At the front of the house, out of sight of the toft, I stopped at a window and tested the oiled skin which covered the opening. I found a loose corner and lifted it to peer inside.
The hut was dark and my eyes were accustomed to the bright afternoon sun. But eventually I saw in the smoky interior a small child turning a spit over the central hearth. A low fire glowed there on the stones, and an occasional drop of fat from the haunch on the spit sizzled on the coals. The child stared blankly back at me as he turned the spit. I dropped the skin and, guiltily, I confess, hastened to the path and back to Mill Street.
Perhaps, I thought, it was mutton the child was turning. But where would a quarter-yardlander — well, half-yardlander if he now possessed his father’s meager estate — get a roast of mutton? I believed I knew the smell of roasting mutton, and this was not it. And the haunch on the spit was large, larger than a sheep, more closely the size of a deer. A small deer, perhaps, but yet larger than any ewe or even a ram. I knew where a joint of venison would come from: poaching.
From the appearance of Henry atte Bridge’s wife and children, they had eaten well for many months. Most cotters would think themselves fortunate to feed their children an egg, much less a joint. Even if the roast was not venison, I wondered where he got it. As he was the bishop’s tenant, it was not my business to ask, unless the slaughtered animal belonged to Lord Gilbert’s demesne or to one of his tenants in my bailiwick.
I told the cook to keep a supper warm for me, then made my way back to the Weald as the sun dipped behind the leafless oaks and beeches in Lord Gilbert’s wood to the west of the town.
Tendrils of smoke still drifted from the gable vent as I approached Henry atte Bridge’s hut, but I could detect no scent of roasted meat for the family supper. Henry must have been forewarned that I would call, for the door opened before I could rap a second time on it. The man stared at me with unconcealed hostility. I had dealt firmly with the fellow at the time of his father’s death eighteen months before, berating him for his lack of filial observance. He had not forgotten.
The man stood squarely in the door, silent, as if daring me to either speak or enter. I looked from his scowling brow to his feet. He wore wooden-soled shoes with softly tanned leather binding them to his feet. I inspected his footgear for a long moment, then returned my gaze to his face. He blinked. I saw alarm in his eyes, but the look passed quickly.
“You was ’ere t’day seekin’ me,” he challenged. “’Ere I am…what d’you want o’me?”
I decided to brazen my way through the interview, so pushed past him through the door as I said, “I wish to discuss your shoes.”
The interior of the hut was now near dark, lit only by the coals glowing on the hearth and the fading light of the setting sun which managed to penetrate the window skins.
Soon the embers would be covered and the family would retire to bed. As I entered the hut Henry’s wife and three children looked up at me from the table, spoons in hand. Before them sat bowls of pottage. I peered through the smoke into the corners of the darkening dwelling. My eyes could find no roasted meat. But my nose detected yet the faint scent of…what, venison?
I turned to Henry atte Bridge, who stood silent, silhouetted in the door. “Have you owned those shoes long?”
“Not long,” he bristled. “A fortnight.”
“They seem of fine workmanship. Did you buy them of Adam, the cobbler?”
“Nay…he wants too much. Bought ’em in Witney.”
“Witney? Surely a long way to walk to purchase shoes. And the price is controlled…unless the cobbler at Witney is selling at a lower price in violation of the law.”
“They was used,” atte Bridge growled. “Fella bought ’em died. ’Is wife sold ’em back to the cobbler.”
“Oh. And how did you learn of this bargain?”
“Father Thomas sent me an’ two others to Witney with a cart an’ team to get beams for the new tithe barn.”
“And you took enough money on this journey to buy shoes?”
“They was cheap, I tol’ you.”
“Aye, so you did…from a dead man’s feet. How much did you pay for these, uh, used shoes?”
“Thruppence.”
“A bargain, indeed, as they appear little worn.”
Henry made no answer, but stood sullenly, outlined in the door. No doubt he would have liked to throw me bodily out of his house, and was certainly strong enough to do so, as I am of slender build and Henry was short and thickset. There are advantages as well as trials to serving as bailiff to a powerful lord.
I wrinkled my nose and tested the air. “You have enjoyed a joint for your first remove,” I asserted.
“Ha…where would I find meat this time of year? The hog me an’ me brother butchered last autumn is gone, but for a fletch o’ bacon.”
“Hmm. My nose misleads me, then,” I shrugged.
Henry atte Bridge made no answer but to fold his arms and glare. I looked over my shoulder at his wife and children. They sat frozen on a bench, spoons of cooling pottage hovering between bowl and lips.
He was lying about the roasted meat, although I could gain little by pressing him on the matter. Was he lying about his shoes also? I thought it likely. And whereas I had no way to prove his deceit about the mutton or venison or whatever it was his lad had been turning on the spit, I could discover the truth of his shoes. I had but to travel to Witney.
The sun was well down behind the western forest when I returned to Bampton Castle and the gatehouse. The cool spring evening was without a breeze, and the sky, bright blue and cloudless as the afternoon wore on, was now black in the east and a faint golden gray through the leafless trees to the west. Brilliant stars speckled the night, like flecks of snow on a parson’s robe.
Alice was waiting for me in the great hall, sitting on the cold flags, her back against the wall. She must have guessed what I was about that evening, but spoke instead of fleabane. She rose, sleepy-eyed, as I approached. It was this movement which told me she was there, for the hall, lit only by a single cresset, was so dark I did not see her sitting near my chamber door.
“Please, sir…you said this mornin’ as I might ’ave some of the flower what drives fleas away?”
“Ah, yes…you may. I will prepare some of the herb. In exchange you go to the kitchen and get me some supper. I told the cook to keep a meal ready for my return.”
“Thank you, sir.” The girl curtsied and scuttled off toward the buttery door, becoming invisible in that shadowed part of the hall.
My chamber still held the scent of burned fleabane. I hoped that the stink would be more objectionable to vermin than to me. If so, I should sleep unmolested this night. I gathered the remainder of the fleabane from my chest and broke a handful into the bowl I had left smoldering on my floor that morning. I spread another handful of broken stems, leaves and purple flowers across my mattress. I was left with but little of the herb should fleas reappear before summer brought another harvest of the tiny flowers. I resolved this summer to gather more than in the past. Just in case.
Alice returned with my supper — cold mutton, cheese, and a loaf of fine wheat bread.
Mutton is not my favorite dish when served hot. Cold, it leaves a thick coating of grease on the tongue to mark its passage. The bread and cheese did little to scour the taste away.
I gave Alice the bowl of fleabane and instructed her in its use: burn half, then strew the other half on her mattress. She should wait, I told her, until the morrow, so that the fumes might have the day to permeate the closet where she slept.
The girl took the bowl, curtsied again, and turned with the fleabane pressed to her breast as if I had given her a pouch of silver pennies. Well, when one is assaulted by fleas, their elimination might be worth a sack of pennies to him who could afford it.