So the day after my abortive journey to Cote, after the mass and a convenient interval for dinner, families began to gather at the castle forecourt. I assigned two grooms to bring the butts from the castle storeroom, had in my pouch six silver pennies for the competition, and required of the castle butler a cask of fresh ale to quench the thirst of the competitors.
The day was yet windy, so archers were sorely tried when they attempted to place their shafts in the target from much beyond sixty paces. Much good-natured banter was provoked by arrows gone astray in the breeze. By the twelfth hour the ale was gone, the pennies awarded, the butts returned to the storeroom, and my mind — freed for a time from thoughts of murder and flames — returned to ways I might root out a felon.
I felt no need to require Arthur or Uctred to accompany me when I mounted Bruce on Monday morn and set out for Alvescot. Walter, was he guilty of Thomas atte Bridge’s death, would cause no tumult before his father and brother.
The warm sun and brisk breeze had in three days so dried the roads that Bruce raised dust rather than clods of mud as he plodded his way toward Cow-Leys Corner. I reined the old horse to a stop at the oak where Thomas atte Bridge had dangled near six weeks past, and studied the tree. The halt puzzled Bruce. He stamped a great hoof, impatient to be on his way.
What did I expect to learn from Walter Forester? If I asked him plainly had he to do with Thomas atte Bridge’s death, he would surely deny it. He might be speaking truth, or he might speak falsely. How might I know? What could I ask of him that might lead to the fellow incriminating himself? I had proof of nothing, only suspicions. The King’s Eyre does not deal with suspicion but with fact. I had none. If Walter would not confess to the felony, I could offer no sure evidence of his guilt.
I had no reason to wish Walter guilty for, unlike John Kellet, the man had done me no harm. If John Kellet did not do the murder, nor Geoffrey Homersly, nor Walter Forester, I was left to sort out a felon among friends.
There was also Edmund Smith, but if he did harm to Thomas atte Bridge he had felt no haste to work his vengeance. And if he was guilty I had no more evidence than for Walter Forester. Six weeks I had contended with my ignorance. Ignorance seemed triumphant.
I turned Bruce and set him plodding back toward Bampton and the castle. Wilfred the porter was doubtless surprised to see me return so soon after departing, but a good porter pays little regard to the coming and going of his betters. That they wish to come or go must be enough for him.
Kate, however, required explanation.
“You are going to lay aside the pursuit of a murderer, then?” she asked when I explained my sudden return.
“Unless some new information, some new gossip or rumor, comes to my ear, I know not what more to do.”
Kate did not respond, which was a clear sign she had no better idea than I as to what I might next do. If she has such notions she is not hesitant to speak them for my benefit.
Sleep did not come that night. In the past, when I was a bachelor bailiff for Lord Gilbert, residing in the castle, if I experienced a wakeful night I would prowl the castle parapet, considering the issue which robbed me of sleep. It was near midnight when I crept from my bed this night to walk again upon the parapet. I tried to quit our bed without disturbing Kate, but I believe she slept uneasy as well, for she sat up and asked, when she understood I was drawing on my chauces, what I was about.
I told her, hoping she would not volunteer to accompany me. She was soon to become a mother, and must have rest, and I wished to consider my failure alone. Bad enough to be ineffectual, but to be so in the eyes of one’s beloved is doubly distressing. I was relieved when she murmured a drowsy response and drew the bedclothes up to her neck.
Wilfred and his assistant were snoring in their chamber in the gatehouse. I heard them in duet through the door which Wilfred leaves open in all but the harshest weather so he may be more easily awakened in the night should need arise to open the gate and lift the portcullis. I thought for a moment to wake the porter and tell him what I was about, so that should he leave his bed and find some shadow atop the castle wall he would not raise an alarm and disturb the sleep of others. But the rumbles and snorts from his chamber convinced me that discovery from that quarter was unlikely. I passed by the door and mounted the steps to the parapet.
I completed a circuit of the castle wall and was beginning a second when I saw a glow in the sky to the east, over the willows which line Shill Brook and the mill pond. My mind was fixed upon the death of Thomas atte Bridge so the orange tint did not at first register upon my thoughts. ’Twas the moon, rising to the east, so I assumed. But on the north parapet, as I walked west I saw a sliver of new moon hung above Lord Gilbert’s forest.
My thoughts fused abruptly and I spun about to look to the east. The glow above the trees was brighter, and I knew what it must be that caused it, yet I prayed as I ran that it be not so.
I plunged down the parapet steps, burst through the door to the porter’s chamber, and shouted for the fellow to awaken. He did so with much spluttering. When I knew him to be alert and ready for instruction I told him there was fire in the town. He and his assistant must awaken the grooms in their quarters, and all must attend the blaze at once with rakes and hooks and buckets. But first he must open the gate and portcullis that I might leave the castle.
I ran through the forecourt in the dark to Mill Street, thence across Shill Brook. When I came to Church View Street I was joined by three others, for the cry of “Fire!” had spread quickly through the town and many converged on the scene. Galen House was ablaze.
Flames leaped from the thatching, and already men were attacking the roof with hooks, attempting to pull the flaming reeds to the ground where they might be more easily extinguished, and to prevent the flames from consuming the entire structure. If the thatching be pulled down the frame of Galen House might be saved.
This was not to be. The thatch was too dry. Although there had been rain but three days past, the summer sun had dried the reeds and they burned readily. Flames rose high into the night sky and sparks settled upon the roofs of neighboring houses. It was well the conflagration came when all was dark. Did any sparks alight on the thatching of a nearby house the glow was quickly seen. Men placed ladders upon such dwellings and took buckets of water from the well to splash upon these new threats before they could grow and consume another house.
Galen House could not be saved. Daub cracked in the heat and fell away. Wattles then caught fire, and after that the beams of the house were kindled. I shouted over the roar of the inferno that men should leave Galen House, which many were already doing for the intense heat, and seek out sparks which might set other homes ablaze.
As I spoke I felt soft hands upon my back. Kate had come. I turned to her and saw the tracks of tears upon her cheeks in the orange glare of the blaze now consuming our home. There was nothing to be done but to comfort each other, so that is what we did. Clasped in each other’s arms we watched as the beams supporting the upper floor of Galen House collapsed. As they fell a fresh shower of sparks and embers erupted into the sky. By this time the entire town was witness to the conflagration, I think, so any brand which fell where it might ignite another house was immediately found and extinguished. Small boys darted about Church Street and Rosemary Lane, as far as Broad Street, reporting to their elders when any sparks yet unextinguished were discovered.
The night was short, and the eastern sky ere long became pale. Soon the rising sun illuminated the scene of devastation before us. A pile of blackened beams, many yet ablaze and smoking, lay where once Galen House had proudly stood. My new chimney stood tall and unmarred at the south end of the smoldering heap; all else was ruin.