successful with body than with spirit, for had I not been standing for the mass I should have fallen asleep during Thomas de Bowlegh’s homily. This message, I thought, was not one of his best. But perhaps his discourse lost its power at my ear rather than at his lips.
By tradition Lord Gilbert’s servants, tenants, and villeins would receive a feast this day at the castle. Most Lords fed only their servants an Easter dinner, but Lord Gilbert, though parsimonious on other occasions, was lavish when it came to sharing his board at Easter. Perhaps he is more charitable than most nobles. Or perhaps he likes to display his wealth.
Although Lord Gilbert was absent at Pembroke, he instructed me to continue the custom. The great hall at Bampton Castle is small, so I ordered tables set up in the castle yard for the villeins, while tenants would dine in the hall. The day was cool, but there was no more snow, so those who ate in the yard were not much discomfited.
Tenants and villeins who dined at Lord Gilbert’s table this day brought eggs, which was also customary. We who fed at the castle board would see our fill of custards and poached eggs for the next fortnight.
There was, as is traditional, no work done for the next week. I chafed to see such idleness, but I suppose ’tis well for men to have some relief from their labors. Especially since, when Hocktide was past, the work of summer would truly begin.
The week was cold, not lending itself to celebration. The clouds which appeared on Easter eve remained over Bampton ’til Thursday, bringing Scotland’s weather with them. Better both the Scots and their clime remain to the north.
On Hocktide Sunday I set up a table in the castle yard — the weather being much improved — and collected rents and fees due Lord Gilbert. Harvests had been good the previous two years, so there were few unable to pay. These, as Lord Gilbert instructed, were granted extra time, but their arrearages were carefully noted. In times past a tenant unable to pay his rent might be cast out and his land leased to another. But since the great death there were few workers and much unused land. A tenant dismissed could not be replaced. And tenants knew this. I was pleased that most paid without complaint. Lord Gilbert would surely have been unhappy to return to Bampton to discover that rents were uncollected. But he would have been equally unhappy should I dismiss a tenant who could not be replaced.
On the Monday and Tuesday after Hocktide Sunday the residents of Bampton indulged in a curious spectacle, unknown to me before I came to the town. On Monday the wives of Bampton whipped their husbands through the streets. On Tuesday husbands got revenge and whipped their screeching wives through the town. I suppose no harm was done. I saw few who took advantage of the custom to lay on strong blows. Certainly wives, whatever disagreements they might have with their husbands, did not thrash them, for they knew they would receive similar blows next day. And husbands who scourged their wives too strongly knew they would eat cold pottage ’til Whitsunday for their vigor.
It was St George’s Day, ten days after Easter, before life in Bampton resumed its normal routine. I called for hallmote to meet that day. Lord Gilbert’s tenants and villeins selected John Prudhomme to replace Alan. John held a half-yardland of Lord Gilbert, and seemed not to fear his new duties. As there had been no wolf’s howl heard for nearly a fortnight, why should he?
I awoke from my slumber next morning itching from bites I had received while at my rest. Hallmote had met in the great hall the previous day, and some tenant or villein had brought with him to the assembly some unwanted guests. As my chamber opened directly off the hall, and in the night I was the nearest warm body available, the pests sought me out.
In my chest there remained several bundles of fleabane I had gathered the previous summer. I took a bundle and broke the dried stems, leaves and faded flowers to small bits. These I placed in an earthen bowl, along with a coal from my faded fire. Then I closed the door and retreated to the hall.
Shortly after I was gratified to see a wisp of smoke curl from under my door. Satisfied that the fleabane was smoldering well, I was about to seek the kitchen for a loaf when Alice atte Bridge appeared at the buttery and saw my smoking door.
“Oh, sir!” she yelped, and turned to run for aid.
With some difficulty I arrested her flight. She returned to the hall, gazing suspiciously at the fumes now pouring copiously from under my door. I thought some explanation in order.
“’Tis fleabane. I was visited in the night, and am now driving off my callers.”
Alice peered at me, uncomprehending.
“Fleas,” I explained. “Some unwashed villein introduced them into the hall yesterday. They found a home in my chamber last night.”
“Oh, sir…may I have some?”
“Fleas?”
“Nay, sir. Of them I have plenty. I sleep in a closet off the scullery, and they vex me now an’ then.”
“I have more fleabane, but ’tis in the chamber and I must not disturb the fumes while they do their work. Return at the ninth hour and I will give you some.”
“Thank you, sir.” The girl curtsied and ran gracefully off down the passage past the buttery door. I watched her scurry away. It was a rewarding experience. But I immediately felt sheepish for permitting my thoughts to wander so, with Alice but a child of fifteen years or so. Well, some tenant or servant to Lord Gilbert would have a fine wife in a few more years.
I left my chamber to the smoke and set off to find breakfast. I warned the servants at the kitchen to take no notice of the vapors rising into the great hall from under my door, then went to my daily rounds.
John Holcutt was busy seeing to the marling of a field and needed no advice on the matter from me. I walked to the meadow where the lamb was slain, but found only a few wisps of wool where the animal had lain. It was Richard Hatcher’s lamb. Doubtless what remained of it had become his dinner.
I was returning to the castle for my own dinner when the sound of shouting and agitated voices reached me across the meadow. Above the distant cacophony I heard my name. What now, I wondered? Life in Bampton was returning to its settled, peaceful ways after Alan the beadle’s death. I wished for no interruption of that tranquility.
I trotted across the meadow and walked rapidly down Mill Street past the castle toward town and the din. As I crossed the bridge over Shill Brook I saw a crowd milling before the blacksmith’s shop, where Church View Street entered Bridge Street. Some in the throng saw me approach and I was immediately hailed and urged to make haste. I did.