perhaps a rib. This caused it to so fix itself in the man that the arrow broke rather than came free when he fell, or perhaps when he staggered against a tree.
Perhaps. There would be time for reflection later. I extinguished the candle and motioned to the beadle to refill the hole. We left Henry atte Bridge face down in his grave. He will not mind, I think, and at the resurrection — from what I know of his life — he is unlikely to rise to see the return of our Lord in the eastern sky. Sweat again beaded my brow before the grave was refilled. We smoothed the soil so the place would look, as much as possible, undisturbed, and leaned heavily on our shovels when the work was done.
I bid John “Good night” at the lych gate and stole quietly down Church View to Bridge Street while the beadle made one more circuit of the town before seeking his bed.
The north wall of the castle was reassuringly dark in shadow when I arrived. I found the knotted rope where I left it, tied the shovel to the end, then clambered up the wall, my feet walking their way up the stones while with the knotted rope I pulled myself through the crenel. I pulled up the shovel, undid the knots, and coiled the rope while crouched along the parapet. It was becoming known in the castle that I might occasionally be seen prowling the parapet at night. Still, I preferred not to be seen. ’Twould be one thing to explain my own presence atop the wall, quite another to account for a rope and shovel. Only later did I consider that I am Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. In his absence I need explain my behavior to no one. Still, people will talk.
Next morning, after a loaf, some cheese, and a cup of ale, I inspected my discovery. The broken arrow found in the forest fit the point drawn from Henry atte Bridge’s back. I knew this would be so. The cotter was not stabbed as he fled through the wood. He was shot. In the dark. By someone with much skill, or excellent vision, or both.
A deer, struck by an arrow, will not fall where it stands, but will run in panic until it collapses in death. Will a man also run from the place he is struck, until vitality drains from him and he falls? I have never seen a man so smitten, so cannot answer of a surety, but I think it must be so. Somewhere between the road and the place we found him lying in the mould Henry atte Bridge was struck down.
I had new knowledge of this murder, but what to make of it? I could tell no one of the discovery, else I must relate how I came by the information. As it happened, this was for the best. I was to learn that knowledge is a strong weapon, especially so when an adversary knows not of its possession — like an unseen dagger hidden under a belt.
With awl and mallet I drove out the pin which held the point to the broken shaft, then pried the iron tip from the arrow remnant which had remained with the point. This arrowhead was not like most others seen at the butts of a Sunday afternoon. It was the length and thickness of my thumb, and had not the broad “Y” shape of the hunter’s arrow. It was a bodkin, made for penetrating a knight’s armor. I had seen others like it. It was useless now that the realm was at peace. The metalwork seemed so usual that I despaired of learning anything from it. Nevertheless I placed it in my pouch and set off to consult the castle blacksmith.
I did not assume the arrowhead to be his but wanted an untainted opinion. I thought he might recognize the workmanship. If Edmund, the town smith, made the point he might not wish to identify his craft. A bailiff asking questions of the maker of an arrowhead could mean no good thing for the creator.
Edwin, Bampton Castle’s farrier and blacksmith, pursed his lips as he turned the bodkin in his thick fingers. ’Tis Edmund’s, I think. ’Tis not so long as mine. Tries to save on iron, does Edmund. But a bodkin needs weight t’punch through armor.”
“Do other smiths make points in this manner?”
“Might be…I know only of Edmund.”
I left the castle and crossed the bridge to the town and Edmund’s forge. His shutter was up, smoke rose from his chimney, and charcoal glowed under the draft of his bellows. I heard his hammer ring rhythmically as I approached.
I don’t know what I expected to learn from the fellow. He readily owned the arrowhead as his work. Had made hundreds like it. But none recently, as such points as this were useful only at time of war. Sold such as this to any who had a farthing to buy it. Nay, could not tell from the point when he’d made it, or for whom.
’Twas a fool’s errand I had set myself to. I stuffed the point back in my pouch and set off in exasperation for the castle. On the way I met Thomas de Bowlegh puffing down Church View Street.
“Ah,” he gasped. “We are well met…I must speak privily to you.”
I led him aside and we walked from the road down to the verge of Shill Brook. No passerby on the bridge could hear us there, as the splash of water over the mill wheel obscured even the sound of our voices, moreso the words we spoke.
The vicar glanced up to the bridge to see if we were observed, then, satisfied of our privacy, reached into his pouch and drew forth a candle. My candle. I had forgotten it in haste to leave the churchyard.
“Father Simon found this,” the vicar whispered, “atop Henry atte Bridge’s grave.”
My heart pounded so vigorously I was sure Father Thomas would remark upon it. He did not, but continued. “As he entered the churchyard this morning for matins he noted a strange thing. Two recent graves, near to each other, but their color was different. The grave of Alan the beadle was light, the soil dry, but the grave of Henry atte Bridge was dark. He approached and found the earth atop the grave damp, as if there had been rain upon it in the night. Then he found this stub of a candle. As you are charged with finding Henry’s killer we thought to consult you on the matter. What think you, Master Hugh? Have grave robbers profaned St Beornwald’s churchyard?…or those who would worship the devil?”
During the vicar’s tale I found my wits and calmed myself so I was able to make answer.
“What would be buried with Henry atte Bridge to lure grave robbers? They did not molest Alan’s grave?”
“Nay. Just the one…it appears.”
“Let us go see,” I suggested. “Perhaps some explanation will present itself.”
I fervently hoped this would be so. At least the walk to the church would give me time to devise an explanation. I did not wish to speak the truth to the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church, at least, not yet, but neither would I lie. I resolved to tell the truth if I must, but misdirect Father Thomas to some other resolution if I could. As we entered the churchyard such an opportunity presented itself.
“There,” Father Thomas exclaimed as we passed through the lych gate. “You can see from here what Father Simon saw. Though the soil of the cotter’s grave is some drier now.”
The vicar was correct, and Simon Osbern was to be commended for his perception. The two graves, those of Alan and Henry, were some twenty paces apart. Alan’s lay just under the spreading canopy of an elm, a giant tree which grew up long centuries ago just outside the churchyard wall. Indeed, the wall was askew where the tree had grown up under it and lifted the stones. Henry atte Bridge’s grave lay well away from this or any other tree, in the open.
I stood quietly between the two graves and lifted my head to study the elm. New leaves were beginning to appear on its spreading branches. Thomas de Bowlegh studied me, the candle yet in his hand, as I considered the tree.
I walked first to Alan’s grave, knelt, and sifted the dry surface soil through my fingers, then did the same at Henry’s grave. The soil here was yet moist from being disturbed. There was no denying it, or suggesting the discovery but a product of an over active imagination. I felt the grass around the grave, inspected my fingers, then peered up at the elm again.
“You found the candle here?” I asked as I stood to my feet.
“Father Simon did.”
“Perhaps the damp earth and the candle may be unrelated.”
The vicar’s eyebrows lifted in question at this. I continued.
“There was a heavy dew last night…see how the turf is yet beaded with it here, about the cotter’s grave. But there,” I pointed toward the beadle’s grave and the old elm, “there is little wet, for the tree shielded the ground and dew collected on the new leaves rather than the grass.”
The vicar inspected the wet grass beneath his feet, then Alan’s grave, and then his eyes turned skyward to examine the elm.
“What of this candle?” he asked.
“’Tis but a stub,” I observed. “Most likely it came from castle or church.” This was no lie. “Perhaps it came from the church, in the cloak of some townsman who saw it was near gone and found opportunity to take it for use in his home.” This very nearly was a lie, for surely I wished Father Thomas to believe a thing I knew to be false. I
