“But the valet said that Lady Margery was displeased with Sir Henry?”
“He did.”
“And now she is free to wed some other. Perhaps you will not solve this murder until she takes another husband.”
“And that fellow will be the felon?”
“Or the reason for Lady Margery’s felony.”
CHAPTER 7
Kate and I awoke next morn to the ringing of the Angelus Bell. Before I wed I was accustomed to seeking the church early on Sunday for Matins, but now that Kate and I have a babe we do not enter St Beornwald’s Church until time for mass. May the Lord Christ forgive my sloth.
After mass, and a dinner of porre of peas, I left Kate and Bessie and sought the castle. I wished to speak more with Walter Mayn, and found him just leaving the hall after his dinner.
I greeted him pleasantly, but the valet seemed reluctant to speak to me. Perhaps he feared that I had another unpleasant duty to assign to him. He was not far wrong.
“Have you spoken since yesterday to Lady Margery’s maids?” I asked.
“Nay.”
“Make a point of doing so today.”
“To what purpose?”
“Tell them that you believe the sheriff is about to seize Sir Henry’s murderer.”
“If they ask why I think so, what am I to say? Is it indeed so?”
“There are those more likely guilty than others, but if any ask of you how you know this, tell them only that Master Hugh has told you he has found grounds to accuse the felon. If you tell what I ask to Lady Margery’s maids, gossip will soon send the rumor to every corner of the castle.”
“That is all you wish of me?”
“Aye. For now. Set folk’s tongues to wagging and we will see where it leads.”
I suspected that Walter’s gossip would envelop the castle before nightfall, and so it did, but other complications also encompassed Bampton Castle that day.
King Edward requires that all men practice with the longbow of a Sunday afternoon, and as bailiff to Lord Gilbert it is my duty to see that the charge is carried out. I had assigned Arthur to setting up the butts in the meadow before the castle, and after I told Walter what I required of him I wandered back through the gatehouse to watch the practice and oversee the competition.
Lord Gilbert provides four silver pennies each week as prizes for those who show the greatest skill with the bow, and when he is in residence at Bampton Castle delights in personally awarding the coins to those who prevail over their fellows.
Three of the coins went to Bampton men, tenants of Lord Gilbert, but one coin went to Sir Geoffrey Godswein, Sir Henry’s knight. This was an oddity, as only the commons train to the longbow. Knights begin martial training with a sword when first they become pages, and then squires. How, I wondered, did a knight find such skill?
I was not alone in my curiosity, for as Sir Geoffrey let fly his arrows I saw others in the crowd of spectators whisper behind their hands. ’Twas nearly an admission of being baseborn that a knight would do this. I saw Lady Margery react with distaste when Sir Geoffrey seized a bow and took a place at the mark, and she scowled when he accepted Lord Gilbert’s penny and bowed to his host.
Walter had stood with others in Sir Henry’s service to watch the competition, and when the contest was done I sought him.
“None of Sir Henry’s yeomen or grooms or valets went to the mark today,” I said to him as we passed the gatehouse.
“Sir Henry was not one to set his men to archery as is Lord Gilbert.”
“Too poor to afford even a few pennies as prizes?” I ventured.
“Aye,” the valet smiled, “too poor to hand out even farthings.”
“What of Sir Geoffrey? How did a knight come by such skill?”
“Wasn’t always a knight, nor high-born, either.”
“How was it that he was elevated?”
“Was a yeoman in Sir Henry’s band at Poitiers. Just a lad, but keen to go to war. Went over with ’is father, who took sick an’ died before the battle.”
“Did he do some service for Sir Henry?”
Walter shrugged. “Guess so. He don’t speak much of it, nor did Sir Henry.”
“Do others of Sir Henry’s retainers know of Sir Geoffrey’s past? Does Lady Margery know?”
“S’pose so. Sir Geoffrey’s rank is known to most as has been in Sir Henry’s service, an’ Lady Margery ain’t always been a lady.”
“Oh? Her father is not a gentleman?”
“Nay. Wealthy, though. A cordwainer of Coventry.”
“If Sir Geoffrey did not speak of his origins,” I said, “why take a bow and enter Lord Gilbert’s competition and so make plain his family?”
“Pride, I’d say. Sir Geoffrey don’t like to be bested at anything. Sees a man doing a thing that he can do better, he’d not resist showin’ off.”
“Even if to do so would lift eyebrows?”
“Even so,” Walter shrugged again. “Mayhap that’s why ’e did somethin’ what made ’im worthy of bein’ knighted. Don’t always think things through before he acts.”
The valet may speak true, I thought. How many men would do heroic things if they first considered the risk of the deed which brought them glory? Perhaps this is why young men make the best warriors. They have less experience of the consequences of bold acts. Did the man who murdered Sir Henry think carefully of the possible result of such a rash act?
I bid Walter “Good day,” and set off for the solar, where I hoped to find Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger.
I did so. The two men and Lady Petronilla, having just arrived from awarding the archery prizes, were quenching their thirst with cups of wine. Both men had fought at Poitiers, I knew, when the French king had been seized and held for ransom. I thought one or both might have a tale to tell of Sir Henry or Sir Geoffrey. I asked, and the sheriff and my employer peered at each other thoughtfully for some time. Some silent exchange passed between them, then Sir Roger finally spoke.
“We were much inferior in numbers to the French, so Prince Edward placed us upon a hill. The slope was a vineyard, and the archers he placed hidden amongst the vines. We men at arms were at the crest of the hill, dismounted, ready to repulse the French from whatever direction they might come.”
“’Twas a perilous time,” Lord Gilbert added. “Had the French king any wit he would have come at us from the flanks. His numbers were such he could have divided his army and enveloped us.”
“But he rather chose to send his knights through the vines,” Sir Roger said, “up a narrow path which wound through the vineyard. I could scarce believe a king would be so foolish.”
“Our archers, hidden in the vines, waited ’til the French knights were nearly upon them,” Lord Gilbert continued. “At such close range their arrows could not miss, and flew with such force that a knight’s armor was of no more use to him than parchment.
“Some English knights became resentful that the battle might be won by archers before knights could seek glory or captives for ransom. An arrow does not take prisoners, but slays the man it strikes.”
I began to envision what might have happened. “Sir Henry was one of these?” I asked.
“Aye,” Sir Roger said, with a rueful grin, “as were Lord Gilbert and I.”
“Sir Henry had but a small retinue, but when he leaped over the dry moat we had dug at the crest of the hill his squires followed, all eager for glory before it escaped them.”
“Sir Henry was the first knight to attack?”
“Aye. When he set out for the grapevines we all followed, our blood being up and all unwilling to lose a chance for honor and to seize hostages.”
Lord Gilbert hesitated, then continued. “Not all of the French knights were dead or even badly wounded. No sooner had I got amongst the vines than I came upon a knight who had hid himself in the grapevines so as to avoid the arrows which had destroyed so many of his fellows. We fell upon each other with swords, but neither could deliver a telling blow for the vines which entangled us.