I had no doubt of that. I had seen Gerard, old and crippled as he was, strike Walter such a blow when he learned of his son’s transgression that the younger man had dropped to his knees in the road to the west of Bampton Castle. I wondered often what other discipline Gerard might have later applied. It might have been more severe than the punishment decreed at hallmote.
“Whoso takes a deer now,” Richard observed, “may keep it to himself. He’ll not have to share with Thomas atte Bridge.”
At the name, Walter looked away and spat upon the ground. But for Thomas, Walter might be enjoying a joint of venison yet this day. Was Walter’s arrest and fine enough to put thoughts of murder in his mind? Men have slain others for less. But a year had passed since Thomas and Walter were apprehended. Would Walter’s anger lay banked, like coals on a hearthstone, for a year? I did not know the fellow well enough to judge.
I retrieved Bruce from the sapling where I had tied him, and where he had made a meal of the tender new leaves. His slow, plodding gait allowed much time for thought as we traveled through Lord Gilbert’s forest, past Cow-Leys Corner, to the castle. Saint Thomas Aquinas wrote that “three things are necessary for a man’s salvation: to know what he ought to believe, to know what he ought to desire, and to know what he ought to do.”
I would not quarrel with the scholar, but might not a man know what he ought to believe and desire and do, yet do that which he knows he should not? Saint Paul wrote that he did what he would not do, and did not do what he should. I felt great kinship with the apostle.
I knew what I should believe, and I believed it. And I knew what I should desire, and I desired it. But I was not certain that I wanted to do what I ought to do. I could count four men who might wish to hasten Thomas atte Bridge’s passage to our Lord’s judgment. If Walter were the felon I sought, I would not be much displeased with the discovery, but if Hubert or Peter or Arnulf were the culprit, I did not wish to know. Or if I did know, I did not wish to act upon the knowledge. Would my hesitancy lay waste my salvation? I left Bruce to the marshalsea and walked towards my home with troubled spirit.
However, my heart lifted when I saw the wisp of smoke rising from the chimney of Galen House. It was a symbol of my new status and contentment: a married man and home owner, with the right to build new as I saw fit.
Two days before Christmas Lord Gilbert had sent John Chamberlain to fetch me. I had found my employer seated in the solar of Bampton Castle, behind a table, enjoying a brisk blaze which gave pleasing warmth to his back and the small room. A sheet of parchment lay before Lord Gilbert on the table. Upon the document I saw Lord Gilbert’s seal pressed in wax. He looked up from studying it when I entered.
“Master Hugh… be seated, be seated.” He nodded to a chair aside his table. I obeyed.
“There is a matter we must discuss regarding Galen House,” he began. “When you first came to Bampton your rent for Galen House was four shillings each year.”
I nodded.
“Then I made you bailiff and provided a chamber in the castle.”
I nodded again.
“Now you are to return to Galen House, as you have named it, this time with a bride.”
“Will four shillings each year satisfy,” I asked, “as before?” Four shillings was a bargain for such a house. In Oxford such a dwelling might command twenty shillings or more.
“Nay, Hugh. Four shillings will not do.”
I am sure I appeared crestfallen at this announcement, wondering how much my rent might be increased. Lord Gilbert saw my dismay and quickly continued.
“A man need pay no rent to occupy what is his.”
I did not grasp his meaning. Lord Gilbert pushed the document before him across the table to me.
“Geoffrey Thirwall has prepared this deed.” Thirwall is Lord Gilbert’s steward, but resides at Pembroke and rarely visits Bampton. “The document transfers Galen House to you and your heirs freehold. Do not seem so startled, Hugh. ’Tis my wedding gift to you and your bride.”
This largesse overwhelmed me. I had never thought to own my own property; such a thing is reserved for gentlemen and wealthy burghers. I am neither. I was able to reply with but a stammered, “Much thanks, m’lord.”
“Here,” he held forth the document. “Keep it in a secure chest, Hugh, so a century from now, when we are food for worms, your great-grandson may prove ownership to some rapacious heir of mine.” He laughed at his wit, but there was surely truth in the warning.
Lord Gilbert next opened a small chest upon his table and drew from it a small pouch. This he also pushed across the table to me. “Take it,” he commanded.
“Our bargain, two years past, was that you would serve me as bailiff for bed and board at the castle, and thirty-four shillings each year. You will soon feed yourself, and such a wage will not keep a wife and family. I have decided to increase your salary to fifty shillings each year. Here are sixteen shillings,” he nodded to the pouch, “to meet the shortage for this year. At the new year Geoffrey Thirwall will pay the new amount.”
I left Lord Gilbert’s presence that day with much joy, and began to move my possessions from the castle to Galen House so as to make ready for Kate.
Galen House was two stories, built of sturdy timbers, wattle and daub, with a well-thatched roof above. A chimney at the south end vented a fireplace in one room of the ground floor, which I had occupied when I lived there alone. However, once wed I required a more fitting bedchamber for my bride. With the deed stored securely and coins in my purse, I paid to have the chimney rebuilt in brick, with a second hearth in the room above, so that Kate and I might sleep warm in our bed.
Now I looked ahead at that curl of smoke and knew that Kate was preparing our dinner — although if her appetite was as it had been in the last fortnight, she would likely consume little of it.
Kate had prepared a Lombardy custard with wheaten bread and cheese. I was pleased to see her take a good portion for herself. Her appetite seemed much improved.
“How does Lord Gilbert’s forest land?” she asked as we ate.
I told her of my conversation with Gerard, and Walter’s response when I spoke Thomas atte Bridge’s name.
“Another man with cause to strike down atte Bridge?” Kate mused.
“Aye. But for Thomas, his poaching might not have been found out.”
“Oh, I near forgot,” Kate exclaimed. “While you were about Lord Gilbert’s business I went to purchase loaves from the baker and met Father Thomas upon Church Street. He told me to tell you that John Kellet has completed his penance and is now attached to St Nicholas’s Priory, in Exeter, where he assists the almoner.”
Kate saw distaste disfigure my face, as if her custard was made of rotten eggs.
“Is Kellet the priest you told me of, who betrayed the confessional and sent Thomas atte Bridge and his brother to blackmail those who confessed at St Andrew’s Chapel?”
“Aye, the very man. He put an arrow in Henry’s back when he thought their felony might be discovered. For this sin he lost his place and for penance was sent on pilgrimage to Compostela.”
“A long journey,” Kate observed.
“And dangerous. I had wished some calamity might strike him on the road. He will not show his face again in Bampton, I think.”
“But he has.”
I looked up from my meal in some surprise, which Kate saw. She continued: “He visited Father Simon.”
“Ah… Father Simon took him in when he was a lad. Parents both dead.”
“That is how he became curate at St Andrew’s Chapel?”
“Aye. And betrayed his place.”
“Father Thomas said he is a changed man.”
“Pilgrimage and privation may alter a man’s outlook. We may hope in Kellet’s case ’tis so. I wonder I did not see Kellet upon the street. Is he yet about, or gone to Exeter?”