Kate arose before me, and when I appeared at the base of the stairs turned to observe me with worried expression. Evidently my appearance did not calm her fears. Her forehead remained lined and her lips were pale and drawn.
I smiled a greeting. This had little effect upon her features. I pretended hunger and sat at our table, where Kate had readied a loaf and a wedge of cheese. I managed to stuff a sizeable portion of the bread and cheese past my lips and saw that this brought Kate more comfort than any words I might employ to assert my health. I am seldom found without an appetite no matter the circumstance, which Kate knows.
Kate saw how cautiously I moved and suggested a solution. She had in her chest a length of linen, left from some past stitchery. This fabric she brought to me, measured and cut a section, and fashioned a sling for my aching arm. I had decided against such an aid, for I intended soon to go upon the streets and did not wish to advertise my wounded condition. The sling brought such relief, however, that I reconsidered.
Chapter 10
At the third hour I left Galen House, right arm supported in Kate’s sling, and sought John Prudhomme. The beadle lived on Rosemary Lane, near to Peter Carpenter, and it was his custom to rise late from his bed as his duties enforcing curfew kept him from slumber when other men lay snoring upon their pillows.
The beadle was not at home. I found him tending to a field of dredge between St Andrew’s Chapel and Shill Brook, where he had a yardland of Lord Gilbert. Weeds in John’s furrows were few, but even few were too many for the fellow. He looked up from his labor as I approached, and I saw his eyes dart to my wounded arm.
Had the beadle seen any man upon the town streets after curfew he would have told me of it, as was his obligation. So I did not expect to learn from him a name, but I hoped he might recall some event or sight out of the ordinary.
“You have injured your arm,” he said by way of greeting.
“Aye. Well, I did not… some other did so.”
A puzzled expression furrowed John’s brow. I did not leave him in confusion, but explained my wound and asked if he saw or heard anything uncommon to a May evening.
John scratched his head and considered the question. “’Twas quiet, as always,” he replied. “Only man I was likely to find on the streets after curfew was Thomas atte Bridge, as you know, for I reported ’im to you often enough. Now ’e’s in ’is grave the town is more peaceful, like, of a summer’s eve.”
I had held little hope that the beadle could provide the name of someone prowling the streets after curfew, so was not much disappointed with his reply.
“I’m obliged to watch an’ warn ’til midnight,” he continued. “Was some fellow on the streets after that, who’d know of it?”
“I assign you no blame, John,” I assured the beadle. “’Tis as you say… the attack came in the dark of night, midnight or past. If you hear of any man speak of prowlers in the night, tell me straight away.”
Prudhomme assured me he would do so, and I left the fellow to his crop and weeds. He seemed agitated that some miscreant had been prowling the streets he was to see cleared, as if the man had done injury to him rather than to me. John would be alert for any odd events for the next weeks, I knew, and for this I might sleep more securely. So I thought, until I returned to Galen House.
Kate stood at the open door, awaiting my return. I assumed her worried expression had to do with concern for my injury. Not so.
“Come to the toft,” she whispered when I was near the open door. “See what I have found there.”
I followed Kate through the house and out the door to the toft. She turned to her left, walked a few paces, then halted and pointed to the soft ground near a shaded corner of the house. I saw there an object which at first I could not identify.
A length of broken branch near as long as my arm and as thick through as my wrist lay on the earth beside Galen House. At one end of this stick was wrapped many turns of hempen cord, much like the rope used to hang Thomas atte Bridge. In the dark and confusion of the night neither Kate nor I had seen this club.
“What is it?” Kate asked. “And how has it come to be here?”
I picked up the stick with my good left hand and with this closer inspection knew what it was I held. Bits of earth stuck fast to the wrapped cord at the end of the branch. I lifted the winding to my nostrils, and touched it with my fingers. They came away greasy.
“A torch,” I replied. “Someone has made a crude torch of this broken branch. The cord wound about the end has been soaked in tallow.”
“A torch? Did the man who attacked you last night plan to light it so as to see what he was about?”
“Nay, I think not. He carried flint and steel so as to light this, I think. Then it was his plan to toss it to the thatching above our heads. Whoso carried this into the toft wished to burn Galen House down upon our heads as we slept.”
“But… the hens? Did he not wish to draw you into the toft to attack you?”
“I think not. The hens saved us. The man made some sound we did not hear, but the hens did, and were vexed. When I opened the door to the toft the fellow saw he was found out. ’Twas too late then to do as he intended. Piercing me with his dagger was not part of his plan, I think.”
“Would a man murder two to save himself?” Kate asked.
“Who can know what a man might do if he believed his life forfeit?”
“But Hubert Shillside was not responsible?”
“Nay. I would not have believed such a deed of him, but as he is left-handed he is eliminated from suspicion.”
“And the others? Peter Carpenter? Arnulf Mannyng?”
“I do not wish to believe it, although I know little of Mannyng. Would Peter murder you in your bed to silence me? I cannot think it of him.”
“A carpenter works with chisels,” Kate said. “Perhaps the blow which pierced your arm was delivered by a hand which held a chisel, not a dagger.”
“You do not know the carpenter,” I protested.
“Perhaps you do not know him either, or not so well as you believe.”
“Must I suspect all men of wishing me ill?”
“Are all men pricked by evil?”
“Aye, soon or late. Else why did the Lord Christ die in our place?”
“You take my point, then,” Kate replied with a wry smile.
“Aye. Trust no man. Is this a way to live?”
“Perhaps, until you discover who it is who wishes you… us to die.”
My eyes fell to the mud of the toft. Kate and I had trod the place twice, but among the footprints there was the mark of a man who would have slain my Kate to halt my pursuit of him. The print of Kate’s tiny foot was clearly discernible among those made by two men. Of the male footprints one set was long and narrow, the other shorter and broad, with a higher heel. The narrow marks were mine. The man who assailed me in my toft wore shoes seemingly made to increase his stature. Would a carpenter or tenant farmer wear such shoes?
I left Galen House and sought Roger Waleton, Bampton’s cobbler. Roger is a sociable fellow, much given to conversation, which he can continue while repairing a man’s shoes or making new. I found him alone, stitching a sole to the upper portion of a boot. He was eager for a visitor, but not so pleased when I requested he leave his shop and accompany me. The boots he toiled over were to be readied for a customer on the morrow, he explained. And what, he asked, had I done to my arm?
I explained to the cobbler that some unknown assailant had stabbed me and left behind footprints in the toft behind Galen House. I told Roger that I wished for him to view the marks made in my toft, for the imprint seemed unusual, and I hoped he might be able to identify the owner of the shoes, did he recognize the footprints as made by work from his own hand.
Roger willingly then left his bench and walked with me to Galen House. We passed into the toft and Kate appeared at the door, having heard our conversation as we approached. I pointed out the imprint of my attacker’s footsteps and the cobbler put hands on knees and bent to peer more closely at the muddy print.