arrival.
If the sheriff was awed by the judge’s dudgeon, he covered it well. He invited Sir William to his chamber, closed the door behind him, and left me, Margaret, and the clerk gazing at each other. The clerk did most of his gazing at Margaret, who, in spite of her condition, was well worth the occasional glance.
The door to Sir Roger’s room was heavy, but I could plainly hear voices in strident conversation behind it. But one of the voices was strident at first, then gradually both were.
The clerk resumed his seat behind a desk, trying to act engaged and unconcerned about the encounter behind the door. Margaret and I remained standing at the window.
The door to the sheriff’s chamber opened abruptly and crashed against the wall. The clerk leaped to his feet so abruptly that he rapped a knee smartly against his table. His muffled curse was submerged under Sir William’s loud demand.
“Where is this girl, then?”
I should have thought that was obvious. Margaret stepped forward a pace in answer.
“So you have caused this confusion, eh?”
“’Twas not my intention, m’lord.”
“Whether or not, I will not see home tomorrow eve.”
“I am sorry.”
“Sorry won’t get me to London. Seven weeks I’ve been on King Edward’s business. Why did you run off and send a youth near to the gallows?”
“I did not want to bring shame to my father,” Margaret whispered. Sir William looked down at her belly.
“Ah. You thought he would be better pleased if he thought you were dead, rather than making of him a grandfather before he had a son-in-law? Is that how ’tis?”
The answer to that question, I thought, was that Margaret had fled Burford without thinking at all. Margaret made no reply, but her spirit was returning, for she refused to drop her eyes in some admission of guilt.
“Well,” Sir William lifted a document before her, “this business has vexed me, but I’ll not see a man hang because some daft wench has fled hearth and home.”
He laid the document on the clerk’s desk. “A pen,” he demanded.
The clerk produced the article and a pot of ink from a shelf behind him. Sir William wrote a sentence on the sheet, then signed his name at the bottom with a flourish.
“There…set the lad free. Now, may I resume my journey?” — this to Sir Roger — “or is there another matter yet to detain me?” This he spoke in a sarcastic tone, intended, I think, to wither Sir Roger. He did not succeed. The sheriff had stood, his arms folded, throughout the exchange between Sir William and Margaret. Now he smiled sweetly, or as sweetly as any king’s sheriff is likely ever to smile.
“We will not delay you longer, Sir William. We trust you will have a pleasant journey and find all well at your home. You shall rest easy this night, knowing you have saved a king’s loyal subject from death on the scaffold.” There might be, I suppose, some debate about Thomas Shilton’s loyalty to King Edward, but this was not the moment to raise the point.
“Harumph…yes…no doubt.” And with another “harumph,” Sir William stalked from the clerk’s chamber. I heard him summon his clerk and grooms, who had remained in the passageway throughout the exchange, and together they stomped off down the hall, their heavy riding boots punctuating Sir William’s departure.
Sir Roger handed the release document to his clerk. “Show this to the jailor and release Thomas Shilton, then preserve it in the registry. Bring Thomas here. He is entitled to an explanation,” he turned to Margaret and me, “from you!”
I bowed and nodded. There was nothing to be said. The sheriff was correct.
A few minutes later footsteps echoed in the passageway outside the clerk’s door. Margaret shrank behind me and glanced at the window as if to measure the possibility of escape. The clerk pushed the door open and motioned Thomas Shilton through it.
Thomas, his eyes blinking in the unaccustomed light, glanced at me, Margaret, and the sheriff with open mouth and stunned expression. Sir Roger, his lips pursed, nodded to me. I recognized the gesture, stood to one side to unshield the cowering Margaret, and began my explanation.
I told him of my misgivings about his guilt, my time with Master John Wyclif, of Margaret’s flight and the reason for it, and how I discovered her. I concluded with an apology for the trouble I had brought to him. This was no deception. I trust he felt it sincere.
“And now,” I concluded, “Margaret wishes to return to her father.” Whether or not this was true I did not know, but I was convinced it should be true, and that at this moment someone needed to push her in that direction. So I did. “Shall I take her to him, or will you?”
Thomas did not speak for a moment. The silence was only for a few seconds, but it seemed hours before he spoke. I was nearly convinced that I would see duty as her escort back to Burford when Thomas finally spoke through thin lips and tight jaw.
“I will see her to her father. We have much to speak of on the way.”
From his tone I thought most of the talk would come from him. Margaret remained silent throughout this exchange, but I had seen enough of her spirit to know that had his words displeased her, she would have informed us. I took her silence as acquiescence, which proved to be correct.
“How will you travel?” I asked.
“Walk. ’Tis not so far,” Thomas replied.
“The road is mud,” I remarked.
Thomas shrugged. “We will keep to the verge. If travel be strenuous, we will seek shelter at Witney and finish the journey tomorrow.” He said this with a long glance at Margaret’s belly.
“Then be off,” Sir Roger commanded. In my apology to Thomas and the further discussion, I had forgotten that the sheriff was an observer. I took his words as a charge to me, as well, and so made to follow Thomas and Margaret out the door. I was mistaken.
“Master Hugh,” Sir Roger called as I was about to step into the passageway. “Will you renew your effort to find a murderer?”
“Aye. Lord Gilbert is adamant about the matter. He will surely demand I continue the search. And now it is my bailiwick.”
“Quite so…quite so. Well, have you need of my office, send a man and I will provide what aid you require. Murder is the king’s business, and in the shire, it becomes my business.”
I thanked him for his offer, which I thought generous after the fraud I had put on him. The truth was, at that moment I had no scheme to seek further into the matter of either misplaced bones or buried gentlemen.
I walked from the castle gate to the market, seeking Arthur along the way. I thought he might have tired of the entertainment, but not so. He stood at the fringe of the crowd watching a man throw daggers at a tiny, dark- haired girl who stood unflinching against a panel of boards erected to catch the whirling weapons. The blades fixed themselves to this screen only inches from the girl, who remained immobile, a smile frozen to her face, throughout the display.
The multitude shouted approval when the last dagger was hurled to its target. Then a short, brawny, thick- necked fellow of indeterminate age stepped to the small platform the troupe had erected and challenged all to wrestle. A challenger who could defeat this champion would win sixpence. Others of the troupe circulated through the audience, taking bets and giving odds. I declined the offered wager when it came my turn, not being much of a sporting type.
The wrestler dispatched three opponents in quick succession, then belittled some men in the crowd for refusing his challenge. These smiled sheepishly, shook their heads, and would not be persuaded. They had seen with what ease he conquered those foolish enough to take his dare. His strength was surely great, but it seemed to me as I watched the matches that he won as much through skill and technique as sheer brawn.
The wrestler stepped from the stage and the girl who was the target for the knife-thrower vaulted onto it, flipping head-over-heels from the ground to land on the elevated boards. She proceeded to twist herself into impossible positions, walked about the platform on her hands, then, supported only by her hands, concluded the performance by raising her feet until they were behind her head. The crowd applauded while the knife-thrower and an older woman walked through the mob, baskets in hand, collecting farthings and pennies from the appreciative audience. I threw in a penny and felt myself charitable. Well, Christmas would soon be upon us.
