“Aye. We all was.”
“Why so? Did they give no sign of fondness for each other?”
“Nay, I saw no sign. Oh, the lad was fond enough of Eleanor — Hamo’s daughter was named Eleanor, for the great queen, y’know — but she’d not return any suit of his…so I thought.”
“Why so? Was the lad ill-formed, or dull of wit?” I asked.
“Not more so than t’rest of us,” he smiled. “But Eleanor had lads in every town would have offered marriage. A young burgher of Winchester would have had her for wife when we were last there.”
“What,” I wondered aloud, “did Hamo think of that?”
“Oh,” the juggler paused, “he was torn, I’ll tell you.”
“How so?”
“Every father wishes his daughter well wed, an’ Hamo had little enough for Eleanor’s dowry. But no man wishes to lose his daughter, ’specially as how he’d need to find another acrobat. A man can do that, replace a servant. Not so easy to replace a daughter…what with Hamo’s wife dead an’ gone these nine years now.”
“Did Hamo forbid her to wed the burgher of Winchester, or did Eleanor so choose?”
The juggler shrugged. “’Twas the lass, I think. Had Hamo forbid it, she’d have wed to spite him. She was of that age.”
“She was a troublesome maid, then?”
“Aye; could be. Not much more than many of her years,” he replied.
“But you were surprised, then, that she stole away with the boy?”
“Aye, that’s so. So were we all, I think.”
“How do you know of a certainty that she did?” I asked.
That question seemed to take the juggler by surprise. He stammered a moment, then held his hands to the fire again before he answered. “Well…uh…’twas plain enough. Both gone of t’same night.”
“But no one saw them together…that day, or in their flight?”
“Nay. But it adds up, wouldn’t you say?”
I was not so sure of that, but decided I would get no other tale from any in the troupe unless I could convince them I knew their story false. But I did not know this, only suspected it so. The juggler seemed, of the three I had chatted with, the most likely to yield the truth when pressed. He had looked away often, avoiding my eyes. So I pressed him.
“Walter Tanner has a fine green cotehardie; how long has he owned the garment?”
“Huh…how…what has that to do with me?” the juggler stammered.
“Perhaps nothing, but one much like it was taken from a corpse near Bampton some months ago, and about the time you were there.”
“’Twas not Walter. I remember now. He bought it in London…aye, London.”
“When were you there?” I pressed further.
“Uh…’twas Shrove Tuesday, two years, nearly, now.”
“The tear he received in it — a misfortune, surely. How did that happen?”
“’Tis torn?” he replied. “I knew not.”
“Come, man. ’Tis at the front, just below the heart. You could not stand before it and the slit escape notice, no matter how well mended it is.”
“Oh, that…uh, ’twas mischance,” he hesitated, “when ’twas packed in saddle bags with t’knives, I think. Yes, that was the cause. Right woeful Walter was, too.”
I thought perhaps I had disconcerted the juggler, and that with another sally he might break, but as he replied I saw confidence return to his gaze and his spine stiffen. I tried again, anyway.
“The cut is in a perilous place, were a man wearing the cotehardie when a fellow skilled as Walter, let us say, might hurl a knife at him.”
“Aye, but was Walter wearing it, who would throw the blade?” he countered.
“Perhaps another had donned it,” I asserted through stiff lips, “and Walter was free to fling the dagger?”
“Walter is no murderer,” the juggler retorted with acrimony.
“But is he a man-slayer?” I replied.
“What say you, that a man can slay another but not be a murderer?”
“Some,” I responded, “might say so, if they think slaying a miscreant be justice rather than murder.”
“You go too deep for me,” the juggler complained nervously. “An’ I have business to attend before Lord Gilbert calls. Good day, Master…Hugh.” And with that he dismissed me and retreated to his tent. I admit my interview technique was crude, but even a dull blade will cut if applied firmly.
I turned from the tents, uncertain of my course, and saw the new contortionist approach from around the northeast tower. There was a raised, dry path through the mud of the yard, and she picked her way across the mire on it. I directed my feet to the same trail, and we met in the middle of the yard, between the castle wall and the marshalsea. Her eyes were fixed on her course, so I caused her to start when finally she perceived me before her, blocking her way lest she choose to step into the muck.
The girl stepped back, as if she feared I would thrust her into the mud. This, I admit, would have been a simple matter, for the lass was tiny — little bigger than Alice. She could not have weighed more than six stone.
“Good day. Forgive me…I had no wish to alarm you,” I reassured the girl. “I am Master Hugh, surgeon to Lord Gilbert at his Bampton estate.”
The girl smiled shyly. “I am Agnes, sir.”
“Well, Agnes, I marvel at your talent. I am told that you are newly brought to this work.”
“’Tis so, sir.”
“You have learnt quickly, then. It must be difficult for you…to replace Hamo’s daughter, who was so practiced at the art.”
“Uh…aye. Uh, I mean, no. Hamo says I do well.”
“He speaks truth. I did not see his daughter perform, but I cannot think she could surpass you in facility.”
“I thank you, sir.”
“Of course, you would not have seen Eleanor perform, either.”
“Oh, yes, sir. Hamo brought his company to Banbury when I was but a wee lass. I saw her tricks, and copied as best I could. When Hamo brought his band again to Banbury and I saw he’d no lass for acrobat, I sought him out and showed what I had mastered.”
“And now you travel with him. Has he taught you more?” I inquired.
“Aye. Much more; I practice new tricks every week. Some Hamo has taught me, and some I devise.”
“No doubt Hamo misses his daughter. Does he seek news of her as you journey?”
The girl was silent and thoughtful for a moment. “Nay,” she finally replied.
“He does not wish to find her?” I wondered aloud. “He must be very angry.”
“’Tis a puzzle,” she agreed. “I was told she fled with a lad of the company. But one night in autumn I was sleepless and lay in my tent listening to Hamo and Walter as they talked by the fire late into the night. They spoke of her as dead, and perhaps the lad too. Perhaps it was but a manner of speaking,” she added.
“Did they give opinion how this might be known to them?” I asked.
The girl’s tone became conspiratorial, and she stepped closer. “Nay, sir. They spoke softly, and the fire crackled; I did not hear all.”
“An accident, or illness, mayhap, took the two lives?”
“No,” she frowned. “I think not. ’Twas an evil deed, I think. They spoke of justice for Eleanor.”
“Hmm…yes. One would not seek justice if death was a result of mischance or malady. Was this justice they sought, or justice done?”
The girl pressed closer yet, and whispered, “Justice done, sir, I think.”
As the girl spoke Hamo Tanner appeared at a stable door. He glanced in our direction as he strode toward his tents, then hesitated in mid-stride and peered under narrowed brows at Agnes and me. It was clear he found our conversation disquieting. He turned from his course and approached us.
“Agnes, don’t be takin’ up Master Hugh’s time. An’ you must be limber for your performance this day. Off with you, now.”
