“Calm yourself, man,” Lord Gilbert responded. “But I’ll have that dagger. Where is your son?”
“He’ll have gone home.”
“Alvescot?” Lord Gilbert asked.
“Aye.”
Lord Gilbert turned to me. “Gerard was often a winner at the butts of a Sunday afternoon. Why,” he turned to his forester, “do we not see you at the competition now?”
“Me eyes…they’ve gone cloudy, like.”
“Is that why you crept closer to see what we were about?” I asked.
“Aye.”
“Hugh, you and Sir John and his squire will come with me to Alvescot. The rest of you,” he turned to the silent throng about us, “stay at your work until dark. If you find anything out of place, bring it with you when you leave. There will be food for you all at the castle this night. John,” he addressed his reeve, “I leave you in charge. Gerard, come along.”
Gerard was the only one of our group not mounted. I offered to seat him behind me on Bruce, but he declined. He was a wirey fellow, and kept good pace, though he limped on the weak left foot he had complained of. We crossed a corner of the woods, thinned where Gerard and his fellows had been at work, and found a track which shortly led us to Alvescot.
The village seemed deserted, but was not. I saw a corner of oiled sheepskin lifted as we passed the first hut. The hamlet comprised but eight or ten occupied dwellings. Alvescot was, I saw, a village the plague had struck hard. There were as many dilapidated, unoccupied huts as those yet tenanted, and the church was in poor repair.
Gerard stopped our party before a domicile which showed signs of occupation and shouted for his son. Walter must have been at the door, for it opened immediately. I recognized the man who stepped out into the dying light as one who had brought Gerard to me and waited outside Galen House for the result of my work.
“The dagger you found in the woods,” Lord Gilbert said without introduction. “I would have it.”
Walter looked at Gerard, who shrugged, bit his lip, but remained silent.
“Well, go on, man…we know you have it,” Lord Gilbert growled.
“Yes, m’lord.” Walter bowed and retreated to the dim interior of his hut. I heard a brief conversation, and a woman’s muffled cry. There followed the sound of furnishings being moved about, then silence until Walter reappeared. He held a small, jeweled dagger before him in both hands. He lifted it to Lord Gilbert as if in prayer of supplication.
I did not wish to appear overly inquisitive, so restrained my impulse to peer over Lord Gilbert’s shoulder at the weapon. But as Bruce sidled forward a step or two, I caught a glimpse of the dagger as Lord Gilbert turned it in his hands. The blade was no more than eight inches long, but appeared sharp and well-kept. The hilt was gilded, and encrusted with jewels: not many, nor did they seem large, but gems on any such weapon pointed to ownership by a gentleman.
“’Tis not Sir Robert’s, I think,” Lord Gilbert decided as he turned the weapon in his hands. “Mediocre craftsmanship. And the stones are poor.”
He turned to Walter, who was rooted in place before Lord Gilbert’s horse, his hands yet lifted as if he expected to see the dagger replaced in them. That would not be, but Lord Gilbert was a fair man.
“I will have this,” he told the woodcutters. “There is too much puzzle about this business. This,” he held the dagger out to me and Sir John that we might have a better view, “must have to do with Sir Robert’s cotehardie, but what, no man can tell. But I will not rob you of your find,” he said as he turned back to Walter. “I will send my reeve with two shillings. A fair price, I think.”
Walter’s chin dropped. He had probably thought of no way to turn the dagger to ready cash. Lord Gilbert’s offer would both stun and please him. He stammered thanks for the offer. Lord Gilbert cut him off. “And I will pay well for any other articles you may find in that forest…so long as you register the place where it was found and seek me immediately.”
“Aye. We will surely do that, m’lord.” I thought that promise true enough. When word got through Alvescot of Lord Gilbert’s past and promised generosity, the entire able-bodied population of the hamlet would comb the forest for traces of Sir Robert and his squire.
Our small party approached Bampton Castle an hour later from the west road as the search party, wet and cold, straggled through the gatehouse. Some turned to observe our approach, their faces betraying exhaustion and failure. The muddy surface of the castle yard was beginning to freeze. But the snap in the air did not prevent castle inhabitants of all stations from gathering about the hungry search party. Lady Petronilla and Lady Joan were prominent among the crowd. To his wife’s question, Lord Gilbert produced the small dagger.
My eyes were attracted to movement as Lord Gilbert displayed the weapon, and I turned in the direction of the motion. It was Lady Joan who attracted my attention, not an unusual event in itself. Her hand had come up to cover an opened mouth. Her eyes were wide, visible in the flickering light of torches. I knew then, before she spoke, that she recognized the dagger.
A sharp intake of breath accompanied Lady Joan’s startled expression. I could not hear this from my perch atop Bruce on the fringe of the crowd, but many closer to her turned toward her, including Lord Gilbert.
“Do you know this?” he asked her.
Lady Joan moved toward her brother; the gathering parted to give her a path. “If there is a letter inscribed on the pommel, yes, I know it.”
Lord Gilbert bent down from his horse and put the dagger in her hand. She turned it to better see the rounded end of the pommel in the flickering of the nearest torch. There followed another brief gasp, which even I heard, for the throng had fallen silent.
“What letter is there?” Lord Gilbert asked quietly.
“G,” Lady Joan replied. “This is Geoffrey’s dagger. Sir Robert’s squire. I saw him crudely pick his teeth with it at table,” she replied with some distaste.
“Then we have discovered foul work this day,” Lord Gilbert muttered. He glanced across the heads separating us and spoke: “Master Hugh…attend me in the morning. We have much to consider.”
Chapter 8
I gave Bruce over to the marshalsea and made my way through dark, frozen, rutted streets to Galen House. As I approached my door I saw, silhouetted against the whiteness of the snow, what first appeared to be a pile of rags. I nearly stumbled over it, for there was no moon this night and the heap was nearly invisible. But as I approached the bundle moved, and from the folds a slight figure stood to greet me.
“You be the surgeon…Master Hugh?” the now-animate rag-bag said.
“I am. But you have the better of me. Who are you?”
“Alice, sir.”
“And why are you at my door in the dark? Curfew bell will sound soon.”
“I’ve come for you. It’s me father. He slipped on t’ice this mornin’ an’ cannot rise. I am sent to fetch you.”
“Well, come in for now while I assemble some instruments. How long have you awaited me?”
“Since mid-day, sir.”
“Then, here, take this loaf while I am about my work.”
The girl gnawed hungrily at the maslin loaf. I could not remember having seen her before, which I thought strange, for there were few young people of her age or younger in the town. Not for nothing was the return of pestilence two years past called the “Children’s Plague.”
“Where is your father?” I asked as I pulled tight the drawstring of my bag.
“At Weald. He has a quarter yardland of the Dean of Exeter.”
That explained why she was unknown to me; her father was a tenant of the Bishop, not Lord Gilbert. A quarter yardland would keep a family alive, with perhaps a small surplus to sell, if it was a small family, and if the land was fertile. “Is your mother attending him?” I asked.
