“And you know the cause?”
“Aye. ’Tis an evil thing, that a man would seek to burn another man’s house. There has been little rain the past fortnight. All roofs are dry. Set alight one roof and half the town might burn to ashes.”
Concern for my own danger had obscured the plight of the town should Galen House have caught fire. Would Peter Carpenter have done such a thing? His house and shop are but two hundred paces from Galen House. A conflagration begun there could engulf his property. But perhaps he did not think of that in his determination to end my probe of Thomas atte Bridge’s death, if he was the guilty man, which I increasingly doubted.
“Since St George’s Day, when Thomas was discovered at Cow-Leys Corner, have you seen any man joyful of his death?”
The vicar chewed upon his lower lip and pondered the question before replying. “I’ve seen no man sorrow for it. Thomas had done injury to many folk.”
“Including me,” I smiled ruefully, and rubbed my skull where atte Bridge had twice delivered strokes in darkened churchyards which raised knots upon my pate. As I rubbed my scalp I thought I could yet detect the lumps left there by his blows.
“Aye,” Father Thomas agreed. “There are those who think you had better reason than most to see Thomas atte Bridge buried in unhallowed ground.”
I had not considered this. While I sought a murderer, and my search became known in the town, there were those who saw me as a likely source of vengeance against the dead man. I must be doubly careful in my quest, else in accusing another, could I find cause to do so, folk might believe I was seeking to deflect suspicion from myself.
“If you hear of any man more pleased than most that Thomas atte Bridge no longer vexes the town, I would know of it.”
“You will not give over pursuit of a murderer, then, even after so many weeks with no success? Surely the trail now grows cold… and remember, many yet believe there was no murder, but suicide.”
“Aye, many believe so. But you have heard my evidence.”
“Aye,” he sighed. “And so, like you, I believe a murder done. But if you quit the search few will think the worse of you for it. Most wish that nothing but a suicide happened at Cow-Leys Corner.”
“The man responsible for Thomas atte Bridge’s death is the one who seeks to burn me in my bed, so I believe.”
“Oh,” the vicar replied thoughtfully. “The fellow must think you close on his trail, then?”
“He is mistaken. I could select ten men at random upon Bampton’s streets and find eight Thomas atte Bridge had wronged.”
“Aye,” Father Thomas chuckled wryly. “And the other two would have suffered at his brother Henry’s hand.”
“Do you know Sir Reynald Homersly, of Cote Manor?”
“Aye.”
“He is another Thomas atte Bridge wronged.”
“At Cote? How so?”
“Three years past he hired Henry and Thomas to plow. Said they worked but a few days, then sought their pay and came no more. Complained of no time to labor upon their own strips in the Weald. Next day a calf was gone from Sir Reynald’s barn.”
“Sir Reynald believes Thomas and Henry made off with it?”
“He does. Could prove nothing.”
“How does the Lady Amecia? She was sorely grieved when plague took their youngest lad five years past. ’Tis well Sir Reynald’s older lad is well.”
“She seemed well enough. Sir Reynald has an older son?”
“Aye. Can’t recall the lad’s name. I remember he was sent off to be squire to some knight of Oxfordshire and learn the arts of a gentleman. Near old enough now to be knighted, I’d think.”
“His father will find use for him when he returns to Cote.”
“Unless he attaches himself to the retinue of some great lord. Some would prefer to be a small fish in a great sea, like London, than a large fish in a pond like Cote.”
Father Thomas spoke true. Nobles are fond of exhibiting their power with the number of knights in their train. Cote would offer a young knight little compared to life serving a powerful gentleman. Perhaps Sir Reynald’s son had made his choice, and that was why he was not spoken of when I visited Cote.
I enjoined Father Thomas again to keep ears alert for any who spoke gleefully of Thomas atte Bridge’s death and turned to leave the vicarage when he called out to me: “’Twas the sheriff… Sir John Trillowe.”
“Who?”
“Sir Reynald’s lad. I remember now. He is squire to Sir John. As Sir John was dismissed from that post, he’ll need fewer retainers. Likely the lad will return to Cote when his service to Sir John is ended.”
I agreed, and considered this information while I returned to the castle. My path took me past Galen House, now dark, its shutters closed, its chimney cold. If I walked past the house each day its condition would, I thought, inspire me to greater labor to find the man who slew Thomas atte Bridge.
After dinner at the castle, which, according to Arthur, was much improved now that Lord Gilbert’s bailiff once again took meals in the hall, I spent the afternoon seeing to business of the manor. Some obligations cannot be set too far aside, even to seek a murderer.
I lay abed that night considering where I might seek truth. That I must redouble my efforts if I wished to return to Galen House was sure. But would my toil bring success? A man may spend much of his life seeking truth, yet not find it unless he search for it where it may be found. No hunter’s effort will find a stag in the castle marshalsea; no tenant’s labor will harvest oats in a field planted to barley. To find the truth of Thomas atte Bridge’s death I must seek it where it may be found, else all my struggle will be in vain.
This was not a reassuring thought to propel a man to restful slumber.
Next morn I awakened to the distant sound of the Angelus Bell from the tower of the Church of St Beornwald. The tolling of the bell did not cease, however, but continued; a slow, mournful repetition. Someone was near death, and the passing bell warned all to pray for the soul of him who was departing this life.
I did not take time to break my fast, but dressed hurriedly and with a word to Kate of my intention left the castle to seek news of who it was dying in Bampton. None of Lord Gilbert’s tenants or villeins had been ill, that I knew of, but several are aged, and death may come to any man, no matter his years.
I found Father Ralph and his clerk on Church View Street. He was returning to his vicarage, he told me, having been called to the Weald to shrive Philip Mannyng. Mannyng was the bishop’s tenant, so I had no duty in the matter, no heriot to set, but I thought it appropriate to visit the Weald and express sympathy to those who mourned.
I found Philip’s family crowded into the house when I arrived. Amabil was silent. She had mourned her husband for many days as he lay fading from life in his bed, so had few tears remaining, I think. Arnulf also was silent, but his thoughts were transparent. He strode about the room, fists balled at his side, and when he noticed my arrival spared but a brief nod to me before he resumed his pacing. His brow was deeply furrowed, and his lips drawn tight against his teeth.
Was Arnulf angry regarding his father’s death? Or was his stalking and unwelcoming scowl but the way of a man in sorrow? I did not know Arnulf well enough to interpret his moods. It seemed to me he viewed my presence with distaste, but why? I had nothing to do with his father’s injuries or his death, and had provided soothing herbs to help the old man in his pain. Was the son bitter that I now sought one who had murdered the man who injured the father? Was Arnulf that man? His expression said this might be so.
Words at such a time are often insufficient. And many words are no more suited to the moment than few. To speak the appropriate words and no more is a skill. Some folk believe that by speaking many words a few in the bundle might be found to suit the occasion. I am not such a one. I expressed condolence to Amabil and Arnulf with few words. Amabil replied with thanks, but Arnulf simply nodded and continued his pacing. This was not convenient for him or others, for the house was small and crowded with family and neighbors. Arnulf seemed not to notice, and the mourners made way for him as he traversed the room.