Kate is well able to renew my mind and cause aches and pains to fade. Perhaps it is well that the law gives women so little power, as God has given them so much. She had removed her cap, and allowed her hair, the color of an oak leaf in autumn, to fall to her shoulders. A respectable matron wears her hair up, and Kate is respectable, but I like her hair as it was that evening when I returned to Galen House.
“What have you learned?” she asked. I had told Kate where I was going and what my purpose was.
“That Sir Reynald suffered a broken leg at Hocktide and could not have attacked Thomas atte Bridge or fled from our toft.”
“Oh,” she replied quietly. “Well, an empty stomach will not help solve the puzzle. I have mortrews and a maslin loaf, and ale fresh brewed from the baker’s wife.”
The meal was simple but toothsome. I have enjoyed great feasts at Bampton Castle and Goodrich, but few meals there were so delectable as this plain fare taken across the table from my beloved Kate.
“You have become quite shaggy,” Kate teased when the meal was done. I had grown a beard last autumn after three days in Oxford Castle dungeon. Rather than shave the stubble when Lord Gilbert saw to my release, I chose to allow the whiskers to grow, being persuaded that my appearance was improved by having as much of my face covered as possible. But this beard I kept trimmed short, until an injured arm made it difficult to comb and trim the whiskers.
I managed to lift my tender right arm, and protested that the work required to trim my beard would provoke much discomfort should I lift and hold my hands to my face with comb and scissors. Kate rolled her eyes to the excuse, having less sympathy than she might. So I challenged her to take up the task, under my instruction, and make me presentable by her own hand. To my surprise, she accepted the invitation.
I retrieved scissors from my instruments chest, found my comb, and moved a bench to the toft with my good arm. I sat in the warmth of the setting sun and instructed Kate in the use of scissors and comb against beard. She had barely begun when I heard her exclaim, “Hah!”
I felt a sharp tug against my chin and a moment later Kate held a whisker before my eyes. It was white.
“I have wed an old man,” she laughed.
“’Tis but a mark of wisdom.”
“Then the more I discover the more likely you will be to discover who murdered Thomas atte Bridge and tried to roast us in our bed.”
“We may hope this is so.”
The trimming of my beard continued with no further discovery of silver whiskers and no damage to my neck. Or, if Kate did find more pale whiskers, she held her peace about it.
Chapter 11
Three days later was Corpus Christi. All who owned red garments wore such in the procession. Kate donned the deep-red cotehardie she had worn a year and more past when I first saw her at her father’s shop in Oxford. I am unlikely to forget the event or the gown. The vicars of St Beornwald’s Church led the march, taking turns holding aloft the host before the throng as we passed through Bampton’s streets. Master Wyclif takes a contrary view of this holy day, although to avoid angering the bishops he does not make his opinion known to any but those who are like-minded. Only in the Third Lateran Council of the past century, he points out, was it decided that the bread and wine of the mass became the flesh and blood of the Lord Christ when blessed by a priest. Was it possible, he asks, that bread and wine did not change in their nature until the past century? Or did they do so from the beginning of Holy Church, but no one thought to notice? I must admit that I see wisdom in his position. I do not fear to write this. The bishops are unlikely to read my words and will think me too insignificant to trouble with even should they do so.
Had the man found dead at Cow-Leys Corner been some upright townsman, I would have been more diligent in pursuing the felon who took his life. But Thomas atte Bridge’s death was no more mourned in Galen House than under any other roof in the town. Each day which passed found me with fewer thoughts on how I might find the man responsible for atte Bridge’s death, and also with less interest in doing so. It is to my chagrin I admit this. Life in Bampton continued, pleasant summer days were upon us, and if the town knew I sought a murderer and had failed to discover him, no man seemed remorseful of my failure, not even me.
So long as I moved my arm slowly and made no contact with any object, my wound no longer gave discomfort. Twilight yet illuminated the windows of our bedchamber the night of Corpus Christi when I fell to sleep, untroubled either by my lack of success in finding a murderer or by a punctured arm.
I was startled from my slumber, however, when from the window we had left open to the mild June air came an unintelligible roar, then a shout that someone should halt. Kate and I sat upright in unison, and I then leaped to the window as the bellowing faded. Whoso created the tumult had passed from the toft to the side of Galen House and seemed to be making for the street, all the while bawling out that some other man must halt. Kate’s hens then also added to the racket.
It is sure that when a man hurries to do a thing, the doing will take him longer than if he was at leisure. I hastened to pull on chauces, don kirtle and cotehardie, and find my shoes in the dark. While I scrambled about the chamber Kate added a shriek or two to the shouting without. I thought dawn might come before I was dressed and able to investigate the uproar. It did not.
I remembered to arm myself with my dagger, then plunged down the steps in the dark, managing to bounce against the wall upon my right arm. Pain is nature’s way of telling a man not to repeat some action. I slowed my pace, reached the ground floor with no further insult to my arm, unbolted the door, and ran into the street. It lay silent before me in the starlight.
I walked ’round the house to the toft, alert should some assailant wait there to pounce, but as there was little moonlight I could see nothing there amiss. I caught movement from the corner of my eye and saw Kate leaning from our bedchamber window.
“Is it you, Hugh?” she whispered, sensing rather than seeing me, I think.
“Aye.”
“What mayhem is there?”
“Nothing. No man is here to be seen or heard, and no mischief done… perhaps when day comes we may learn different, but whoso was here a moment ago did no harm that I can see.”
“Two were here,” Kate reminded me.
“Aye. Some fellow woke us crying out for another to halt.”
“’Twas me,” a voice replied from behind me.
“Who is there?” I demanded.
“Arthur,” came the reply, and it was then I recognized his voice.
“What are you about, here in my toft so late at night?”
“Watchin’, to see did some man make another bid to burn Galen House.”
“I released you from the duty.”
“Aye, but after I thought on it for a few days I decided to return an’ watch, to see did the villain make another attempt. Should’ve told you.”
“How many nights have you spent in my toft awaiting the felon?”
“’Bout a week. Was ready to give it up, thinkin’ the man had forsaken the idea, then he come back this night.”
“A man appeared this night? Are you certain he meant harm? ’Twas not just some drunken fellow who escaped John Prudhomme’s notice?”
“Nay. I was near to sleep on them reeds you put by the hen coop when I saw a flash an’ ’eard somethin’. Woke me right quick, it did, an’ I knew what the fellow was about. Strikin’ flint against steel, ’e was, an’ tryin’ to be quiet about it so’s hens wouldn’t hear an’ raise a fuss.
“Them reeds is dry, an’ when I stood to chase after the man ’e ’eard ’em snap an’ took to ’is heels. Hens ’eard me rise an’ began to squawk, too.”
“That is when you woke us?”
“Aye. Yelled for the man to halt, but I can’t run as when I was a lad. Took out down Church Street, ’e did, an’ I followed as far as Broad Street. Too dark to see for sure, but ’e went through the marketplace, I think, an’ last I seen ’e was off toward St Andrew’s Chapel.”