The next day dawned bright and cold, the snow of the previous day leaving but a dusting on our path. The mud of the road froze in the night, so the road was firm beneath the horses’ hooves. But it was cold. Sir John gazed often at me that day, snug in my cloak, before, as the sun sank beneath the bare trees at our backs, we reached Bampton and shelter.
Chapter 17
This tale has grown longer than I intended. My parchment is nearly consumed, and it will be many weeks before I can visit Oxford to replenish my supply. Your candle no doubt burns low and a warm bed calls. So I will conclude this account.
Hubert Shillside convened the coroner’s jury in the Church of St Beornwald on a bitterly cold first day of January. Twelve townsmen listened as Roger and I gave evidence. The juggler did not prevaricate, and needed no prodding from me to present a full report of all he knew. There was no reason he should not, for when the coroner questioned Hamo Tanner, the wrestler freely admitted his deed. His emotions came near the surface — remarkable in so sturdy a man — when he justified the revenge he had taken against his daughter’s slayer.
Nevertheless, the jury brought a charge of murder against Hamo and his son. Sir John and the grooms took Hamo to Oxford and the sheriff while I kept Roger with me at Bampton, where I could be certain he would not flee before we should be called to give witness at the trial.
Sir John returned two days later from his mission to the sheriff and reported that the king’s eyre would meet the next week. Sir Roger would send for me when a day was set for the trial. That week passed quickly, for there was much work on the manor for a new bailiff to learn.
Geoffrey Thirwall, the steward, arrived in Bampton two days before Twelfth Night. He searched diligently for some flaw in my work, or that of John, the reeve, but found only minor complaints to issue against us. Well, it is his business to root out that which is wrong and right it.
I was some worried that tenants and villeins might discover some defect in my labor and protest against me at hallmote. But none did. Perhaps because I had done so little on the estate that I had few opportunities to blunder. Given a full year before next hallmote, I was sure I could err often enough that some would find reason to complain of me.
Two days after Epiphany, Sir Roger sent a messenger to summon witnesses to the trials of Hamo and Walter Tanner. I was nearly as reluctant to attend as I had been for the trial of Thomas Shilton. In the days before Roger and I were summoned, I tried to think what I, had I been a father in Hamo’s place, would have done. I fear I would have acted no differently. This is not to say I justify the murder Hamo did. But any might be capable of the same crime in the circumstance.
I will say that I was not sorry when the jury made of my labors no consequence. The burghers of Oxford were mostly men who rose from the commons, and they understood Hamo’s remark that he did not trust gentlemen to do justice for him against one of their own. They brought a verdict of not guilty. As Sir Robert drew first, Walter and Hamo were justified in defending themselves.
The judge, Sir William Barnhill, was the same I had caused to interrupt his journey home two months earlier. He recognized me, I knew, when I was called to the stand to testify, for he glared at me through narrowed eyes all the while I spoke, as if to say, “You’d better have it right this time.”
When he dismissed jury and defendants, I watched to see how Hamo and Walter would receive Roger. I was too far away to hear their words, but they walked from the room in seemingly amicable conversation. Perhaps a good juggler was hard enough to find that Roger could be forgiven his disloyal truth.
I had no wish to return to Bampton that evening in the dark, so returned to my inn for another night. I stayed this occasion at the Foxes’ Lair, a more substantial place than the Stag and Hounds, suitable to my rising position in the world. The soup and ale were thicker, as well as the beds, at the Foxes’ Lair.
I retrieved my old friend, Bruce, from the inn stable at dawn and set out across Castle Mill Stream Bridge. But not for Bampton. There was another question I must ask before I could be satisfied that I knew all there was of the events I had seen and probed since St Michael’s Day. At Eynsham I took the road to Witney and on to Burford. Bruce would have turned for Bampton at Eynsham; it took a strong hand on the reins to persuade him that we could not yet go home.
I guided Bruce down Burford High Street, to the bridge across the Windrush. Ice clogged the riverbanks. The cold current flowed only in the middle of the stream. I turned from the road to the path which led to the smith and the mill.
Smoke rose from Alard’s forge, and I heard once again the clang of his hammer as I approached. But ’twas not the smith I sought. My question was for his daughter. As I drew near the building Bruce neighed. He was heard between the strokes of the hammer, for the tolling of the blows ceased and Alard appeared in the opening door. Behind him, craning her head to see past his broad shoulders, I saw Margaret.
I thought — perhaps I hoped — that I might not find her there. Perhaps, I mused, Thomas Shilton would take her for wife yet, and I would need to seek her in Shilton village. But not so. She pressed past her father to greet me, her belly large beneath her surcoat, her time near come.
“Master Hugh,” she greeted me. “Who do you seek?”
“You. I have news, and a question,” I replied.
Alard peered beneath bushy eyebrows from Margaret to me, then grunted and returned to his work. I was pleased, for I wished Margaret to speak freely and thought my question might be too raw for her to wish to answer before her father.
I left Bruce tied to a willow, where he began to munch contentedly on the stems. I led Margaret along the river while I told her of Eleanor and Sir Robert, of Hamo and Walter and the trial. She shuddered when I told her of Sir Robert’s death.
“And now,” I said, “I wish one thing of you. I have a question…I believe I know the answer, but I desire confirmation. The night last spring, when you were heard quarreling in the churchyard late at night with a man thought to be Thomas Shilton: that man was Sir Robert Mallory, was it not?”
She hesitated, then nodded “yes.”
“Do others know of this?” I asked.
“Aye. Thomas would be told…but no other.”
“Your father?”
“Nay. He has not asked. I have not volunteered.”
“Your words, in the churchyard; did you believe Sir Robert would make place for you?”
“Aye,” she hesitated. “He promised…if I was got with child, to provide. He promised a life of ease, would I be ’is mistress.” Margaret spoke in a whisper, a tear in her voice if not yet on her cheek. Perhaps there were in her no more tears to shed for this misery.
“What of Thomas?” I asked.
“You said, ‘one question,’” she replied. “That is a second. But I will answer. If the child be a girl, he will have me and rear it as his own. He will forgive my foolishness. If it be a boy, he will not. He will have only his own son inherit his holding, not another man’s offspring.”
“You are content with this bargain?” I questioned.
“Aye,” she whispered. “I betrayed him for riches and place I thought I might win with my appearance. How can I begrudge his wish for an heir of his own?”
We turned from our way at the mill. The grinding wheel and stone made continued conversation difficult, and there was little more to say. We returned in silence to the forge, where the rhythmic clang of the hammer proclaimed her father still at work.
I wished her well, retrieved Bruce from the willow he had munched so far as he could reach, and set off for the Windrush bridge and home. It was near dark when I arrived at Bampton Castle. Wilfred had closed the gate, and had to leave his quarters to heave up the bar and shove the gates open to admit me. He said he was pleased to see me home again. This I doubt, as my arrival took him from his fire into a cold January night.