“Aye. ’Bout that,” Edmund agreed.
I did not ask the smith where Henry would find eight pence for hinges. Certainly he would not know. Leather hinges served most cotters and probably had sufficed for Henry, until he found enough money to install iron hinges. But were there no other things a man in Henry atte Bridge’s place could find to spend eight pence on which would serve him better? He might have purchased a dozen and more hens and fed his children eggs. Well, there is no explaining how some men, both rich and poor, spend their treasure.
I did not return to the castle, though it was near time for dinner. Once across the bridge I turned again into the Weald and walked to Emma atte Bridge’s iron-hinged door.
The toft — indeed, the entire hut — was silent as I approached. The only sign of life was a curl of smoke which eddied from under the gable vent. The family, like others, were at their noon meal.
Surely the woman did not expect my return, nor any other visitor, I think. I knocked on the door, and in response a bench upset in the hut as the one who sat upon it sprang up.
“’Oose there?” Emma called through the oiled skin of the window.
“’Tis Master Hugh. I am sorry to disturb your dinner. I have but one more question.”
I heard the latch lifted and the hinges in question squealed softly as Emma opened the door and peered at me. Again the woman was silent, staring at me under lowered brows, her mouth pursed. She did not invite me to enter. I am Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. I need no invitation.
“I should like to examine the hinges Henry installed on this door.”
The woman stepped back grudgingly and allowed me to open the door enough that I could enter the dim, smoky room. With the door open to daylight I could see the hinges plainly. Only two nails held each hinge to the door-post. There was, in each hinge, a hole for a third nail which might at one time have been driven home like the others, but was now missing. Each hinge was held in place, to door and jamb, by five nails, not six.
I took the block from my pouch and held it close to the upper hinge. The heads of the nails fixing the hinge in place were the same as the nails piercing the block.
“The nails you sold came from these hinges,” I told Emma. “When did your husband remove them?”
“Don’t know,” the woman shrugged and chewed on her lower lip. “Din’t know as ’e did.”
“You did not see him draw them?”
“Nay.”
The woman said no more. I apologized for disturbing her dinner and made my way back to the castle in time for my own meal.
My thoughts were not on the castle cook’s culinary creations that day. I puzzled over the wood and nails as I ate. Perhaps, I thought, the tool served for dealing with animals in some new way. The blood — or what I took to be blood — seemed to point to such a use. But John Holcutt, whose duties with demesne livestock made him knowledgeable of all instruments needful for working with beasts, recognized no purpose for this thing.
I was near to giving up study of the strange tool, knocking the nails from it, and forgetting the puzzle. But in my chamber after dinner I examined the thing again.
My previous study had concentrated on the nails. It seemed to me that whatever this tool was designed to accomplish, it was the nails which were to do the work. The wooden block served but to hold them in place, and as a handle.
I have told of the size of the piece. As I examined it again I noticed that the block was not symmetrically shaped. The block was slightly narrower at one end than at the other, and the sides were beveled. I recognized then what it was and berated myself for my lack of imagination. I set off immediately for the town and the Broad Street where I might find Ralph the cooper.
He was at his vise, drawknife in hand, shaping a stave. He stood in a pile of sweet-smelling shavings which, as at the new tithe barn, helped obscure the fact that their maker was overdue for his spring bath.
The cooper looked up from his work, recognized me, and smiled. As well he might, for my previous business with him had always involved a purchase for the castle storeroom or buttery. He saw a lucrative sale in his future.
Then his eyes fell to the wooden block and its captive nails and the grin on his face melted like butter in July. Here, I thought, may be found another mystery.
“Good day, Ralph,” I smiled broadly. I wished the fellow at ease; I thought I might learn more from him than if he was anxious. And from his new-fallen countenance I felt certain he had some reason for worry. And it had to do with the block.
“I have a tool here which no man can explain.”
The cooper’s eyes darted from my face to my outstretched hand and back again.
“Henry atte Bridge, who was struck down in the forest, you may remember, made this. See how the wood is shaped like a length of barrel stave.” I handed the piece to Ralph, who took it gingerly, as if the nails were yet hot from Edmund’s forge.
“How long ago,” I asked, “did Henry come to you seeking wood?”
I might have asked if Henry had sought wood of him, but then the cooper might deny the source and I might never get the answer I needed. Better he thought I knew the origin of the block for a certainty.
“’Twas but a scrap,” Ralph offered. “A stave was split an’ discarded. Henry asked for a piece.”
“Beech, is it not?”
“Aye.”
“Did Henry say his purpose? Did he show you the nails as they are now?”
“Nay…’e had no nails. Just asked for the wood.”
“Did you ask a price?”
“Nay. ’Twas no good to me but for the fire. I cut off a hand’s length an’ Henry were satisfied.”
“When did he ask for this?”
The cooper made much of his struggle to remember. His brow looked like a new-plowed field and he scratched at his chin.
“Weeks ago now, ’twas.”
“How many weeks?”
“Before Easter. Aye…before Easter ’twas.”
“How long before?” I pressed.
“A week, p’rhaps more. Aye, ’bout a week.”
“And he carried the wood away without telling of his need, or driving nails through it in your sight?”
“Aye. That’s ’ow ’twas, Master Hugh.”
The cooper wished fervently for me to believe this. But did he desire this because the tale was true, or because it was false? A man might wish to be believed for either reason. And why should it matter to him whether I believed him or not? I was inclined to believe the man, and as it came to pass, the tale was true.
I studied the man and chewed my lip, trying to invent some other questions which might illuminate the purpose for the block and nails. Ralph saw this, and said, “’E come back day before Easter.”
“Saturday?
“Aye. Said I was to tell none of ’is need an’ the wood I gave ’im.”
“He did not say why?”
“No. With Henry like as ’e could be, I din’t ask. But ’e din’t want any to know of it, I think. Couldn’t figure why. Do you know why?”
“This is why you seemed distressed when I came to you today with the block?”
“Aye. Don’t know as what Henry wanted with it, but seems to me ’twas to no good…or why’d ’e care who knew of ’im ’avin’ it?”
I walked the castle parapet again that night, twirling the piece of stave and nails as I did. I felt certain now I knew its use. But I could not prove it. And I did not know why it was used as it was. I did know that I was deep into a mystery which included much I did not know. I resolved then to keep a record of these events, so as to order all things in my mind, and as a register should I in the future decide to write a chronicle of this affair.
There was an obstacle to this decision. I had in my chamber but six sheets of parchment and a pot of ink nearly dry. If I was to put my thoughts to parchment I must travel to Oxford to renew my supply. A journey to Oxford through the spring countryside seemed a pleasant distraction and, perhaps while swaying along on Bruce’s broad back at his stolid pace, some new notion explaining events since Easter might occur to me.
