“Had you ever done him harm?”
The tenon cutter snorted. “Ev’ry man of the bishop’s has, I think, an’ most o’ Lord Gilbert’s, too.”
I could agree with that, being Lord Gilbert’s man and having offended Henry atte Bridge more than once.
“He took offence quickly, then?”
“Aye,” the tenon cutter muttered. “Thought the whole shire was out t’do ’im mischief.”
“I am told that he attended confession often…at St Andrew’s Chapel.”
At this revelation the adze-man laughed heartily and the others grinned. “Henry? Confession?” The man chuckled again. I waited to be apprized of the cause for this mirth. An explanation was not long in coming.
“’E ’ad much t’confess, that I’ll agree,” the tenon cutter said finally.
“An oath on ’is lips whene’r ’e was wrathful.”
“And was this often…that he was wrathful?”
“Most ev’ry day. An’ more’n once in a day, too,” the treenail shaper added.
“You are not sorry to be rid of him, then, I think?”
“Nay. Well, not in…in that way.” The tenon cutter spoke, then hesitated as he understood what I might think. “I’d not wish any man struck down,” he continued. The others nodded agreement. “But ’tis a truth we’re pleased as not to ’ave ’Enry atte Bridge to deal with.”
“Should you see a man prowling Lord Gilbert’s wood,” I nodded toward the copse where Henry atte Bridge was found dead, “tell me of it straight away. Especially so if he carries a bow and arrows.” I thought it unlikely I would hear from the builders, but ’tis true, I’ve heard, that a miscreant will return to the scene of his crime.
Perhaps it is also true that a bewildered bailiff will also seek out again the scene of the crime he is bound to solve. I left the workmen and was drawn to the forest. To find what? I knew not: some thing which did not belong that might direct my steps toward a killer.
I found the stick I had used and discarded the week before. It was branched at the end, so I could stir through the leaves with it as with a pitchfork. I spent the next hour churning the forest floor. The Angelus Bell rang while I searched, and the shadows grew long. It would soon be too dark to see any object alien to the forest. I resolved to make one more pass between the road and the beaten place where Henry’s body had lain.
There was, between the road and the place we found Henry, a patch of brambles perhaps three or four paces across which had grown up where an opening in the wood permitted sunlight to strike the forest floor. Young nettles grew thickly among and through them. No man, be he ever so hurried, would willingly plunge through these brambles. But when Henry ran through the forest it was near dark. Perhaps he or his pursuer got into the patch.
I have enough experience of nettles that I made no attempt to penetrate the brambles. I contented myself with poking about the fringe, using my stick to push the stems apart so as to peer into the center of the brambles. It was enough.
A close inspection showed several places where the stems of the stinging vegetation were broken, the new leaves on these stalks wilting toward the ground. I pushed my stick under some of these and lifted the broken canes to the late afternoon light. On one of these stalks I saw a wisp of black. I flailed away with the stick until the stem I sought broke free of the soil and I could pull it to me.
At first I could not determine what it was I saw fixed to the bramble thorn. But when I drew it close I found myself inspecting a tuft of black wool. Henry atte Bridge, when he was found, wore brown and grey. No black. I had found, I was sure, some remnant of his killer. But perhaps not. There was a man in the wood that evening when Henry attacked me. He called out to him. Did this bit of wool come from that man; a friend and cohort perhaps? Or did another run headlong through these nettles and brambles and leave this mark of his passing? Were there two men in the wood that night, or three?
Before I left the wood I set myself another task. The new leaves of the nettle are a pleasing addition to a soup or stew. I plucked from the fringe of the patch enough to fill my pouch. The castle cook, I knew, would appreciate the gift.
After supper I retired to my chamber to ponder three scraps of wool; two of blue and one of black. I knew the origin of the blue fragments. Black wool is most often found draping priests and clerks and those who take holy orders. Why would such a one leave part of his robe stuck to a thorn in the forest? The color of a man’s garb has little to do with where he may be found. A man may stumble into a patch of nettles no matter what he wears. So had I a clue to the death of Henry atte Bridge or not? I could not tell. All I knew of a certainty was that I had found three woolen fragments. If they spoke, they whispered so softly I could not hear their message.
Chapter 8
Walking the parapet of Bampton Castle became a common evening pastime. The exercise settled my mind for rest. And as I walked I might puzzle out a solution to the mystery of Henry atte Bridge’s death, although, truth be told, compassing a pile of stone brought me no nearer an explanation of that business. I was but going round in circles, mentally and physically. If walking was to direct me to a murderer, I would need to choose a path outside the castle walls.
I questioned Thomas atte Bridge. The man could offer no reason for his brother’s death. Or would offer no reason, if he could. The man seemed resentful of his dead brother. A glance about at Thomas’ hovel while we spoke explained that sentiment. Why two brothers of similar circumstance should live so differently did not then occur to me.
I attended mass on Sunday no closer to discovering a killer than when Thomas de Bowlegh assigned me the task. I did not wish to explain my failures to the vicar, so hastened from the church when Father Thomas had recited the final prayers and Simon Osbern pronounced the blessing.
I was too slow. Thomas de Bowlegh hailed me from the porch as I walked through the lych gate. I had hoped to leave the churchyard unseen in the press of the retiring congregation.
“What news, Master Hugh?” the vicar panted as he hastened across the churchyard. I told him of the wisp of black wool I’d found in the nettles and watched his lip curl as I did. I wondered at this.
As I completed the tale Simon Osbern appeared at the porch, watching his departing congregation and basking in the spring sun. Father Thomas saw him there and called him to us.
“Simon…your cook flavored his soup with nettle leaves Monday when we supped together, did he not?”
“Aye, he did so.”
“Whereaway did he find them?”
“Oh, I sent him to the wood where we found poor Henry atte Bridge. There is a patch there, growing up through blackberry brambles. I saw it when we searched last week and thought then ’twould be worth gathering a sack full of the leaves for the table.”
“What does your cook wear?” Father Thomas then asked — a question which was surely not expected and brought a look of surprise to Simon Osbern’s rotund face.
“Why…an old robe of mine, cut down as a surcoat.”
“Black, is it not?”
“Aye. Why do you ask this?”
Father Thomas turned to me. He expected me to provide the explanation to Father Simon, so I did.
“I found a tuft of black wool caught on thorns in the wood you spoke of. And the nettle stems were somewhat broken and disordered. I thought it was a thing which might lead to a killer, but I see now ’twas but preparation for your dinner.”
“There is no other progress to report?” Father Simon frowned.
“None, I fear. Wait…there is the arrow.”
“Arrow?” the vicars chorused.
“Nothing to do with the crime, I think. I found a new-broken arrow in the wood last week, near where Henry’s body lay. Some poacher escaped the verderer’s watch and took a deer, is my guess.”
“So near the town?” Father Simon asked skeptically.