Gerard stood when he saw me approach, and greeted me warmly, as a man might to one who had saved his life. He had no sooner spoke words of greeting than the second ash began its plunge to the forest floor. I waited until the crashing and splintering of branches was complete to reply.
“Good day…Are you well?”
“Aye, well as may be.”
“The weakness on your left side — it troubles you as before?”
“Aye. No change there. Won’t ever be, I think.”
“There is a matter regarding Lord Gilbert’s forest I must discuss with you. Pray, return to your seat.”
I motioned to the stump. Gerard’s sons and brothers ignored me and went to trimming branches from the fallen trees. Gerard saw me watching the work. Perhaps he worried that I might accuse him of abusing Lord Gilbert’s forest. He explained what he was about.
“’Tis a wondrous thing, is a tree. These two will provide timber should Lord Gilbert need more, an’ t’branches will warm him in t’castle an’ us in our huts next autumn. From t’stumps coppiced shoots will soon rise. In a few months they’ll be large enough for arrows. T’Frenchies will want war again soon enough. ’Twill be well to have shafts ready. An’ we allow some of t’coppiced poles to grow, they’ll make anything from rafters to plow hafts.”
“Aye,” I agreed. “God designed well a world for men to prosper in. And he did well to provide Lord Gilbert with a verderer who knows his business.”
The old man beamed.
“Can’t work as once,” Gerard admitted, “but know as what’s needful an’ can see others do it. Trainin’ Richard,” he nodded toward his older son, “to take me place when I’m gone.”
“Unless you allow some tree to drop on you again, you should live for many years.”
The forester removed his cap and rubbed his head absently. The scar I made when I repaired his broken skull was visible through his wispy, thinning hair. “Keep me distance, now,” he assured me. “But you’d not come ’ere to discuss me ’ead.”
“Nay. I have other business. There is, I am sure, a poacher at work in Lord Gilbert’s forest.”
Gerard’s eyes grew wide. He lifted his hands to protest, the right hand higher than the left. He thought I was about to accuse him of malfeasance, for it is a verderer’s business to seek out those who violate forest law.
“I do not charge you with incompetence,” I said, before he could protest. “But I will have you and your sons patrol the forest carefully. You have seen no sign of snares, or the taking of a deer?”
“Nay. Don’t get through t’woods so easy meself anymore, but the others,” he nodded toward his sons and brothers, “go ’bout regular, like. They’d tell me straight away did any poacher leave sign in t’woods.”
“Require of them special vigilance, for there is surely a poacher at work. But I must have evidence before I can charge the man at hallmote.”
“You know who the fellow is?”
“Aye, I think so. But I cannot charge him with the little I presently know.”
Gerard took personally the idea of a poacher loose in the forest. It was his responsibility more than mine to apprehend such a miscreant. That I had learned of activity in his forest of which he knew nothing was a blow to his pride. I knew he would be diligent in seeking the evidence I needed.
My head was aching again when I completed the return journey to the castle. Valets were preparing the hall for dinner, for which I had little appetite. I went to my chamber and mixed a draught of ground willow bark and hemp seeds in a mug of ale.
Dinner this day included a first remove of coney pie, as if the cook wished to mock my inability. I could not prove a poacher. I could not find a murderer. I could not find a wolf, was there a wolf to find. Nor could I find a reason why Henry atte Bridge would slay Alan the beadle. But he did. Of this I was certain. ’Twas the only sure thing in my life. Aye, I could not find a wife, either.
I mixed no lettuce in my ale, but the willow bark and hemp seeds, my lack of sleep, and food in my belly all combined. I went to my chamber thinking to rest briefly. I did not awaken until I heard through my closed door valets once again setting tables on trestles for supper.
I arose from my bed much refreshed. And for this meal there was a pike and roasted capon. No venison. No rabbit. My appetite returned.
My afternoon sleep was so deep I thought it might rob me of slumber that night. Not so. I climbed to the parapet and walked the castle wall ’til Venus appeared over the treetops to the west. Below me the marshalsea enlargement proceeded well. The new stables would be complete when Lord Gilbert returned to take up residence. But little else was well. Failure gnawed at me. I descended the steps to the inner yard, watched as Wilfred barred the gate and cranked down the portcullis, then went to my chamber.
I was sure that my heavy thoughts, combined with a long nap that day, would deny me rest. But perhaps the hemp and willow bark were yet effective. I slept soundly until from the church spire I heard the Angelus Bell announce the arrival of the feast day of Corpus Christi.
The procession began at St Beornwald’s Church at the third hour. Thomas de Bowlegh, by virtue of his age and tenure at St Beornwald’s, led the vicars, clerks and townsmen. He held the consecrated loaf high and set off down Church View Street for the marketplace. This could not have been an easy task for a man of his years. Try walking about for an hour with both hands held high above your head.
I followed, as was my duty. A duty both to God and to Lord Gilbert. It is right and proper to honor the Son of God for deigning to become a man and dwell among us. And Lord Gilbert’s representative must set an example.
But as I marched my mind returned to a day when as a student I attended a lecture given by Master John Wyclif. He remarked that no pope or bishop ever thought to assert that the host became human flesh as of our Lord until the Lateran Council a century and a half past. Nor did the church require a spoken confession of sins to a priest before that council. But that is another matter.
Master John was no Donatist, however. He did not teach that a sacrament was vain was it administered by a sinful priest. Rather, Master John teaches that the sacrament is from the hand of God Himself, not from any “cursed man.” This may not be Donatism, but is enough to raise the ire of bishops. If a sacrament is from God, what need of the intermediary hand of a man? And if it be not the blessing of a priest which turns bread to flesh, what does? Nothing, I believe Master John would reply. I am inclined to agree with him. Do not tell the bishops.
A band of players new arrived for the feast day had set up a stage at the eastern edge of the marketplace. After dinner I wandered back to the town to watch the drama. ’Twas a portrayal of the life of Christ, first presented, I was told, many years ago at York, before the great cathedral there. I thought the performance appropriate to the day.
The players recounted a story I knew well. I found myself watching the crowd of onlookers more than the stage. There was as much drama there as any actor could produce. They cheered Christ when he healed the lame, and hissed Pilate for his crime.
They wept with Mary as our Lord was nailed to the cross, and roared as the stone rolled magically from the tomb and our risen Lord departed his sepulcher. The actors gave a good performance. The residents of Bampton were magnificent.
When the play was done and the crowd dispersed I made my way to Rosemary Lane and the home of John Prudhomme. I found the beadle in his toft, tending his onions and turnips. He stood and stretched when he saw me approach.
“Master Hugh…have you news of a poacher?”
“Aye, I think so. But I will need more evidence before I can charge him at hallmote.”