“You will save the felon by discovering who ’tis and sending him to the gallows?”
“Aye. Strange as it may seem, the felon who goes undiscovered may be in greater peril than the one who is found out, if not in this world, then surely in the next. The man whose sin is revealed, and who faces the noose, has time and a strong goad to acknowledge his felony before the Lord Christ and seek His pardon, but he whose offense remains hidden may never appeal to the Lord Christ for His grace.”
The embers upon the hearth had burned down to a faint glow, as eventually did our discourse. Kate and I sat silently upon the bench as darkness came upon the town, and only reluctantly did I break the spell and suggest we seek our bed.
10
Tuesday dawned as bleak as Monday eve, so cloudy and grey that even Kate’s rooster seemed uncertain of the time and produced but a half-hearted call to proclaim the new day. He need not have troubled himself. I awoke when Bessie announced that she wished to break her fast, and although Kate must deal with the demand, my thoughts kept me from renewing slumber even though there was but a hint of dawn in the eastern sky.
I lay warm under the blanket and considered the events of the past six days while Kate placed Bessie back in her bed and departed our bedchamber. I listened to Kate begin the day, and tried to order my thoughts so as to find some pattern in events which would point to a murderer. I was not successful, and Bessie began to stir again in her cot, so I climbed from my bed, dressed myself, and carried Bessie to the stairs.
The morning Angelus Bell had rung some time past, but I was in no hurry to begin the day. I lingered over my morning loaf and ale, considering and then discarding one measure for discovering a felon after another. I could not decide how I would proceed this day, when a thumping upon Galen House door took the matter from my hands.
’Twas John Chamberlain who again found me with my mouth full of maslin loaf. I saw in his eyes that some great matter troubled him and soon discovered my conjecture true.
“’Tis Sir John,” he said. “His page took him a loaf and ale this morning to break his fast and found him dead. All bloody he is, too. His wound opened in the night. Lord Gilbert would have you come. Nothing to be done for the man, but you should see what has happened.”
I suspected immediately that murder had been done again in Bampton Castle, for the wound across Sir John’s ribs which I had stitched closed Sunday afternoon was not likely to reopen, nor was it deep enough to cause a man to bleed to death if it did so. I kept my thoughts to myself, downed the last of my ale, gathered a pouch of instruments should I find that some were needed, and followed John into the mud of Church View Street. Rain had begun to fall again.
Somber faces greeted me in the castle hall. Sir John may have had a temper — what knight does not? — but from the leaden expressions I saw upon the faces of members of Sir Henry’s household, I believe the knight was esteemed.
I followed the chamberlain through the hall to the passage which led to Sir John’s chamber. Lord Gilbert and Sir Roger greeted me at the chamber door and I saw immediately that at least a part of what John had said at Galen House door was true.
Sir John lay upon a mattress, soaked in blood from neck to knees. He had slept only in braes, and the linen was also sodden with gore.
“The wound you closed burst open in the night,” Lord Gilbert said. There was an accusation in his voice.
I did not immediately reply, but walked to the dead man and bent to examine the wound. The light was poor, but I could see no other wound than the one I had closed, and it was true that the cut I had stitched was now open, a half-dozen or more stitches ruptured.
I looked about the chamber and saw drops of blood upon the flags and even a few scattered low on the wall beside the bed.
“You think he was in pain in the night,” Lord Gilbert asked, “and thrashed about, undoing your work?”
“Nay,” I replied. “He was stabbed.”
“What? Who would do so? William? Surely it was but the thread you used which broke. Perhaps he twisted wrongly in his sleep.”
“Six or more stitches have been cut through, not broken.”
I searched in my pouch and brought from it the spool of silken thread I had used two days past to close Sir John’s laceration. From the spool I cut a length as long as my arm, gave it to Lord Gilbert, and invited him to break it. He wrapped it about his hands and yanked against the silk. The thread did not yield, but Lord Gilbert did. His mouth tightened in pain as the silk cut into his hands and he quickly relaxed his grip.
“Not easily broken,” he said with a grimace.
“You could pull against one end, and Sir Roger against the other, and the silk would likely not break. No man could toss upon his bed and break the silk, as you see. It was cut. Some man put a dagger into Sir John in the same place he was slashed, hoping all would believe he had died of the first wound, not of a second.”
Lord Gilbert looked from his tender hands to the floor and wall. “Why is blood so scattered about?”
“Fought for his life,” Sir Roger said. “Whoso did this thought that in his wounded condition ’twould be child’s play to drive a blade into him.”
“Sir Roger speaks true,” I said. “When I saw him yesterday he was mending well. William’s slash had weakened him but little.”
“Then whoso did this murder will be splashed with Sir John’s blood, eh?” Lord Gilbert said.
“Likely, though the felon will probably discard his apparel rather than send it to be laundered,” I said.
There would be no keeping this death or its cause hidden. Lady Margery, Lady Anne, Sir Geoffrey, Robert de Cobham, Walter, and several other valets and grooms to both Sir Henry and Lord Gilbert crowded the passageway outside the chamber door. Squire William was absent, which, given his falling out with Sir John two days past, caused Sir Roger to assume guilt.
“I told you,” he said to me, “that we should have seized that squire when we found the bodkin and bloody cloth in his chamber. We will do so now.”
Squire Robert heard the sheriff, as did all who clogged the passageway outside the chamber. “William did not do this murder,” Robert said.
“Oh?” Sir Roger replied. “Why do you say so?”
“William’s nose vexes him much. He could not sleep. I heard him tossing and groaning upon his bed and could find no rest myself, so I arose and lighted a cresset and sat with William all the night.”
“All the night? ’Til dawn?”
“Aye.”
“What did you speak of?”
“What young men commonly talk about… glory in battle and fair maids and such.”
“Where is William now?” Sir Roger demanded.
“In our chamber, resting, his eyes all black and his nose purple. I heard the fuss and came to see what it was about.”
“Come,” Sir Roger said to Lord Gilbert and me, “we’ll take this fellow back to his chamber and seek a bloody cotehardie. I’ll wager both came here to slay Sir John. One held him down and the other delivered the thrust.”
’Twas a gamble the sheriff would have lost. I told Sir Geoffrey to allow no man to enter Sir John’s chamber, and moments later we found William, as Robert said we would, restless upon his bed, his face all bloated and discolored from the combined effects of Sir John’s blow and my remedy. The sheriff and I ransacked the squires’ chests, peered under their mattresses, and I examined their fingernails. We found no trace of blood. If one or both plunged a blade into Sir John they had been uncommonly thorough in covering the deed. Sir Roger demanded their daggers, and these also were free of any sign of blood. If they had been wiped clean there was no stained cloth hidden in the fireplace this day to expose a felony.
Sir Roger does not like to be proven wrong. Neither do I, which is why I have learned to avoid appearing assured of my knowledge when I am not. ’Tis better to seem wise later than foolish soonest. Sir Roger would not have appreciated the sentiment, so I held my tongue.