be a prosperous man, but Lord Gilbert had not yet filled my purse. And I admit I have always found it difficult to abandon the frugal ways of my youth.
Early next day I prepared a half-dozen hempen drafts for Alice, who was at my door as the last tones of the Angelus bell faded. I was off to the castle yard for Bruce, so accompanied her on her way. She was voluble in her appreciation for the wood delivery, and passed to me her father’s gratitude, as well. I knew his injury was one for which my service could avail little, and did not expect to be recompensed in any way but appreciation.
I asked how her father did. She tried to feign optimism, but in the half-light of dawn I saw the tear on her cheek. She knew as well as I that her father would soon see God. He had lived many years. This end could not be unexpected. But the girl, I think, grieved for herself as much as for her father. He was, she said, a devout man, who had been diligent to teach her right from wrong and had urged her to live as a good Christian. His future was secure. Hers was not. I said a silent prayer for the child as I turned right into the castle yard and she went left to her father’s hut.
The morning was bitter. As I rode Bruce north a low sun gradually peered above leafless trees and illuminated branches glittering with frost. It was a beautiful morning to travel, or would have been had my feet and fingers not stung with cold.
As I passed through Shilton I saw Thomas about his work in his father’s toft and gestured a greeting. He did not acknowledge my lifted hand, but stared impassively after me for a time, then went back to his employment, turning the earth with a wooden spade.
Edith was behind her house, feeding her chickens. She greeted me cheerily, and held out her left foot. “I kin walk near good as ever,” she proclaimed, and she confirmed this assertion by walking to me with a youthful stride which camouflaged her years. Her recovery was indeed remarkable, for but five days had passed since my work on her toe.
“The lad you sent yesterday said you had news for me.”
“Oh…aye. Best come inside,” she said, glancing about as if she feared an observer. She sat heavily on a stool and motioned me to take my place on a bench.
“Two days ago, Tuesday, it was, I was takin’ eggs to Emma, t’cooper’s wife. She lives out on Sheep Street. We had a talk, an’ as I was comin’ home I saw Matilda atte Water — she’s got a hovel an’ toft down t’river — widow, she is, an’ gone a bit strange.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. Talks to herself, like, an’ wanders about town day an’ night. Not so much in winter, mind, but beadle’s likely to find her on t’streets at midnight of a summer’s eve. I tell her she must not do so…folks’ll take her for a witch. But she’ll not listen.”
“How does she live?” I asked.
“Priest gives her poor money, an’ folks give her a loaf now an’ then. I give her an egg if I have to spare. An’ she grows turnips an’ cabbages in her toft, when t’river don’t flood it.”
I did not think I had been called from Bampton to learn of an eccentric widow’s late-night rambles. But I had learned that Edith would not be hurried. I had but to inject the occasional exclamation or question to keep her going.
“Matilda were babblin’ to herself as we passed. Barely stopped long enough to greet me. We’re of an age, y’see. Grew up together, had children together…lost husbands together.”
“And then?” I prompted, as Edith’s mind wandered back to lost days.
“Mostly she passes folks by these days. Won’t stop to talk. Goes on about her way, whatever that might be. But Tuesday she took me by the arm an’ stopped. Looked me right in the eye, she did, an’ said, ‘’Tisn’t right, young folks meetin’ like that, at midnight.’”
“‘Like what?’ I says.”
“‘In t’churchyard,’ she said. ‘We never met w’lads at night in t’churchyard when we was maids.’”
“I wondered at that,” Edith explained. “Who did she see in t’churchyard? I like to know as what’s in t’wind, so I asked her who ’twas in t’churchyard.”
“Who was it?” I thought I knew the answer.
“’Twas Margaret Smith.”
“But it was night. How did this woman know who was there in the dark?”
“Heard ’em over t’wall. Knew Margaret’s voice.”
“But could not see her?”
“Oh, she did. Said she crept through t’gate an’ seen Margaret in t’moonlight.”
“Who was she with?”
“Thomas Shilton.”
“Did your friend say when this meeting happened? It must have been some time in the past. Would she remember well from so long ago?”
“Aye. ’Twas ’bout Whitsuntide.”
“Where may I find your friend? I would speak to her of this.”
“I’ll take you. She’ll not welcome a stranger.”
Edith took me to the High Street, turned right a few paces to the river, then left the street before the bridge. We took an obscure path barely above the water. In spring flood it probably would not be. Edith led the way past a dilapidated wharf, then past the smithy across the river. I could hear from across the Windrush the rhythmic swing of Alard’s hammer. We were nearly even with the mill when I saw, rising from reeds and brush, a decaying hut. Wisps of smoke trailed from the peaks of the gable ends and wreathed about the frayed thatch of a roof which had seen no repair for many years.
“Stop here,” Edith commanded, and went forward alone a few steps. “Matilda…Tildy…S’me, Edith. Will you come out?” she bawled.
The sagging door opened a few inches and an unwashed face peered through the crack. “How ye be, Tildy? I’ve brought someone t’see you.”
“Don’t want to see none,” a thin, cracking voice replied.
“Tildy, Master Hugh’s a surgeon — a doctor. Thought he might help you with your back, you bein’ afflicted an’ all.”
The door opened a little wider, slowly. I stood silently behind Edith, afraid that at any movement of mine the door would shut and Matilda would flee my presence like a doe in the forest.
Edith motioned me to follow her. The bent form I could dimly see at the door retreated to the dark, smoky interior as we approached. It took some time for my eyes to become accustomed to both the gloom and the stinging haze. When I managed to blink my vision clear I saw that we would stand for this interview. The only piece of furniture, if that it could be called, was a low cot strewn with rags which served as bed and bench to the frail, twisted woman before me.
“Come here, Tildy. Let Master Hugh have a look at you.”
The woman did as she was bidden, all the while keeping a wary eye on me. She was bent over a stick which she propped before her to support the weight of an upper body warped to a nearly horizontal position. I had seen elderly folk bent like her before, most often old women. The cause eludes me, and physicians who have written of human ills do not remark on the condition. As I do not know the cause of the infirmity, I am unable to assist those afflicted. I told this to the women. They seemed neither surprised nor distressed, for truth be told, we who deal with human ills most often find ourselves incompetent to change the course of human faults. This the two women knew.
I waited for Edith to continue the conversation. An abrupt change of subject from Matilda’s ailment to nocturnal activities in the churchyard last spring would likely raise the guard of a woman whose guard was permanently aloft at the best of times. Edith did not disappoint me.
“Have ye been by t’churchyard these days?” Edith asked.
“Aye,” the bent woman replied. “Go there most every day an’ it’s not rain nor snow.”
“I think I would see you about more often,” Edith replied with some surprise in her tone.
“Oh, I go after curfew bell. Want to be alone, see…account of I talk to my Ralph, an’ if folks were about an’ heard, they’d think I was daft.”
Ralph, I assumed, was Matilda’s late husband, resting now in the churchyard until our Lord Jesus should call him forth.
