bodily out of his house, and was certainly strong enough to do so, as I am of slender build and Henry was short and thickset. There are advantages as well as trials to serving as bailiff to a powerful lord.
I wrinkled my nose and tested the air. “You have enjoyed a joint for your first remove,” I asserted.
“Ha…where would I find meat this time of year? The hog me an’ me brother butchered last autumn is gone, but for a fletch o’ bacon.”
“Hmm. My nose misleads me, then,” I shrugged.
Henry atte Bridge made no answer but to fold his arms and glare. I looked over my shoulder at his wife and children. They sat frozen on a bench, spoons of cooling pottage hovering between bowl and lips.
He was lying about the roasted meat, although I could gain little by pressing him on the matter. Was he lying about his shoes also? I thought it likely. And whereas I had no way to prove his deceit about the mutton or venison or whatever it was his lad had been turning on the spit, I could discover the truth of his shoes. I had but to travel to Witney.
The sun was well down behind the western forest when I returned to Bampton Castle and the gatehouse. The cool spring evening was without a breeze, and the sky, bright blue and cloudless as the afternoon wore on, was now black in the east and a faint golden gray through the leafless trees to the west. Brilliant stars speckled the night, like flecks of snow on a parson’s robe.
Alice was waiting for me in the great hall, sitting on the cold flags, her back against the wall. She must have guessed what I was about that evening, but spoke instead of fleabane. She rose, sleepy-eyed, as I approached. It was this movement which told me she was there, for the hall, lit only by a single cresset, was so dark I did not see her sitting near my chamber door.
“Please, sir…you said this mornin’ as I might ’ave some of the flower what drives fleas away?”
“Ah, yes…you may. I will prepare some of the herb. In exchange you go to the kitchen and get me some supper. I told the cook to keep a meal ready for my return.”
“Thank you, sir.” The girl curtsied and scuttled off toward the buttery door, becoming invisible in that shadowed part of the hall.
My chamber still held the scent of burned fleabane. I hoped that the stink would be more objectionable to vermin than to me. If so, I should sleep unmolested this night. I gathered the remainder of the fleabane from my chest and broke a handful into the bowl I had left smoldering on my floor that morning. I spread another handful of broken stems, leaves and purple flowers across my mattress. I was left with but little of the herb should fleas reappear before summer brought another harvest of the tiny flowers. I resolved this summer to gather more than in the past. Just in case.
Alice returned with my supper — cold mutton, cheese, and a loaf of fine wheat bread.
Mutton is not my favorite dish when served hot. Cold, it leaves a thick coating of grease on the tongue to mark its passage. The bread and cheese did little to scour the taste away.
I gave Alice the bowl of fleabane and instructed her in its use: burn half, then strew the other half on her mattress. She should wait, I told her, until the morrow, so that the fumes might have the day to permeate the closet where she slept.
The girl took the bowl, curtsied again, and turned with the fleabane pressed to her breast as if I had given her a pouch of silver pennies. Well, when one is assaulted by fleas, their elimination might be worth a sack of pennies to him who could afford it.
I had business on the manor next day, so could not start for Witney until the morning’s work was done. John Holcutt was to oversee the planting of dredge on one of Lord Gilbert’s fields and I wished to observe the planting of peas on another of the demesne fields. If peas are planted too closely together, rather than increase the yield per acre, the plants will choke each other and produce a poor crop. But if the peas be planted too sparsely, weeds will spring up and produce the same untoward result.
I set the planters to work with their dibble sticks, and instructed them to sow at three bushels per acre, no more and no less. I waited until the work was well begun, then made my way back to the castle for my dinner. I had told the marshalsea to have Bruce ready at noon. The old horse knew he was to travel, saddled and bridled as he was, and was stamping and blowing with impatience when I reached the stables. I did not make the beast wait.
At the north edge of Bampton I passed the place where the bishop’s men were erecting his new barn. Eager for a break from their work, they leaned on their tools and watched as Bruce ambled past. Among the upturned faces was that of Henry atte Bridge. When he was certain I looked his way he spat upon the ground, then returned to cutting a mortise with hammer and chisel.
Aside from Henry atte Bridge and his salivary salutation, I quite enjoyed the ride through sunlit, spring countryside. Low shrubs and plants on the forest floor were popping into greenery. Taller trees had yet few leaves, so the road was not shaded and Bruce and I were warmed with the sun at our backs. Meadows along the way bustled with life. Jackdaws and wrens chirped and flitted about, seeking seeds and the early hatch of unwary insects.
I had ridden this way before. Less than a mile from town I passed the coppiced wood where, eighteen months past, I had watched as pigs, rooting for acorns, uncovered a blue cotehardie. The discovery of that garment led to the identification of bones found in Lord Gilbert’s castle cesspit, and eventually revealed a killer. Now I had another body, and a blue thread taken from it. I began to dislike the color blue.
A few hundred paces beyond the coppiced wood where the pigs and I made our discovery the road split, the left fork leading to Shilton and Burford. Bruce knew that way, and would have followed it had I not pulled on the reins to guide him to the right.
Two miles later we crested the hill southwest of Witney and dropped down into the valley of the Windrush.
I pointed Bruce down the High Street, past the impressive spire of St Mary’s Church, to the Buttercross at the market square. The square was busy of a Saturday, even though Thursday was market day in the town. I was about to ask a scurrying citizen for the location of the cobbler’s shop when I saw on the north side of the market square a house with a shoe painted on a wooden plank which swung from a beam above the door.
The shoemaker had not ended his work yet this day. I heard a light tapping as I paused at his door before rapping my knuckles upon it. The tapping ceased immediately and moments later a face with a quizzical expression on it peered at me through the partly opened door. The cobbler had not, I think, been expecting either trade or a strange visitor.
I asked if he was the town shoemaker. His response was to glance with rolling eyes above my head at his sign, as if to signal my ignorance to some onlooker.
“Aye,” he finally said. The man looked down at my serviceable — although hardly new — footwear, then asked, “You need shoes?”
I explained that I needed not shoes but rather a few minutes of his time to inquire of a previous customer. This information did not seem to fill the man with joy, but he turned and nodded me into his shop.
To the right, behind the door, was the cobbler’s bench, set before a south window. On it I saw a pair of shoes much like those Henry atte Bridge wore. These shoes were nearly complete. I had interrupted the cobbler as he nailed the finished leather to the thick wooden soles. No doubt he wished me soon gone, so he could complete his work before the light faded from his window and his labor must, by statute, cease for the day. Indeed, I wished to conclude my business quickly also. I did not want to find myself on the road alone at night. Free companies have not been seen in this shire for many years — we are not so cursed as is France by these brigands — but ’tis well nevertheless for the man who travels alone to reach his destination before dark.
The shoes on the cobbler’s bench were so like those on Henry atte Bridge’s feet that I thought myself on a fool’s errand. Of course, they were like the shoes on the feet of most of the commons, but this thought did not register at the moment.
Along the wall beyond the bench was a shelf. On it I saw five pairs of shoes awaiting buyers. Three pairs were like the unfinished set awaiting completion on the bench. A fourth pair was more delicate, made of softer leather, and with leather soles. The fifth pair seemed much out of place. They were of fine leather, with the outlandishly long, curled toes now favored by nobles. Whoever wore these shoes would have to walk up stairs backwards and tie the toes to his calves or he would be forever tripping over them. I wondered who in this town would buy such shoes. Perhaps the Bishop of Winchester, or one of his minions.
“What is your price for shoes such as these?” I asked, nodding toward the pair on his bench.
