pointed leaves before I found what I sought. I dug up several plants, washed the roots free of dirt in the brook, then placed them in the bag with the bay leaves.
I was careful as I returned to the castle not to put my fingers to my mouth. The root of monk’s hood is a powerful poison. I do not know if the small amount of the oil from the root left on my fingers could cause death, but have no desire to discover so in experiment. Monk’s hood is like many good things God has given to man. Used wrongly, it becomes a curse.
After dinner — a fine meal of game pie, pork in spiced syrup, and tarts made from mushrooms new found in the forest — I went to my chamber to prepare a fresh batch of salve for Sarah and others afflicted in their old age.
I used flax-seed oil as a base, and set a pot to simmering on a charcoal brazier while I turned my attention to the leaves and roots I had gathered in the morning. With mortar and pestle I crushed the bay leaves fine and poured the fragments into the warm flax-seed oil. Next I mashed the monk’s hood root to a pulpy mass and stirred that into the thickening oil as well. There are some who believe that the oil of bay and monk’s hood serve best when pure, but I hold with the view that flax-seed oil also relieves affliction, and makes a fine carrier for the oils of bay leaf and wolfsbane root. I finished this work shortly after St Beornwald’s bell rang the ninth hour. I was sorry to be done with the task, for now I had no excuse to ignore the search for a murderer. I left the oil, leaves, and roots to bubbling and departed my chamber. I had no destination for my feet, but it is sure I would not find a killer while sitting upon a bench in my chamber watching a steaming pot.
I walked Bampton’s street with no goal in mind and after several turns found myself drawn to the north in the direction of the bishop’s new tithe barn. I heard the sound of industry as I approached; a hammer on a chisel cutting a tenon; an adze smoothing a beam; a draw knife shaping a treenail. I stopped to watch this activity from the road and as I did several questions occurred to me which might, I thought, be answered by the workmen.
I approached the builder with the adze, who stood bent over his work in a pile of sweet-smelling shavings. He did not see me approach, so I coughed so as to advise him of my presence. I did not wish to startle him as the adze came down for another strike, for fear I might deflect his aim. I had no desire to employ my surgical skills on the fellow’s ankle.
“Good day,” I offered.
“Aye…’tis.” The man leaned on his adze and with a calloused hand brushed a stray wisp of hair back under his cap. He seemed pleased to have a reason to cease his labor.
“You must have heavier work, since Henry atte Bridge is no more among you.”
“Aye,” the man spat into the pile of shavings. “But the vicar says he’ll send us another, so we’ll be four again, soon.”
“Does the work go well, without a man as you are?”
“Same as always. Henry were no worker. Least, no carpenter. Can’t see why reeve put ’im with us for his week work. Should’a had ’im plowin’, where ’e’d do some good.”
“He lacked skill?”
“Aye. An’ had little wish t’learn.”
“He must have owned some competence. He seemed prosperous enough for a man with but a half yardland.”
“Aye,” the adze-man scowled. “’E fed well for a man wot shirked.”
Here before me was a man who disliked Henry atte Bridge. Did the other two laborers, casting sidelong glances at me while they worked, feel the same? Was their dislike intense enough to distill into hatred? Surely an objection to a man’s work would not lead another to plunge a dagger into his back. Would it?
The man shaping treenails finished another fastener and sauntered over to join the conversation. Then tenon cutter decided he was not to be left out, and followed him. I was soon surrounded by three men redolent of sawdust and oak shavings. The scent was a significant improvement over their natural odor.
“Have you ever seen,” I pointed to the forest across the road, “an archer in that wood?”
The three men peered at each other for a moment, as if to get their stories aligned. But perhaps I am too mistrustful. The tenon cutter answered.
“What would an archer be doin’ in Lord Gilbert’s wood?”
All knew the answer to that.
“Are there deer to be seen in that wood, so close to the town?”
“Never seen any,” the adze-man replied. He looked at the others and they shook their heads in agreement.
I was about to tell them of the broken arrow I had found there, but thought better of it. I am learning to keep my own counsel and trust no man until he prove himself. I cannot say that this is a good thing — to mistrust all. And surely I do not. There are many I trust to speak truth: Master Wyclif, Lord Gilbert Talbot, Thomas de Bowlegh, Hubert Shillside, even Alice atte Bridge. But rather than trust a stranger until he prove faithless, I was becoming one who mistrusts another until he might prove to me his veracity. Perhaps this is safe for a bailiff, to pass his life suspicious of all men and their motives, but it is not enjoyable.
“Did Henry speak of enemies?”
The barn builders gave sidelong glances to each other before the adze-man, who seemed to be nominated their leader, spoke.
“’At’s ’bout all ’e’d speak of, them as done ’im wrong an’ ’ow ’e was like t’get even w’them as harmed ’im.”
“Had you ever done him harm?”
The tenon cutter snorted. “Ev’ry man of the bishop’s has, I think, an’ most o’ Lord Gilbert’s, too.”
I could agree with that, being Lord Gilbert’s man and having offended Henry atte Bridge more than once.
“He took offence quickly, then?”
“Aye,” the tenon cutter muttered. “Thought the whole shire was out t’do ’im mischief.”
“I am told that he attended confession often…at St Andrew’s Chapel.”
At this revelation the adze-man laughed heartily and the others grinned. “Henry? Confession?” The man chuckled again. I waited to be apprized of the cause for this mirth. An explanation was not long in coming.
“’E ’ad much t’confess, that I’ll agree,” the tenon cutter said finally.
“An oath on ’is lips whene’r ’e was wrathful.”
“And was this often…that he was wrathful?”
“Most ev’ry day. An’ more’n once in a day, too,” the treenail shaper added.
“You are not sorry to be rid of him, then, I think?”
“Nay. Well, not in…in that way.” The tenon cutter spoke, then hesitated as he understood what I might think. “I’d not wish any man struck down,” he continued. The others nodded agreement. “But ’tis a truth we’re pleased as not to ’ave ’Enry atte Bridge to deal with.”
“Should you see a man prowling Lord Gilbert’s wood,” I nodded toward the copse where Henry atte Bridge was found dead, “tell me of it straight away. Especially so if he carries a bow and arrows.” I thought it unlikely I would hear from the builders, but ’tis true, I’ve heard, that a miscreant will return to the scene of his crime.
Perhaps it is also true that a bewildered bailiff will also seek out again the scene of the crime he is bound to solve. I left the workmen and was drawn to the forest. To find what? I knew not: some thing which did not belong that might direct my steps toward a killer.
I found the stick I had used and discarded the week before. It was branched at the end, so I could stir through the leaves with it as with a pitchfork. I spent the next hour churning the forest floor. The Angelus Bell rang while I searched, and the shadows grew long. It would soon be too dark to see any object alien to the forest. I resolved to make one more pass between the road and the beaten place where Henry’s body had lain.
There was, between the road and the place we found Henry, a patch of brambles perhaps three or four paces across which had grown up where an opening in the wood permitted sunlight to strike the forest floor. Young nettles grew thickly among and through them. No man, be he ever so hurried, would willingly plunge through these brambles. But when Henry ran through the forest it was near dark. Perhaps he or his pursuer got into the patch.
I have enough experience of nettles that I made no attempt to penetrate the brambles. I contented myself with poking about the fringe, using my stick to push the stems apart so as to peer into the center of the brambles. It was enough.
