mind men’s quarrels overmuch, so long as they did not include him. But when it seemed the disputes might embrace him as well, he did what any worried horse might do.
This kick was, I think, delivered with more force than the first, as if Bruce wished to say, “I warned you…now pay the price.”
It was too dark to see where the kick landed, but I heard it well enough, and I heard the wind go out of my foe like air forced from a blacksmith’s bellows. I heard him roll, gasping and choking once again, to the darkened hedgerow. I could see nothing of him there, but there was much to hear. The fellow tossed himself about and groaned in agony, so that had I been a hundred paces from the place I could have heard him clearly. Someone, perhaps closer than that, did hear this thrashing and moaning. Perhaps they thought the sufferer was me. I am sure they hoped ’twas so.
Again I had opportunity to mount Bruce and be off, but again I did not. Perhaps it was curiosity which fastened me to the spot. I wondered what might come next, when I should have rather escaped, for when the man recovered from his hurt I might learn a thing I did not wish to know.
But I was fortunate. The scuffling and retching by the hedgerow ceased, replaced by deep and labored breathing. I sensed, rather than saw, that my attacker was risen to his feet, and braced myself for another charge. It did not come.
Instead I heard the man’s uneven footfalls as he stumbled through the mud and into the forest which bounded the western edge of the road. I heard him plunge into the wood, then above the crackle of breaking twigs and crushed leaves I heard a voice. ’Twas barely more than a whisper, due to stealth, or perhaps the blow I gave his throat. I know not which. And because he created such a racket as he dove into the copse I did not hear clearly all that was said. But three words I heard well enough to not mistake them: “Begone…he lives.”
It was me spoken of, I am sure. And no sooner had these words come to me from the woods than I heard other feet making hasty departure, stumbling over the winter’s fallen branches not yet gleaned for firewood.
Then the forest grew quickly silent and I was left standing alone in the darkened road. There had been two who awaited me this night, but only one saw fit to attack. Why was this so? Two might have overpowered me. Perhaps they thought that one assailant was enough. My slender physique would not strike fear in the heart of a sturdily made man. Whatever the reason, but one had fallen upon me and with Bruce’s aid he had been driven off. I felt fortunate. The words hissed from the forest but a moment before came back to me. “He lives.” It was clear to me that I was not attacked for my purse. I was intended to die in the mud of the road.
I thought I knew who my assailant was, and why he wished me dead. But to kill a man because of a pair of shoes? Who would do such a thing? Perhaps, I reflected, there is more to this matter than shoes.
Such thoughts occupied my mind as I stretched my aching shoulders, climbed to Bruce’s broad back, and settled myself for the last half-mile to Bampton and the castle. Certainly Henry atte Bridge despised me for interfering in his life. I had demanded his presence and homage at his father’s funeral. I had helped his half-sister escape with what few possessions she could gather from her father’s hut. I had discovered his falsity about his shoes. He could not know this yet, but perhaps suspected it, for he saw me ride north earlier that day.
Wilfred had left the gate open and the portcullis drawn awaiting my return. I gave Bruce over to him with a charge that the horse was to receive an extra measure of oats this night. He assured me that the marshalsea would be so instructed and led the animal to the stables while his assistant swung the doors closed and cranked down the portcullis.
I did not wish to show myself to the castle residents in my soiled state. Dark as it was in the castle yard, Wilfred was unaware of the mud which covered me, but the light of a single candle would make my condition clear.
So I was relieved to gain entrance to the great hall, and my chamber, without being seen. There remained some water in a bucket from my morning ablution. I removed my soiled clothes and mopped my grimy face and arms before donning clean chauces, kirtle and cotehardie. When I felt presentable I made my way to the kitchen and procured for myself another cold supper. This was becoming a habit I had no wish to continue. I fell asleep that night pondering how I might confront Henry atte Bridge. I might have saved myself the worry. Someone else confronted him first.
Chapter 6
Sunday dawned bright and clear. There was in the yellow tint of the sun’s slanting beams a promise of warmth before the day was old.
I admit that I find it disagreeable to rise for matins on the Lord’s Day. This is especially so when winter holds a dark curtain over all so early in the morning. But this day glistened with the promise of spring. And I was alive. It was clear to me that two men wished it otherwise. I had Bruce to thank for my life, but God also. If he could be diverted from more important matters to see my life prolonged, I would be ungrateful to ignore an opportunity to thank Him for His trouble.
I left the church after matins to await the mass in the churchyard. Many centuries of burials have left the grounds around the Church of St Beornwald lifted above the paths which lead from the church to the graves and the lych gate in the churchyard wall. In this way the church at Bampton is like that of my home in Little Singleton, and every other churchyard in the kingdom. Should Christ delay his return, these burial hummocks will someday, I think, rise to block the sun from the church windows.
I climbed one of these low mounds and sat, my back to the rising sun, to wait for the bells which would announce the next service. No sound but the soft piping of a bullfinch disturbed my reverie. The bird left his oaken perch at the edge of the churchyard and darted, a small orange and black comet, past the church tower and into the wood to the north of the churchyard. A bullfinch! I hoped this fellow had not many brothers hereabouts, for if so, they would soon be feasting on the buds of Lord Gilbert’s apple trees.
Beyond the wood where the bullfinch vanished I saw other birds. In the high, distant sky four buzzards circled in the calm morning air, black against the blue heavens.
St Beornwald’s bell jolted me from my wool-gathering and I joined the flow of worshippers making their way to the porch. The stone building was cold, so when Father Thomas concluded his sermon all present were pleased that they would soon be released to return to the sun, now well up above the town rooftops and making the church windows a blaze of color.
The vicars greeted parishioners at the porch as we filed eagerly from the building. Not that all were impatient to be released from their worship, although surely some were of such a mind. After a long winter a pleasant spring day is much welcome and not to be wasted.
As I walked the path from porch to churchyard I noticed Thomas de Bowlegh in conversation with a woman. Her back was to me, but Father Thomas’ features were visible, and creased with concern. His brow was furrowed, and his lips pursed. Then the woman, in great agitation, turned to point to the east and I saw it was Emma, the wife of Henry atte Bridge. Perhaps, I thought, he came home last night in ill humor and beat her to make up for his loss elsewhere. And now she complained to the Bishop of Exeter’s representative of her husband’s cruelty.
I walked on toward the castle and my dinner but had gone but a few paces down Church View Street when I heard my name called. Thomas de Bowlegh had ended his conversation in the churchyard and was now panting after me. “Master Hugh…a word,” the vicar puffed as he approached. “Henry atte Bridge…you know him?”
I nodded.
“Henry has disappeared. His wife came to me this morning after mass.”
“Is he a reliable man?” I asked. I thought I knew the answer to that question, but perhaps others saw the man differently than I.
The vicar hesitated. “No less than others. He’s not run off before, and does his week work for the bishop with no more prodding than most.”
“Ah, yes, the new tithe barn. I saw him at work on it yesterday as I passed.”
I saw a quizzical expression pass briefly across de Bowlegh’s face, so I explained my mission, the reason for it, and what I had learned. I also told him of the attack. I saw the vicar’s jaw grow tight and his lips draw into a thin line as I completed the tale.
“Think you he has fled…to escape judgment for his misdeeds?”
