I am distressed to admit that no solution to any of these riddles occurred to me in the following days. ’Twas a Friday that I rode from Oxford home to Bampton. I busied myself about Lord Gilbert’s work on Saturday, and called for hot water in the evening to bathe and prepare myself for Whitsunday.
Chapter 12
Many who approached St Beornwald’s Church on Sunday morning wore red — if they owned a garment of that color — in honor of the day. I do not possess garb of red and so could not play the peacock.
As customary, few attended matins, but the village filled the church for the mass. Sunday dawned as cloudy and cool as the previous day had ended, though it was the first day of June. But during the service, when Father Simon kissed the pax-board and sent it to the congregation, a flash of sunlight illuminated the church’s south windows. By the time Father Thomas shared the holy loaf the sun flooded the church with brilliant light much as the gospel of our Lord must have filled the Holy City on that day men preached His salvation to all, each in his own tongue.
The appearance of the sun raised my spirits. Why should this be so? Nothing about me or my situation was changed. But a June day should be washed in sunlight. When ’tis cloudy in February men are not disposed to complain for they expect it so. But June? If the sun shines not in June when may a man expect it to do so?
All who left the church that day must have been affected as I was, for there was a joyful babble of voices as villagers dispersed through the churchyard and lych gate. It is well the sun could lift their mood, for it is unlikely their dinner this day would do so. Most families have by June long since consumed the provisions they laid by in the autumn. And the next harvest was yet some months to come.
I could not forebear to halt on the bridge and watch the waters of Shill Brook pass under my feet. Dinner at the castle was an hour away, the sun was warm on my back, and the splashing of the stream over the mill dam was like music.
While I leaned upon a bridge timber the miller and his wife approached. The calm which had submerged my soul like a stone in the brook vanished. My eyes went to the stiffened linen on his arm and the sling which supported it. That vision brought with it a flood of memories. Memories of Holy Week, and the unholy events of those days. From those thoughts my mind had to travel but a short way to fasten upon my unmet obligations.
The miller and his wife greeted me, unaware of the effect their presence had upon my mood. “When will you remove this?” the miller asked, lifting his arm to me as he spoke.
“’Tis near time enough…You have no aches to distress you?”
“Nay,” Andrew smiled. “Not these many weeks. ’Twas hurtful at first, mind you, but no longer. Itches, though.”
I counted back the weeks. “Thursday will be eight weeks…long enough, I think.”
The miller sighed with satisfaction. His wife also appeared pleased. No doubt she had seen her labors increase because of he husband’s affliction.
The stout couple bid me good day and moved on up the bank toward the mill and their cottage. I turned back to the stream, but as I did so I heard rapid footsteps on the planks behind me. The sound intruded upon my thoughts because most who crossed the bridge that day did so with leisurely pace. I peered over my shoulder to see who it was who walked with such hasty determination. ’Twas Emma, widow of Henry atte Bridge, who thumped her way across the boards. If she saw or recognized me she gave no sign.
The woman marched across the bridge and to my astonishment turned from the road to follow the miller and his wife up the muddy path which led along the brook to the mill. I wondered what business she could have at the mill on Sunday, but my curiosity gradually faded under the calming influence of the stream’s bubbling flow.
I soon pulled myself from the bridge. How would it look for Lord Gilbert’s chief officer in Bampton to spend his time gazing vaguely into Shill Brook?
I was but a few steps along Mill Street from the bridge when the sound of angry voices reached my ears. I could not distinguish the words, but a male and a female were alternating in a shouting match and it was surely a wrathful exchange. I paused and looked toward the mill, for the tumult came from the open cottage door.
As I stared at the cottage I saw the miller’s wife peer from the door, as if to see if any had heard the altercation. Her eyes fastened upon me and she quickly withdrew. An instant later the house became silent. Shrill voices were no more. The excitement now past, I continued to the castle and my dinner.
The gatehouse of Bampton Castle faces west. The town is to the east of the castle, and Mill Street passes along the south curtain wall. I had completed the passage along the south wall and turned north to the gatehouse when I glanced one last time toward the mill. It was well I did.
I saw Emma atte Bridge stalk from the mill, cross Mill Street, and disappear down the lane to the Weald and her hut. Over a shoulder she had slung a sack. She had not entered the mill with any sack. Why she should leave with one, on a day the mill wheel did not turn, I could not guess. Such behavior did seem odd. I thought on it as I passed through the gatehouse on my way to dinner.
The meal drove further contemplation of Emma atte Bridge and her sack from my thoughts. The event did not return to mind until Thursday, when I set out for the mill to remove Andrew’s cast.
The week after Whitsunday is peculiar, of course, divided as it is between solemnity and frivolity. Wednesday, Friday and Saturday are Ember Days, when men are to spend the hours in fasting and prayer, contemplating the health of their soul. But Monday, Tuesday and Thursday are days of frolic and feasting. Lord Gilbert would have no work done this week.
The sluice gate was not open on Thursday, nor did the mill wheel turn, for the miller meant to enjoy a day free from labor, with his arm newly freed from the embrace of stiffened linen. The door of the miller’s cottage was open to the June sun. Andrew sat on a bench just inside his door, enjoying the warmth, and saw me approach. He stood as I walked up the path from Mill Street.
“If you will draw that bench out, we may enjoy the sun and I will have good light to see my work,” I said by way of greeting.
The miller grunted and with his good arm pulled on the bench until it bounced over the threshold and wobbled on the uneven ground before the cottage door. Andrew adjusted it until it was stable while I unslung my pouch from a shoulder and drew from it a set of tongs with which to nip off chunks of the plaster until the miller’s arm was free.
We sat facing each other at opposite ends of the bench and I set to work. The image of Emma stalking from the mill with her sack had been in my mind since I approached the place, so I spoke of it.
“You had words with Emma atte Bridge on Whitsunday.”
Andrew made no reply, but stared at his arm, as if his concentration was essential to the work. I decided to make a reply easier for him.
“From my experience with her, ’tis no great difficulty to begin a dispute with Emma.”
The miller smiled thinly. “Aye. She can be quarrelsome.”
“As was Henry,” I replied. “I wonder, did two like souls find each other, or did the one make the other so?”
“What difference?” Andrew grimaced.
“Aye,” I agreed. “We who live with such must deal with the effect, regardless the cause.”
The miller made no reply, but watched warily as my tongs chewed through the remainder of his plaster. I was near finished with the work and so could wait no longer for the miller to explain his dispute with the widow atte Bridge. I had given him opportunity to defend himself and belittle Emma, but he refused the offer.
“I saw her leave the mill with a sack.”
Still the miller made no reply, but continued to study his arm as the tongs bit through the last of the stiffened linen. When the last of the plaster fell away Andrew flexed his arm, then looked at me and smiled.
“Good as ever?” I asked.
“Aye, so ’tis.”
“The sack Emma carried…’twas meal she was owed?”
The miller’s smile faded. “She thought so.”
“It was not so?”
