I had business on the manor next day, so could not start for Witney until the morning’s work was done. John Holcutt was to oversee the planting of dredge on one of Lord Gilbert’s fields and I wished to observe the planting of peas on another of the demesne fields. If peas are planted too closely together, rather than increase the yield per acre, the plants will choke each other and produce a poor crop. But if the peas be planted too sparsely, weeds will spring up and produce the same untoward result.
I set the planters to work with their dibble sticks, and instructed them to sow at three bushels per acre, no more and no less. I waited until the work was well begun, then made my way back to the castle for my dinner. I had told the marshalsea to have Bruce ready at noon. The old horse knew he was to travel, saddled and bridled as he was, and was stamping and blowing with impatience when I reached the stables. I did not make the beast wait.
At the north edge of Bampton I passed the place where the bishop’s men were erecting his new barn. Eager for a break from their work, they leaned on their tools and watched as Bruce ambled past. Among the upturned faces was that of Henry atte Bridge. When he was certain I looked his way he spat upon the ground, then returned to cutting a mortise with hammer and chisel.
Aside from Henry atte Bridge and his salivary salutation, I quite enjoyed the ride through sunlit, spring countryside. Low shrubs and plants on the forest floor were popping into greenery. Taller trees had yet few leaves, so the road was not shaded and Bruce and I were warmed with the sun at our backs. Meadows along the way bustled with life. Jackdaws and wrens chirped and flitted about, seeking seeds and the early hatch of unwary insects.
I had ridden this way before. Less than a mile from town I passed the coppiced wood where, eighteen months past, I had watched as pigs, rooting for acorns, uncovered a blue cotehardie. The discovery of that garment led to the identification of bones found in Lord Gilbert’s castle cesspit, and eventually revealed a killer. Now I had another body, and a blue thread taken from it. I began to dislike the color blue.
A few hundred paces beyond the coppiced wood where the pigs and I made our discovery the road split, the left fork leading to Shilton and Burford. Bruce knew that way, and would have followed it had I not pulled on the reins to guide him to the right.
Two miles later we crested the hill southwest of Witney and dropped down into the valley of the Windrush.
I pointed Bruce down the High Street, past the impressive spire of St Mary’s Church, to the Buttercross at the market square. The square was busy of a Saturday, even though Thursday was market day in the town. I was about to ask a scurrying citizen for the location of the cobbler’s shop when I saw on the north side of the market square a house with a shoe painted on a wooden plank which swung from a beam above the door.
The shoemaker had not ended his work yet this day. I heard a light tapping as I paused at his door before rapping my knuckles upon it. The tapping ceased immediately and moments later a face with a quizzical expression on it peered at me through the partly opened door. The cobbler had not, I think, been expecting either trade or a strange visitor.
I asked if he was the town shoemaker. His response was to glance with rolling eyes above my head at his sign, as if to signal my ignorance to some onlooker.
“Aye,” he finally said. The man looked down at my serviceable — although hardly new — footwear, then asked, “You need shoes?”
I explained that I needed not shoes but rather a few minutes of his time to inquire of a previous customer. This information did not seem to fill the man with joy, but he turned and nodded me into his shop.
To the right, behind the door, was the cobbler’s bench, set before a south window. On it I saw a pair of shoes much like those Henry atte Bridge wore. These shoes were nearly complete. I had interrupted the cobbler as he nailed the finished leather to the thick wooden soles. No doubt he wished me soon gone, so he could complete his work before the light faded from his window and his labor must, by statute, cease for the day. Indeed, I wished to conclude my business quickly also. I did not want to find myself on the road alone at night. Free companies have not been seen in this shire for many years — we are not so cursed as is France by these brigands — but ’tis well nevertheless for the man who travels alone to reach his destination before dark.
The shoes on the cobbler’s bench were so like those on Henry atte Bridge’s feet that I thought myself on a fool’s errand. Of course, they were like the shoes on the feet of most of the commons, but this thought did not register at the moment.
Along the wall beyond the bench was a shelf. On it I saw five pairs of shoes awaiting buyers. Three pairs were like the unfinished set awaiting completion on the bench. A fourth pair was more delicate, made of softer leather, and with leather soles. The fifth pair seemed much out of place. They were of fine leather, with the outlandishly long, curled toes now favored by nobles. Whoever wore these shoes would have to walk up stairs backwards and tie the toes to his calves or he would be forever tripping over them. I wondered who in this town would buy such shoes. Perhaps the Bishop of Winchester, or one of his minions.
“What is your price for shoes such as these?” I asked, nodding toward the pair on his bench.
The cobbler’s eyes narrowed as he tried to guess the reason for my question. “Six pence, for such as these.” He pointed to the bench. “As the law allows.”
I knew what the law allowed. The Statute of Laborers has been renewed twice in the decade since Parliament first saw fit to save us all from the avarice of those who eke out a living with their hands.
“Do you sell for less…if the shoes be old and worn?”
The cobbler gazed at me from under furrowed brows. “Why would I make shoes old and worn?”
“Shoes you might have made new, for one who then died. Do you buy and repair such shoes?”
The cobbler’s visage cleared. “Ah, I see. I might do, did any seek such of me.”
“You have not done this recently?”
“Nay. Oh, I repair worn shoes often enough. But not of the dead to sell again.”
“A fortnight and more ago did you not resell the shoes of a dead man?”
“Nay. I’ve sold but new for the past year an’ more.” The cobbler glanced at his shelf. “An’ not so many new, either.”
“A man…not of Witney; did such a one buy new shoes like those?” I pointed to his bench.
“A fortnight ago, you say?” The man’s brows narrowed again. “Why do you ask me of this?”
It was a fair question. “I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff of Lord Gilbert Talbot’s manor at Bampton. There is a question of law…regarding ownership of shoes, which has recently arisen there. One says he has shoes purchased in Witney while here on the Bishop of Exeter’s business.”
“A fortnight ago? Nay, no man not of this town bought shoes of me then.”
“Of another? Is there another cobbler in the town?”
“Ha! Enough trade here to keep me an’ me family alive, no more.”
The cobbler was a thickset man, thick of neck, wrists and fingers. Thick in the belly as well. I thought his business not so thin as he professed. A man’s stomach often reflects his success in trade.
“Of this you are certain?” I pressed. “If a man from Bampton says he bought shoes of you in the days before Easter, you say he lies?”
“Aye…he does.”
I gave the man two farthings for his trouble, retrieved Bruce from the shrub where I had tied him, and set out for home. Meadows were quiet now. Birds sought roosts for the night, and the sun, casting long and twisted shadows across my way, provided little warmth.
Bruce is an old horse — he carried Lord Gilbert at Poitiers — and does not like to be hurried. So it was that darkness overtook me before I reached Bampton. And the sliver of new moon resting in the treetops did little to break the gathering gloom.