“Did the oil help?”
“Oh, aye, it did. But ’tis gone for a fortnight.”
I told her to wait at the gatehouse and I returned to my chamber. The oil Sarah sought was produced from bay leaves and monk’s hood, and when rubbed vigorously upon a bruise or aching joint will relieve the hurt. I was startled to see how little of the oil remained in my pharmacy. I poured it all into a vial, stopped the vessel with a wooden plug, and carried it to the sufferer.
I gave Sarah the vial with strict instructions that, after rubbing the oil on her aching shoulders, she must not touch her hand to her lips until all trace of the oil was washed clean of her fingers.
The widow accepted my remedy, fished in her purse for the farthing fee, then tottered off toward Mill Street clutching the vial to her shrunken breast. I knew what I must now do this day, and the thought pleased me, for while I gathered bay leaves and the root of monk’s hood I would not have to consider the murder of Henry atte Bridge.
Had I discovered my shortage a month sooner, I would have had an easier time gathering more bay leaves. Sweet laurel is green all winter through and easily identified in a bleak winter wood. But now all the low plants were bursting out in color, from fragile pale yellow-green to darker hues of full summer. These herbs, many having uses of their own, disguised the plant I sought. But some months before I had discovered a thick patch of sweet laurel at the fringe of the wood behind St Andrew’s Chapel, very near the place where the coroner and I had found the beadle’s cudgel. I threw a sack across my shoulder and set off for the chapel.
My route took me past the place where, nearly four weeks before, the plowman found Alan’s corpse. ’Twas well the man was found when he was, for now the place was dense with new growth of nettles and hawthorn. A body lying there now would not be found until autumn.
The wood behind St Andrew’s Chapel was thick with sweet laurel, as on my previous visit. I filled my sack with leaves and had yet enough time to seek the monk’s hood to complete the physic.
I had seen what I thought to be monk’s hood when following the hounds as we tracked the beast which must have attacked Alan and howled in the night. The patch lay south of Shill Brook where the stream turned east toward Aston. I crossed a fallow field to the brook, waded it at a shallow place where the water flowed swiftly over a gravel bed, then set off to the west where I remembered the monk’s hood to be.
It was too early for the purple flowers to be in bloom, so I had to search carefully for the narrow, multi-pointed leaves before I found what I sought. I dug up several plants, washed the roots free of dirt in the brook, then placed them in the bag with the bay leaves.
I was careful as I returned to the castle not to put my fingers to my mouth. The root of monk’s hood is a powerful poison. I do not know if the small amount of the oil from the root left on my fingers could cause death, but have no desire to discover so in experiment. Monk’s hood is like many good things God has given to man. Used wrongly, it becomes a curse.
After dinner — a fine meal of game pie, pork in spiced syrup, and tarts made from mushrooms new found in the forest — I went to my chamber to prepare a fresh batch of salve for Sarah and others afflicted in their old age.
I used flax-seed oil as a base, and set a pot to simmering on a charcoal brazier while I turned my attention to the leaves and roots I had gathered in the morning. With mortar and pestle I crushed the bay leaves fine and poured the fragments into the warm flax-seed oil. Next I mashed the monk’s hood root to a pulpy mass and stirred that into the thickening oil as well. There are some who believe that the oil of bay and monk’s hood serve best when pure, but I hold with the view that flax-seed oil also relieves affliction, and makes a fine carrier for the oils of bay leaf and wolfsbane root. I finished this work shortly after St Beornwald’s bell rang the ninth hour. I was sorry to be done with the task, for now I had no excuse to ignore the search for a murderer. I left the oil, leaves, and roots to bubbling and departed my chamber. I had no destination for my feet, but it is sure I would not find a killer while sitting upon a bench in my chamber watching a steaming pot.
I walked Bampton’s street with no goal in mind and after several turns found myself drawn to the north in the direction of the bishop’s new tithe barn. I heard the sound of industry as I approached; a hammer on a chisel cutting a tenon; an adze smoothing a beam; a draw knife shaping a treenail. I stopped to watch this activity from the road and as I did several questions occurred to me which might, I thought, be answered by the workmen.
I approached the builder with the adze, who stood bent over his work in a pile of sweet-smelling shavings. He did not see me approach, so I coughed so as to advise him of my presence. I did not wish to startle him as the adze came down for another strike, for fear I might deflect his aim. I had no desire to employ my surgical skills on the fellow’s ankle.
“Good day,” I offered.
“Aye…’tis.” The man leaned on his adze and with a calloused hand brushed a stray wisp of hair back under his cap. He seemed pleased to have a reason to cease his labor.
“You must have heavier work, since Henry atte Bridge is no more among you.”
“Aye,” the man spat into the pile of shavings. “But the vicar says he’ll send us another, so we’ll be four again, soon.”
“Does the work go well, without a man as you are?”
“Same as always. Henry were no worker. Least, no carpenter. Can’t see why reeve put ’im with us for his week work. Should’a had ’im plowin’, where ’e’d do some good.”
“He lacked skill?”
“Aye. An’ had little wish t’learn.”
“He must have owned some competence. He seemed prosperous enough for a man with but a half yardland.”
“Aye,” the adze-man scowled. “’E fed well for a man wot shirked.”
Here before me was a man who disliked Henry atte Bridge. Did the other two laborers, casting sidelong glances at me while they worked, feel the same? Was their dislike intense enough to distill into hatred? Surely an objection to a man’s work would not lead another to plunge a dagger into his back. Would it?
The man shaping treenails finished another fastener and sauntered over to join the conversation. Then tenon cutter decided he was not to be left out, and followed him. I was soon surrounded by three men redolent of sawdust and oak shavings. The scent was a significant improvement over their natural odor.
“Have you ever seen,” I pointed to the forest across the road, “an archer in that wood?”
The three men peered at each other for a moment, as if to get their stories aligned. But perhaps I am too mistrustful. The tenon cutter answered.
“What would an archer be doin’ in Lord Gilbert’s wood?”
All knew the answer to that.
“Are there deer to be seen in that wood, so close to the town?”
“Never seen any,” the adze-man replied. He looked at the others and they shook their heads in agreement.
I was about to tell them of the broken arrow I had found there, but thought better of it. I am learning to keep my own counsel and trust no man until he prove himself. I cannot say that this is a good thing — to mistrust all. And surely I do not. There are many I trust to speak truth: Master Wyclif, Lord Gilbert Talbot, Thomas de Bowlegh, Hubert Shillside, even Alice atte Bridge. But rather than trust a stranger until he prove faithless, I was becoming one who mistrusts another until he might prove to me his veracity. Perhaps this is safe for a bailiff, to pass his life suspicious of all men and their motives, but it is not enjoyable.
“Did Henry speak of enemies?”
The barn builders gave sidelong glances to each other before the adze-man, who seemed to be nominated their leader, spoke.
“’At’s ’bout all ’e’d speak of, them as done ’im wrong an’ ’ow ’e was like t’get even w’them as harmed ’im.”