Bruce’s iron-clad hooves echoed loudly as we clattered across the Oxpens Road Bridge. In the water meadow to the west of the river teams of men moved across the field, scythes swinging rhythmically as they worked at hay-making. Behind the men women and older children followed, raking and turning the new-cut hay so it would dry evenly. This was a good year for hay-making. There would be fodder for beasts next winter, so long as the rains did not rot the hay on the ground before it could be dried and stacked.
This scene was repeated at Aston. There the meadows were cut and the scythe work near done for the day when Bruce ambled past. Villeins were stacking hay on their scythes to carry off for their own animals. A curious custom, unknown in Lancashire, from whence I come. Here in the south of England a man may carry off so much of the lord’s hay as he may stack on his scythe when the day’s work is done. But if the scythe or hay touch the ground the hay be forfeit. I watched Lord Doilly’s reeve as he watched to see no hay grazed the ground. Some men staggered from the meadow with truly astonishing mounds of hay heaped upon their scythes.
As I completed my journey I shifted in the saddle so as to bring a different portion of my rump in contact with the hard leather. The movement brought the point of the dagger in contact with my leg. ’Twas too dark when Master John gave it to me to see it well, and I’d not taken time to examine it in the morning. I did so as Bruce shuffled the last short distance from Aston to Bampton.
The blade was well kept and sharp, and near as long as my forearm from elbow to wrist. No jewels ornamented the hilt. This was not a rich gentleman’s weapon. But a coil of bronze wire circled the haft. This was decorative more than useful. The weapon was perhaps the property of some merchant’s son. It suited my station and need. I slid it back under my belt, came near to pricking my thigh, and resolved to see the castle harness-maker about a sheath for the weapon.
The spire of the Church of St Beornwald is visible even before one reaches Aston. I enjoy my travels, especially when a conversation with Master John Wyclif — or Kate Caxton — is the purpose. But each time I approach Bampton and see that stolid spire I am reminded of what a pleasant place it is.
Ah, you say, but what of murderers and poachers and those who attack a man in the night? I suppose most towns have their miscreants. Else the king would need no sheriffs and lords no bailiffs. Bampton has its share of good men, as well. Hubert Shillside, John Prudhomme, John Holcutt, and Lord Gilbert himself. And good women, too: Matilda, Alan’s widow, the child Alice, and until she became the Lady de Burgh, Lady Joan, who once mended the torn hem of my cloak, unhindered by her station — though her brother, I think, thought it unseemly.
I was — as had become my custom — late for dinner. Bruce covered the ground at a contented, ambling pace. So long as the old horse reached Bampton Castle in time for his own bucket of oats he was unconcerned regarding my growling belly.
I took from the kitchen a loaf and a cold capon and ate in my chamber while I considered paths I could follow which might lead to a resolution of my perplexity.
Two issues vexed me: who murdered Henry atte Bridge in the north wood, and who was poaching Lord Gilbert’s game?
I decided that day to attend the poaching business first. I thought ’twould be easiest to solve. What I did not know then was that the discovery of a poacher would lead to discovery of a murderer. Had I sought first a murderer I might never have found either a killer or a poacher.
Although I wore the dagger at my hip, the steel seemed rather to strengthen my backbone. I went to my chamber the evening of the next day resolved to spend the night behind the broken-down church wall at St Andrew’s Chapel. I would learn who approached the chapel so late at night, why he did so, and what was in his sack.
I was become accustomed to slipping over the castle wall at night. I worried that this familiarity might cause me to grow careless, so crept slowly through the shadows ’til I reached the place along the north wall I favored for the purpose.
I wore brown chauces and a dark grey cotehardie, to blend with the night. But I worried that face and hands might give me away when the moon rose, so applied a thick dusting of ashes from my fireplace to the offending skin. I was satisfied with the result.
I adjusted the dagger in my belt, secure in its new sheath, dropped the cudgel from the wall, then followed it down the rope. Once on the ground I sat at the base of the wall to watch and listen for movement. I neither saw nor heard anything but what is common to a summer evening. I paid special attention to the Ladywell. If any supplicant was there he was silent and took no notice of me.
No one, not even John Prudhomme, must know I was about this night. I avoided the town and circled to the north. This doubled the length of my journey, for the castle is on the west edge of Bampton, while St Andrew’s Chapel lies near half a mile to the east of the town.
I stole across the meadow between the castle and the Ladywell, then made my way along a hedgerow north of the millpond until I came to Shill Brook. I removed my boots, waded the stream, and stumbled across a fallow field to the west of the Church of St Beornwald. The night was so dark I nearly missed Laundell’s Lane, but this reassured me. If I could not see what I knew to be present, it seemed unlikely another would see what he did not expect — me.
Laundell’s Lane is the northern boundary of the town. I was somewhat concerned about crossing the north road, so held back in the shadow of a hedge until I was sure no man was about. Across the road there was but a path which led east to the fields and crossed the north end of Bushey Row. I followed this track until past Bushey Row, then stumbled diagonally across a field of strips planted to barley. At the southeast corner of this field lay the small copse which formed the western shelter to St Andrew’s Chapel.
This grove was thick with scrub and roots. I stumbled and tripped often as I groped through it. I could not be seen, but I was worried that, for all my caution, I might be heard. Dry twigs cracked under my feet and once I fell to my knees with feet entangled in ground ivy.
With much relief I saw the dilapidated churchyard wall appear from the shadows of the wood. The wall was not high. Crossing it was easy. There were, however, nettles growing up about the stones. I could not see them, but I surely felt them.
The parish about St Andrew’s Chapel is poor. Few who worship there can afford a stone to mark a family grave. So there were few grave markers to hide behind as I crept across the churchyard. Only an occasional wooden plank, not yet rotted to mold, stood upright in the soil.
I crossed the churchyard to the gate and sat beside it, my back to the wall. The moon began to glimmer through the trees to the south of the chapel, but I sat in darkness in the shadow of the wall. No man could enter without my knowledge, for he would be on a moonlit path, and the rusted iron hinges would squeal a warning.
I know not how long I sat, cold on the damp ground, awaiting one who never came. I believe I dozed once or twice, but no man tried the gate.
The moon was well to the west when I stood, stretched, and crept across the churchyard to the broken-down place in the wall where I had entered. My stinging palms reminded me to this time avoid the nettles.
I took the same route back to the castle I had followed four hours earlier on my way to the chapel. I was careful not to be seen; not because of any violation of curfew. I am Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. I may go where I wish, when I wish. Any who saw me might be curious, but I cared little for that. I did not want an observer because, was I seen, soon gossip would mean that many would know that Master Hugh was prowling about at night. Miscreants would then stay abed and await a more favorable time to work their evil. Or they would set out to ambush me while I thought to lie in wait for them. Neither of these was an outcome to be desired.