apologized later and the vicar was quick to absolve me. My conscience rested the better for it.
“Surely it must be as you have said,” the vicar agreed. “There could be nothing buried with Henry atte Bridge worth the digging to retrieve.”
The priest was wrong, but did not know it. This seems usually the case with error. If a man knows he is wrong about a thing he will usually amend his thoughts so they may harmonize with truth. Usually. There are, I think, those who would rather hold to error, whatever the evidence, than be forced to change their thoughts of a matter.
I left Father Thomas satisfied that his churchyard had not been violated. I needed to see to Philip and had intended to do so for several days. As I was in the town and near the bakery, I walked to his home to perform my duty.
The baker’s shutters were open and the fragrance of new loaves poured from his shop. This odor was not the only thing the bakery produced. A woman’s shrill voice, shouting curses and imprecations, flowed also into the street. I was uneasy for eavesdropping, yet all who walked the street that day with me heard the same. The woman’s last words were plain: “And a plague on that meddling surgeon!” she screeched. “Better you should’ve died like a dog in the street!”
A door slammed, and all was silent. I made for the shop entrance, thought better of it, and hastened on down the High Street a hundred paces or so before I turned and reapproached the bakery. I hoped Philip would believe my appearance was tardy enough that I had not heard his wife’s fulminations.
Baking was near done for the day. Philip was drawing the last loaves from the oven as I entered. The bakery was pleasantly warm; even so, I thought Philip perspired more than would be produced by a warm oven on a mild spring day. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip. He wiped it away with a sleeve as he saw me enter, and bid me “G’day” in a voice both harsh and low. I returned the greeting, but reflected that, from the sounds I had heard earlier, this was not a good day for the baker, nor was it likely he enjoyed many good days at all. Solomon the wise wrote that a nagging wife was like water dripping endlessly. A shrieking wife must be a never-ending torrent. I had a brief thought that perhaps a wife was not an untarnished blessing after all, but the notion soon passed.
“I have come to inspect your wound,” I said lightly. The baker lifted his hand to the bandage on his neck.
“It causes me no pain,” Philip muttered. What pain he felt came from another source, I think.
“I will unwrap the dressing and see how it knits. Here…be seated on this bench.”
Philip obeyed and I went to my work. I was pleased to see a clean wound. The stitches held well. There had been some bleeding and pus issue onto the wrapping, but not for some days. The residue was dry and hard. The egg poultice had done its work. And perhaps the hot iron which caused the injury had cauterized it as it sliced through flesh.
A door opened as I inspected the wound. No doubt the man’s wife had re-entered the bakery. Shortly after I heard footfalls on the steps leading to the living quarters on the upper floor. Philip said nothing, but his eyes swung wildly, as if he expected to be impaled upon a bread knife at any moment.
“We may leave off the dressing now. The hurt heals well. Whatever,” I asked casually, “did Edmund do to cause you to swing a hammer at him? That’s a poor contest for any man to enter against a smith.”
I waited, but there was no answer. Philip moved a hand cautiously to his neck, and said finally, “No dressing? You will not dress my hurt?”
I explained, as I find myself obliged often to do, that I follow the practice of Henry de Mondeville. That learned surgeon taught that wounds heal best when left dry, open to the air. I had wrapped Philip’s wound only to retain the poultice, and to protect the cut from further injury. Healing had progressed so that there was no longer a need. But Philip’s injury was ugly and left a red streak down his neck, from jaw to kirtle. I think he wished it covered for appearance as much as healing. All who saw the wound would remember that Edmund had bested him.
When I finished my explanation of his treatment I ventured again to the cause. “Do you wish to charge Edmund with assault at hallmote?”
Philip hesitated. “Nay…’twould do no good.”
“What good will be done should no charge be brought?”
“No good,” he muttered, “but perhaps less harm.” And with that he turned to deal with his loaves, a sign of dismissal. But I was not to be put off so easily.
“My fee for saving your neck is four pence.”
The baker shrugged, left the room for a moment through a passage next to his oven, and shortly returned. He held out a hand to me, and when I raised my own he dropped four silver pennies into it. Silently.
I cannot now explain why I did not feel sympathy for Philip. He deserved it, heaven knows, although at the moment, ’tis true, only heaven knew why. I did not, but might have guessed. Then, had I been more gentle with the baker I might not have learned the truth. At least, that part of the truth he knew.
I placed the coins in my pouch and moved to the door but did not leave. I turned back to the baker and said, “Your wife seemed much aggrieved but a little time past.”
Philip stiffened as if a dagger had pricked him between the shoulders. My remark was not a question, so Philip did not answer. I continued.
“It seems you have angered both smith and wife.”
“Edmund is known for ’is temper,” the baker mumbled, “an’ no man lives who has not sometime offended ’is wife.”
As he spoke his shoulders drooped, like a scarecrow with the support pole removed. “Then why,” I countered, “swing a hammer at a strong man known for his rage?”
“’Twas done in heat,” the baker replied softly, but would say no more.
I left him, crestfallen, toying with the scar on his neck. There was a matter here I did not know. Perhaps I had no need to know of it. But I am Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. Any business which might lead to blows exchanged on his demesne becomes my business. So I must concern myself with the dispute between baker and smith as well as search out a murderer. The death of Alan the beadle, how so it may have happened, was receding from my thoughts. It should not have, for these three incidents were entwined, although I had no clue yet that this was so.
Chapter 9
Many hours that week I spent prowling the darkened parapet of Bampton Castle. This perambulation helped order my mind, but no matter how I sorted and arranged what I knew, I was no closer to identifying a killer. Few in Bampton or the Weald seemed much disturbed by my failure. Even Thomas de Bowlegh mentioned the matter but as a passing comment when we met on the street on Thursday.
And the normal work of May occupied my thoughts so that with little effort I was able to forget Henry atte Bridge. Until Sunday. No sooner had I passed from porch to church than I saw the three vicars and their clerks preparing for matins. I imagined that Simon Osbern peered reproachfully at me. Perhaps it was not my imagination.
Then during the mass Father Thomas read from the Epistle to the Romans: “Christ died for us while we were yet sinners.” He lifted his eyes while he read and seemed to gaze at me. This passage I knew well. Perhaps I needed to be reminded that the Lord Christ died for Henry atte Bridge as well as for me. And to take his life was as great a sin as to murder King Edward. Perhaps not in the eyes of men, but if I wished to be weighed in God’s balance and not be found wanting I must amend my ways and see men as God sees them.
These thoughts tumbled through my mind at dinner and into the afternoon, when once again archers, their families, and spectators, lined the castle wall to practice their skills and drink Lord Gilbert’s ale.
Onlookers came and went as the sun sank toward Lord Gilbert’s forest to the west of the castle. One of the late arrivals had not attended the previous competitions. John Kellet made his way to the cask and drew a mug of ale, then stood in conversation with others who had temporarily put bows aside to quench a thirst.
I paid the newcomer scant attention until I noted from the corner of my eye a figure being pushed to the mark. It was the rotund, black-clad form of John Kellet.
Others at the mark made room as the priest was thrust, with much laughter and jesting, to the mark. One
