Unhallowed Ground (3 page)

Hubert Shillside approached as Arthur and his assistant shoveled the last of the earth upon the burial mound. “One less troublemaker to vex the town, eh?” he said.

“He’ll not be missed,” I agreed. “But for Maud.”

“Hah. Them of the Weald say as how he beat her regular, like. She’ll not be grieved to have that end.”

“Aye, perhaps, but he provided for his family. Who will do so now?”

“There be widowers about who’ll be pleased to add her lands to their holdings.”

“A quarter-yardland? And four children to come with the bargain? I think Maud will find few suitors.”

“Hmmm. Well, she will have to make do. Perhaps the oldest boy can do a man’s work.”

“Perhaps.”

The throng of onlookers had begun to melt away when atte Bridge’s corpse was lowered to the grave. These folks chattered noisily about the death and burial as they departed for the town. They did not seem afflicted with sorrow, but rather behaved as if a weight was lifted from their shoulders. Did Thomas atte Bridge guess this would be the response to his death, having lived as he did, at enmity with all men?

The coroner and I were among the last to leave Cow-Leys Corner. In my hand I carried the hempen rope, now sliced in two, which ended Thomas atte Bridge’s life. We walked behind the vicars. I was silent while Shillside spoke of the weather, new-sown crops, and other topics of a pleasant spring day. When he found no ready response from me he grew silent, then as we reached the castle he turned and spoke again.

“The man is surely dead of his own hand, Hugh. You must not seek a felon where none is. And even was atte Bridge slain, there is no man in Bampton sorry for it. He was an evil fellow we are well rid of.”

N
ext day, near noon, I received a visitor. Maud atte Bridge appeared at my door, red-eyed from tears and a sleepless night. I opened the door for her entry and Kate, observing her condition, offered a bench by the fire. The woman sat and sighed, then looked up to me and spoke.

“They all say ’e hung hisself,” she began, “but ’e din’t.”

“Why do you say so?”

“’E just wouldn’t. I know my Thomas.”

“What happened the night before he was found? Did he leave the house early in the morn, or was he away all night?”

“All night. We’d covered the fire an’ was ready to go to our bed when we ’eard hens cacklin’. They ain’t likely to do so after dark less they’re vexed. Tom thought maybe a fox was at ’em, so took a staff an’ went to the toft.”

“Did he return?”

“Nay. Hens quieted an’ I thought ’e’d run the beast off that troubled ’em. But ’e din’t come to bed. After a time I went out to seek ’im, but ’e was not to be found. Never saw ’im again ’til folk took me to Cow-Leys Corner, an’ there ’e was.”

“The stool found there… you said it was yours.”

“Aye. Went missin’ two days past. Tom was workin’ with the bishop’s plow team an’ I was plantin’ onions in the toft. When we was done an’ the day near gone we couldn’t find the stool. ’Twas there in the morn.”

“Your children saw no man enter the house and take it?”

“Nay. They was in an’ out. Oldest was helpin’ me in toft. Babe was sleepin’, an’ couldn’t know a man stole a stool anyway.”

“Perhaps Thomas took the stool himself that day, having planned his death and the means?”

Maud looked to the flags at her feet. “Mayhap. ’E was right fierce about it bein’ took, though. Said ’e was gonna watch others in the Weald to see did any have it, an’ deal with ’em when ’e found it.”

“Did Thomas fight with another the day before he died?”

“Fight? Nay… not that ’e spoke of.”

“But he often quarreled with others, is this not so?”

“Aye, as you well know.”

“But he’d been in no recent disputes?”

“Nay. He’d not spoke of any.”

“And his face showed no sign of blows?”

Maud peered up at me suspiciously. “Nay. Why should ’e appear so?”

I decided to keep silent about Thomas atte Bridge’s damaged lip and tooth. I was learning that knowledge can be a useful tool, and occasionally a weapon – a weapon most effective when an opponent knows nothing of its existence, like a dagger hidden in a boot.

“Vicars wouldn’t bury ’im in churchyard,” Maud continued. “’Ow’ll ’e get to heaven?”

I did not reply. I saw no point in reminding the woman of her husband’s many sins. The Lord Christ said the path to heaven is narrow, and few there be who find it. It seemed to me unlikely that Thomas atte Bridge would be among those few, no matter was he buried in hallowed ground or not. But Maud faced enough grief. She needed to consider no more.

“You bein’ Lord Gilbert’s bailiff, it’d be your part to find who slew Tom an’ set things right, so he can be buried proper in the churchyard.”

I looked from Maud to Kate, and saw in my bride’s eyes a reflection of my own thoughts. Kate knew of Thomas atte Bridge’s assaults upon me. I had told her how he left lumps upon my skull in Alvescot Churchyard and at St Andrew’s Chapel when I discovered his part in the blackmail he, his brother Henry, and the wicked priest John Kellet had visited upon transgressors who had confessed to the scoundrel priest.

So although I had ample reason to leave Thomas atte Bridge in his grave at Cow-Leys Corner, I saw in Kate’s eyes that I could not. Did some other murder him, it would be a great injustice to abandon him there, lost and unshriven. Atte Bridge was himself guilty of much injustice, but holy writ says the Lord Christ died for his sins as well as mine.

Who would murder Thomas atte Bridge? Surely it would be some man wronged at his hand. Atte Bridge had few friends in Bampton and the Weald. If I was convinced the fellow was murdered, and sought the man who took his life, I would likely seek one who did what others would have wished to do, had they the stomach for it. Who, then, would assist me? Who would wish to see a friend hang for slaying a reprobate?

I had faced a similar problem when I sought who might have struck down Thomas’s brother, Henry. Henry was as despised as Thomas, perhaps more so. Townsmen were pleased these brothers would trouble them no more. They would not be happy was I able to lay Thomas’s death at the feet of a friend. Again I caught Kate’s eye. Did I seek approval more than justice? Even justice for the unjust?

I sighed and chewed upon my lip. Perhaps, I thought, I may discover that Thomas atte Bridge did indeed take his own life, and planned it so as to suggest some other had part in the business. This would be convenient. But justice can be often inconvenient.

I promised Maud that I would examine the circumstances of her husband’s death. She departed Galen House with many expressions of gratitude, as if I had already resolved the matter.

I had discarded the rope taken from Thomas atte Bridge’s neck in a corner of the chamber. My eyes fell upon it as I sat at my table and pondered the obligation I had accepted. Two lengths of hempen cord lay tangled. Three of the ends were sliced through cleanly. I had seen a knife make one of these cuts when Thomas was cut down. The fourth end was frayed with age. When the rope was one piece it had one worn end and one newly cut.

Kate had prepared a coney pie for our dinner. My mind returned to the rope while I ate. Kate saw I was preoccupied, followed my gaze, and guessed the cause.

“You are silent, Hugh. Does Maud’s complaint trouble you?”

“Aye. Lord Gilbert entrusts me with justice in Bampton. If a man is murdered here I must seek whoso has slain him. But if Maud speaks true and her husband was done to death by another, there are those who would agree the murderer has done a laudable deed.”

“You think the same?” she asked.

“I am troubled. Murder is a grievous sin, but I am not sorry Thomas atte Bridge lies in his grave. What if I discover he was murdered and the felon is a friend? What then will I do?”

“You will do the right. I have faith in you,” Kate replied softly.

“I might sleep more soundly did I have your confidence.”

“I will do what I may to see you sleep well, your burdens forgot,” she smiled.

I am sure my face reflected a lightened spirit after her words.

I could not drive the discarded rope from my mind that day. It seemed there might be significance to the odd number of cut and frayed ends to the two sections. Late in the day I took a length of the hempen cord with me and called at Maud’s hut.

The door was open to the warm spring afternoon but only silence greeted me. A cottage with four children should be a noisy place. I rapped my knuckles against the door-post and heard the rustle of rushes on the floor in response. Maud appeared, her youngest child upon a hip, both of them blinking in the sunlight after the dim interior of the dwelling.

I showed her the rope. She recoiled as if I had swatted her with it, but regained composure when I told her I was about the work she begged of me. I asked if Thomas had owned rope like that in my hand. Such common stuff might be found about a cotter’s house. Did a man have a field planted to hemp, it was easy enough to make. I thought Maud might produce a length of cord like it and I could compare the cut ends. She did not. Thomas, she contended, had no such rope nor had he possessed any or had need to for many years.

That Thomas atte Bridge might have owned things his wife knew not of I did not doubt. But it seemed unlikely he would keep possession of a hempen rope from her. He might, however, borrow such a cord from another and Maud know not.

If I displayed the rope, and asked if any owned the length it was cut from, word would soon find its way through Bampton and the Weald. Was Thomas murdered, as I believed, a guilty man would surely then hide any remnant. I decided to forego questioning neighbors in the Weald.

Kate was right. I fell readily to sleep that eve, and the next, but awoke two days later well before the Angelus Bell. In the pale light of early dawn, Kate’s steady breathing beside me, I pondered the slashed ends of hempen rope. In my bed, before even Kate’s rooster discharged his duty, it came to me where I might seek a fragment of rope like that which brought death to Thomas atte Bridge. Did I find nothing, I would know no less than I now did, but if I found a length of hempen cord it would go far to confirming my suspicions.

I rose from my bed, descended the stairs, and prodded coals on the hearth to life. I sat on a bench and fed sticks to the growing blaze until the room was warmed. Kate appeared soon after. She produced from our cup board a maslin loaf and cup of ale for me, but declined to break her fast. She complained of an uneasy stomach.

I told her then of my plan to search for a short length of rope. Kate, for all her unease, would not consider remaining behind at Galen House. So when the sun was high enough to allow inspection of even a shadowy forest we set out for Cow-Leys Corner.

But six months past Kate had searched with me outside the wall of Canterbury Hall, in Oxford, for a broken thong. She had found the bit of leather, and now she prowled with me through the wood to the north of the road, seeking a length of hempen cord. She found it.

The rope segment was as long as my arm. It lay upon a compost of rotting leaves and broken twigs, its color blending with the forest floor. Kate knew what I sought, but not why. She held the length of hemp above her head and shouted success while I was kicking through fallen, rotting leaves twenty or so paces from where the cord lay.

“What means this?” she asked when I took the rope from her to inspect it.

“Stand here,” I replied, “where you found it.”

I walked to stand under the limb where Thomas atte Bridge hung in death. I wound the cord to a ball in my hand, then threw it toward Kate. The hemp uncoiled in flight and fell at her feet, or near so, perhaps one pace beyond where she stood watching, puzzled by this exercise.

“I found a small abrasion on Thomas atte Bridge’s wrist,” I explained, “as if perhaps his hands were tied before he died.”

“Then Maud speaks true, and your suspicion is valid; her husband did not take his own life.”

“I fear so.”

“Fear?”

“Aye. Many will resent me seeking the murderer of one like Thomas atte Bridge from among their friends.”

“But you will do so?”

“Aye,” I sighed. “Some man tied Thomas by the neck to that oak, then threw away the cord he used to bind his wrists. ’Twas two men, I think. The man who carried his feet dropped them, hence the mud upon atte Bridge’s heels and the grooves in the road yonder.”

“Did they bind his feet also?”

“Nay, I think not. The tracks in the road are a hand’s breadth and more apart.”

“Did he not struggle and cry out?”

“He could not, I think.”

“Why so?”

“I found a great welt upon his lip when he was cut down. Beneath it a tooth was broken. Maud knew nothing of these injuries. He was knocked senseless, I think, then brought here and hanged so all would believe him a suicide.”

“You told no one of his injury?”

“Nay, and I will not, I think.”

“Not even Hubert Shillside?”

“The coroner is convinced that Thomas did away with himself… or is convinced that is what should be so and is what all men must think.”

“He will be of no assistance to us, then.”

“Us?”

“A wife’s duty is to be always at her husband’s side. And I found the rope,” Kate laughed.

“It is your duty to feed me, which now interests me most.”

“I have a leg of lamb ready to roast,” Kate replied. “After dinner we must consider how to find a murderer.”

“Such a discovery will require some effort. The man who did this planned well.”

“But he did not consider the mud,” Kate rejoined, “and he should not have cast aside that length of cord.”

“Aye. No felon considers all the ways his crime might go awry. We have found two misjudgments already. There may be more to discover.”

We returned to Galen House past fields where men worked with dibble sticks, poking holes into the newly turned earth to plant peas and beans. Kate set to work upon our dinner, and shortly after Peter the Carpenter knocked upon our door. He had taken a gouge out of his wrist with a chisel and required my service. It was a serious wound and bled greatly. I stitched him, bathed the wound in wine from the castle buttery, and collected tuppence. I follow the practice of Henri de Mondeville, who taught that such injuries heal best when uncovered, left open to the air. I instructed Peter to keep the wound free of dirt but placed no salve or wrapping upon it. He seemed skeptical of this treatment, but I assured him good success was sure to follow, and that I would remove the stitches in a fortnight.

There was another matter I must soon raise with Peter. His daughter was heavy with child, and unwed. It was my duty to levy fines for leirwite and childwite. I resolved to await the birth. If the babe did not live I would levy leirwite only.

The leg of lamb sizzled on a spit over the coals, but Kate was not to be found. Odd, I thought, that she would not attend the spit to keep our dinner from singeing. Grease dripped to the coals and sputtered there. The smell of roasting meat caused my stomach to growl with anticipation.

Then I heard, through the open door, Kate retching in the toft behind Galen House. She had taken no loaf to break her fast, and now seemed unlikely to enjoy her dinner. I was much concerned, but when we sat to our meal Kate assured me that her belly was much improved and I was pleased to see her take a portion of lamb and wheaten loaf.

Four days later was May Day. Youth of the town were out of their beds before dawn, gathering hawthorn boughs and wildflowers from the forests of Lord Gilbert and the Bishop of Exeter. Indeed, many, as is the custom, spent the night gamboling in forest and meadow, bringing in the May. Garlands of greenery decorated windows and doors before the third hour of the day. Hubert Shillside’s son, Will, was chosen Lord of the May. His lady was a lass of the Weald whose father held a yardland of the bishop. Kate and I watched as the couple was paraded down Church View Street with singing and laughter. I would have joined the procession, but Kate was again unwell and I did not wish to celebrate the May and its carefree joy while she was afflicted so.