He turned to speak to a valet, who immediately scurried across the muddy yard to the castle gatehouse and disappeared within. While the valet was off on his errand I remembered the business which brought me to Goodrich Castle.
“Lady Joan’s arm; she must seek the surgeon in Gloucester to remove the plaster.”
“When?” Lord Gilbert asked.
“Not before St Valentine’s Day. Even a week after if she does not chafe over the inconvenience.”
“St Valentine’s Day! Hah! Sir Charles will be pleased, I think.”
To this remark I made no reply. How could I?
At that moment the valet returned, a large, dark object I could not identify in the dim morning twilight slung over his shoulder.
“’Twas not ready ’til yesterday. The tailor would not be pressed,” Lord Gilbert explained.
I was confused and stood before him with empty expression. This he observed.
“Your cloak, man. I promised you a fur cloak as part of your wages. Here ’tis.”
I took the garment from the panting valet, who seemed for the briefest moment unwilling to give it up. It was soft and luxuriant and I understood his reluctance.
“Put it on…don’t just stand there,” Lord Gilbert demanded. I did so.
“I thank you, m’lord. ’Tis true you promised such a garment. I had forgot. But I did not expect such as this. ’Tis worthy of a duke.”
“Well, if you see one and he would have it, do not give it up to him,” Lord Gilbert jested.
I mounted my horse, last of the party to put foot to stirrup, wrapped in my new cloak. As we passed through the outer yard to the barbican I turned to look back at the castle and saw, through the gathering light, Lady Joan and a maid watching our departure from atop the gatehouse. She saw me turn, and waved her uninjured hand, then lifted it to her lips and blew a kiss. I turned in my saddle to wave farewell, but as I did so she was gone. I wondered if I would ever see Lady Joan again.
The cloak was as warm as it was soft, and protected me well from the gale which swept from the Forest of Dean across our path. We arrived in Gloucester before nightfall and again sought shelter with the monks of St Peter’s Abbey. The abbot seemed displeased to provide bed and board for miscreants, but as Hamo and Walter were not yet judged guilty of a crime he swallowed his objection and remained true to the rules of his order.
This abbot would have seen us on our way next morning, but the wind howled down from the mountains of Wales — better a wind should do so than the Welsh, Sir John remarked — and snow spattered the cobbles of the monastery yard. Sir John and I were uneasy, so elected to remain within the monastery’s hospitable walls another day. We did not wish to be caught on the way in a great snow.
The next day dawned bright and cold, the snow of the previous day leaving but a dusting on our path. The mud of the road froze in the night, so the road was firm beneath the horses’ hooves. But it was cold. Sir John gazed often at me that day, snug in my cloak, before, as the sun sank beneath the bare trees at our backs, we reached Bampton and shelter.
Chapter 17
This tale has grown longer than I intended. My parchment is nearly consumed, and it will be many weeks before I can visit Oxford to replenish my supply. Your candle no doubt burns low and a warm bed calls. So I will conclude this account.
Hubert Shillside convened the coroner’s jury in the Church of St Beornwald on a bitterly cold first day of January. Twelve townsmen listened as Roger and I gave evidence. The juggler did not prevaricate, and needed no prodding from me to present a full report of all he knew. There was no reason he should not, for when the coroner questioned Hamo Tanner, the wrestler freely admitted his deed. His emotions came near the surface — remarkable in so sturdy a man — when he justified the revenge he had taken against his daughter’s slayer.
Nevertheless, the jury brought a charge of murder against Hamo and his son. Sir John and the grooms took Hamo to Oxford and the sheriff while I kept Roger with me at Bampton, where I could be certain he would not flee before we should be called to give witness at the trial.
Sir John returned two days later from his mission to the sheriff and reported that the king’s eyre would meet the next week. Sir Roger would send for me when a day was set for the trial. That week passed quickly, for there was much work on the manor for a new bailiff to learn.
Geoffrey Thirwall, the steward, arrived in Bampton two days before Twelfth Night. He searched diligently for some flaw in my work, or that of John, the reeve, but found only minor complaints to issue against us. Well, it is his business to root out that which is wrong and right it.
I was some worried that tenants and villeins might discover some defect in my labor and protest against me at hallmote. But none did. Perhaps because I had done so little on the estate that I had few opportunities to blunder. Given a full year before next hallmote, I was sure I could err often enough that some would find reason to complain of me.
Two days after Epiphany, Sir Roger sent a messenger to summon witnesses to the trials of Hamo and Walter Tanner. I was nearly as reluctant to attend as I had been for the trial of Thomas Shilton. In the days before Roger and I were summoned, I tried to think what I, had I been a father in Hamo’s place, would have done. I fear I would have acted no differently. This is not to say I justify the murder Hamo did. But any might be capable of the same crime in the circumstance.
I will say that I was not sorry when the jury made of my labors no consequence. The burghers of Oxford were mostly men who rose from the commons, and they understood Hamo’s remark that he did not trust gentlemen to do justice for him against one of their own. They brought a verdict of not guilty. As Sir Robert drew first, Walter and Hamo were justified in defending themselves.
The judge, Sir William Barnhill, was the same I had caused to interrupt his journey home two months earlier. He recognized me, I knew, when I was called to the stand to testify, for he glared at me through narrowed eyes all the while I spoke, as if to say, “You’d better have it right this time.”
When he dismissed jury and defendants, I watched to see how Hamo and Walter would receive Roger. I was too far away to hear their words, but they walked from the room in seemingly amicable conversation. Perhaps a good juggler was hard enough to find that Roger could be forgiven his disloyal truth.
I had no wish to return to Bampton that evening in the dark, so returned to my inn for another night. I stayed this occasion at the Foxes’ Lair, a more substantial place than the Stag and Hounds, suitable to my rising position in the world. The soup and ale were thicker, as well as the beds, at the Foxes’ Lair.
I retrieved my old friend, Bruce, from the inn stable at dawn and set out across Castle Mill Stream Bridge. But not for Bampton. There was another question I must ask before I could be satisfied that I knew all there was of the events I had seen and probed since St Michael’s Day. At Eynsham I took the road to Witney and on to Burford. Bruce would have turned for Bampton at Eynsham; it took a strong hand on the reins to persuade him that we could not yet go home.
I guided Bruce down Burford High Street, to the bridge across the Windrush. Ice clogged the riverbanks. The cold current flowed only in the middle of the stream. I turned from the road to the path which led to the smith and the mill.
Smoke rose from Alard’s forge, and I heard once again the clang of his hammer as I approached. But ’twas not the smith I sought. My question was for his daughter. As I drew near the building Bruce neighed. He was heard between the strokes of the hammer, for the tolling of the blows ceased and Alard appeared in the opening door. Behind him, craning her head to see past his broad shoulders, I saw Margaret.
I thought — perhaps I hoped — that I might not find her there. Perhaps, I mused, Thomas Shilton would take her for wife yet, and I would need to seek her in Shilton village. But not so. She pressed past her father to greet me, her belly large beneath her surcoat, her time near come.
“Master Hugh,” she greeted me. “Who do you seek?”
“You. I have news, and a question,” I replied.
Alard peered beneath bushy eyebrows from Margaret to me, then grunted and returned to his work. I was pleased, for I wished Margaret to speak freely and thought my question might be too raw for her to wish to answer
