“I will unwrap the dressing and see how it knits. Here…be seated on this bench.”
Philip obeyed and I went to my work. I was pleased to see a clean wound. The stitches held well. There had been some bleeding and pus issue onto the wrapping, but not for some days. The residue was dry and hard. The egg poultice had done its work. And perhaps the hot iron which caused the injury had cauterized it as it sliced through flesh.
A door opened as I inspected the wound. No doubt the man’s wife had re-entered the bakery. Shortly after I heard footfalls on the steps leading to the living quarters on the upper floor. Philip said nothing, but his eyes swung wildly, as if he expected to be impaled upon a bread knife at any moment.
“We may leave off the dressing now. The hurt heals well. Whatever,” I asked casually, “did Edmund do to cause you to swing a hammer at him? That’s a poor contest for any man to enter against a smith.”
I waited, but there was no answer. Philip moved a hand cautiously to his neck, and said finally, “No dressing? You will not dress my hurt?”
I explained, as I find myself obliged often to do, that I follow the practice of Henry de Mondeville. That learned surgeon taught that wounds heal best when left dry, open to the air. I had wrapped Philip’s wound only to retain the poultice, and to protect the cut from further injury. Healing had progressed so that there was no longer a need. But Philip’s injury was ugly and left a red streak down his neck, from jaw to kirtle. I think he wished it covered for appearance as much as healing. All who saw the wound would remember that Edmund had bested him.
When I finished my explanation of his treatment I ventured again to the cause. “Do you wish to charge Edmund with assault at hallmote?”
Philip hesitated. “Nay…’twould do no good.”
“What good will be done should no charge be brought?”
“No good,” he muttered, “but perhaps less harm.” And with that he turned to deal with his loaves, a sign of dismissal. But I was not to be put off so easily.
“My fee for saving your neck is four pence.”
The baker shrugged, left the room for a moment through a passage next to his oven, and shortly returned. He held out a hand to me, and when I raised my own he dropped four silver pennies into it. Silently.
I cannot now explain why I did not feel sympathy for Philip. He deserved it, heaven knows, although at the moment, ’tis true, only heaven knew why. I did not, but might have guessed. Then, had I been more gentle with the baker I might not have learned the truth. At least, that part of the truth he knew.
I placed the coins in my pouch and moved to the door but did not leave. I turned back to the baker and said, “Your wife seemed much aggrieved but a little time past.”
Philip stiffened as if a dagger had pricked him between the shoulders. My remark was not a question, so Philip did not answer. I continued.
“It seems you have angered both smith and wife.”
“Edmund is known for ’is temper,” the baker mumbled, “an’ no man lives who has not sometime offended ’is wife.”
As he spoke his shoulders drooped, like a scarecrow with the support pole removed. “Then why,” I countered, “swing a hammer at a strong man known for his rage?”
“’Twas done in heat,” the baker replied softly, but would say no more.
I left him, crestfallen, toying with the scar on his neck. There was a matter here I did not know. Perhaps I had no need to know of it. But I am Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. Any business which might lead to blows exchanged on his demesne becomes my business. So I must concern myself with the dispute between baker and smith as well as search out a murderer. The death of Alan the beadle, how so it may have happened, was receding from my thoughts. It should not have, for these three incidents were entwined, although I had no clue yet that this was so.
Chapter 9
Many hours that week I spent prowling the darkened parapet of Bampton Castle. This perambulation helped order my mind, but no matter how I sorted and arranged what I knew, I was no closer to identifying a killer. Few in Bampton or the Weald seemed much disturbed by my failure. Even Thomas de Bowlegh mentioned the matter but as a passing comment when we met on the street on Thursday.
And the normal work of May occupied my thoughts so that with little effort I was able to forget Henry atte Bridge. Until Sunday. No sooner had I passed from porch to church than I saw the three vicars and their clerks preparing for matins. I imagined that Simon Osbern peered reproachfully at me. Perhaps it was not my imagination.
Then during the mass Father Thomas read from the Epistle to the Romans: “Christ died for us while we were yet sinners.” He lifted his eyes while he read and seemed to gaze at me. This passage I knew well. Perhaps I needed to be reminded that the Lord Christ died for Henry atte Bridge as well as for me. And to take his life was as great a sin as to murder King Edward. Perhaps not in the eyes of men, but if I wished to be weighed in God’s balance and not be found wanting I must amend my ways and see men as God sees them.
These thoughts tumbled through my mind at dinner and into the afternoon, when once again archers, their families, and spectators, lined the castle wall to practice their skills and drink Lord Gilbert’s ale.
Onlookers came and went as the sun sank toward Lord Gilbert’s forest to the west of the castle. One of the late arrivals had not attended the previous competitions. John Kellet made his way to the cask and drew a mug of ale, then stood in conversation with others who had temporarily put bows aside to quench a thirst.
I paid the newcomer scant attention until I noted from the corner of my eye a figure being pushed to the mark. It was the rotund, black-clad form of John Kellet.
Others at the mark made room as the priest was thrust, with much laughter and jesting, to the mark. One took his empty cup, another placed a bow into his hands, and a third brought forth a quiver of arrows and a glove.
The priest of St Andrew’s Chapel held the bow comfortably, notched an arrow, grinned at his audience, then drew the bowstrung across his expansive belly. I watched in amazement as the parson took careful aim and loosed the arrow. He missed.
Much hooting and laughter followed. Kellet grew red in the face. He drew another arrow from the quiver, notched it and drew the bow. No smile played about his lips; they were drawn tight across his teeth. His audience grew silent, awaiting the arrow’s release. When it came all heads turned to follow its flight. The arrow struck the center of the butt with a solid “thwack.”
Cheers and merry exclamations followed, subsiding only upon the release of the third arrow, which also found its mark. The priest launched twelve arrows at the target that day and missed but twice. He left the mark, the quiver empty, with many clapping him on the back and complimenting his eye.
Hubert Shillside had attended the competition this day, perhaps to inspire his son, whose competency surely needed encouragement. I saw the man leaning against the castle wall, watching with his son, as John Kellet sent arrow after arrow thudding into the butt.
I sauntered through the crowd to where Shillside and his son were propped against the wall. “A surprising performance,” I said.
But the haberdasher did not seemed over-surprised, although he did agree with me. “Aye…he missed twice. Lack of practice, surely. And a strange bow.”
I was taken aback by this remark until I understood that the astonishing thing about Kellet’s performance was not that he had hit the target ten times, but that he had missed twice.
“Before he took holy orders he’d not have missed once at twice the distance,” Shillside remarked by way of explanation.
“He was skillful as a younger man?”
“Few could best him.”
“I have not seen him at the mark, or even in attendance, before this day.”
“’Tis said he was warned away. The vicars of St Beornwald’s Church thought it unseemly for a man who chose a vocation to disport himself so of a Sunday afternoon.”