Arthur and I retrieved our horses from the inn stable, and made our way through the inevitable throng on the High Street and New Road to the bridge over the Castle Mill Stream. I turned back at the bridge for a look at the ancient motte and keep of Oxford Castle, rising above the newer fortress. I thanked God that He led me to Margaret Smith in time to prevent a dreadful injustice, and spoke a silent prayer that He would again intercede if in the future I was about to do some similar witless act.
Arthur and I splashed across the river at Swinford, and a half-mile farther on took the track for Bampton. Ahead in the distance, far down the road to Witney and Burford, I saw two brown-clad figures, their cloaks blending with the muddy road and autumn foliage. One was tall, the other short; both were striding purposefully west toward Eynsham. The shorter figure seemed to walk with a limp.
Chapter 13
Arthur chattered on as we rode, pleased to go home, and animated by the performance he had witnessed that morning. He commented on the strength of the wrestler, the skills of the acrobats and jugglers, and the daring of the knife-thrower. I thought he might have mentioned the daring of the girl who served as the fellow’s target. He did remark on her ability to wind her slender body into such miraculous shapes.
When he finished his review of the performances he began over again, this time comparing their execution this day with their efforts at Bampton five months before. They had lost none of their abilities, he concluded, but for the girl. Marvelous as her talents were, she could not compare to the lass who had performed even more phenomenal feats of contortion earlier in the year. I paid him little attention. I thought rather of the error I had made which nearly cost a man his life. But when he finished his review a new thought intruded upon my reflection.
“The girl today was not with the troupe at Whitsuntide?” I asked.
“Nay…’tis another, I think. This lass was dark. The girl with them before was fair, hair the color of barley- straw at harvest.”
“’Tis not unknown for a woman to change the color of her hair?”
“Aye,” he agreed. “That sort might do so. But ’twas a different lass, all the same.”
“You are certain?”
“T’other had pale skin, burned red on her cheeks from the sun. The lass today was dark. She’d not burn red like that.”
I agreed such a hue was unlikely for the girl I had seen that day at Oxford. This news unsettled me.
After Arthur reviewed the entertainers’ repertoire the second time, he found little more to speak of, so we rode on in silence. There was little to do but sway in synchronization to Bruce’s easy gait and think of Arthur’s revelation about the other contortionist; the one with barley-straw hair.
“How old would you say the girl was?” I asked.
“Eh? What girl?”
I had forgotten that Arthur was not privy to my thoughts. His mind had wandered in its own directions, which were not the same as mine.
“The other girl with the troupe, the one at Whitsuntide.”
“Oh…ah, well, quite young, as was her replacement. Can’t imagine any but the young able to do such as that.”
“So then, how old did you take her for?”
“Sixteen…seventeen years. No more.”
“And how tall was she, do you guess?”
“Oh, like the lass today. Short.”
“So she might have been younger than seventeen?” I pressed.
“Might have been. But her face, you know, not the face of a child, nor a child’s manner.”
“What of her manner?”
“Throwin’ glances at the men as was watchin’, to get ’em to toss more into t’basket when it come ’round.”
“Did it work?”
“Huh?” Arthur feigned ignorance.
“How much did you pitch in, Arthur?”
“I don’t remember. I do recall as how Father Simon was that offended, he went to Lord Gilbert and asked for him to send them off, the lot of them.”
“And did Lord Gilbert do so?”
“Nay,” Arthur chuckled. “He brought them to t’castle to perform in the hall next day. ’Twas a feast for Sir Robert. I helped serve. Thought we’d hear that Lady Joan was betrothed before the festivities was done, but not so.”
“And the troupe left the next day?”
“Aye. ’Twas late when supper was done. They stayed t’night in t’castle yard. Set up their own tents. One slept in t’stable. Had horses an’ a cart for their stage an’ other goods. Was gone next mornin’.”
“Did they leave early? At dawn?”
Arthur mulled this over for a minute. “Nay. ’Twas an odd thing ’bout that. ’Twas past third hour when they left. The wrestler — he’s leader, I think — was wantin’ to see Lord Gilbert, but chamberlain put him off. I was about my duties. Don’t know if he ever did see Lord Gilbert. Wanted more coin for his work, I think.”
“The contortionist…did she attend Sir Robert while she performed?”
“Can’t say. I was in an’ out from t’kitchen, you see. I suppose she did. She didn’t seem to take notice who she fluttered her eyes at.”
We rode on in silence. I thought I now knew who the girl in the cesspit was, and perhaps even how she might have got there. But did Sir Robert’s death have to do with the bones in the cesspit? I had been wrong before. I reviewed other possible explanations for the fair-haired skull which had lain on my examination table. None seemed to fit the pattern Arthur had introduced, at least not so well as the solution taking shape in my mind. But how to prove it, and prove it this time without mortal error.
The sun was setting behind the village as we approached Bampton, casting a long shadow from the church spire across the village and fields to the east. Arthur and I rode on silently, pleased to be home. After three days of thaw the weather was turning cold again. I wrapped my cloak about me and thought of the fire I would have laid in my chamber.
I thought also of how I might test my new suspicion regarding the information Arthur had provided since leaving Oxford. By the time I swung stiffly down from Bruce’s back and turned him over to the marshalsea, I had a scheme in mind to answer, I hoped, my misgivings. But this plan I would not put into effect soon. I was too unwilling to trust my wits, having failed so badly in the matter of Thomas Shilton. I determined to think through my design for a few days. I had made one serious error already. Delay was preferable to making another.
I left Arthur with instructions for the kitchen for food and a fire, then sought my chamber and peace. There was to be none; peace, I mean. At least, not immediately. I had but settled to a chair when there was a knock at my door: ah, a fire, I thought. As too many times before, I was mistaken. I opened the door to find John Holcutt standing before me. I greeted him and asked his business, and as I did, I guessed it would be no pleasant thing.
“’Tis Walter atte Lane, Master Hugh. He avoids his week-work these last four days. We mend fences, but he will not come.”
“He owes two days each week to Lord Gilbert, does he not?” I asked.
“Aye. He has a yardland of Lord Gilbert and for that owes two days from Michaelmas ’til the gules of August.”
“Is he ill?”
“He complains so, but he told Alfred that he would try the new bailiff and see had he stomach for the work. I came to you as soon as I heard you had returned.”
So that’s how it will be, I thought. If Walter atte Lane can shirk and not be held to account, other villeins will
