“Nay,” he said with some vehemence. “Claimed Henry’d brought barley to be ground and had not received ’is return.”
“’Tis an odd time of year to bring barley to the mill.”
“Aye,” Andrew hesitated, as if he would say more, but thought better of it.
“Did Henry do so…bring barley to the mill? Or was she mistaken?”
“She, uh, was mistaken.”
“I wonder that Henry would tell her so. Surely she would learn it was not so, did he yet live.”
“Aye…but he does not.”
“So ’twas your word ’gainst that of a dead man?”
“Aye. An’ ’tis not well to speak ill of the dead.”
“Even one like Henry atte Bridge?”
“’Specially ’Enry. Spirits lurk about to do evil to them as speak ill of the dead.”
“So you gave up the meal to preserve peace with Emma?”
“I did. From my own store I gave her a peck.”
“And she was satisfied?”
“Aye.”
From the town, across Shill Brook, we heard the sound of pipes, drums, and laughter. Dancers were forming in the marketplace. Moments later the miller’s wife and son appeared in the door, peering first at me, then across the brook to the east and the town. They wished to be off to join the merriment. So did I.
I trailed the miller and his family up Bridge Street. Most of the town was already gathered in the marketplace, either to join the dancing or encourage participants.
I am not given to noisy exhibitions, so my cheering was less exuberant than most. Nevertheless, I cheer better than I dance, so my weak exhortation must suffice. Were I to dance the assembly would collapse in mirth at what might appear to be a disjointed scarecrow suddenly granted life.
I stood at the rear of the mob of onlookers, able to see over the crowd, as my height is greater than most. I saw young Will Shillside cavorting gracefully amongst the dancers. Just opposite my place I watched Alice atte Bridge squeeze to the front of the throng. Her eyes fastened upon young Shillside and sparkled with pleasure at the exhibition. Well, yes, I suppose I was too far away to see sparkling eyes, but from her countenance it is fair to say her eyes must have twinkled at least a little.
I leaned back against the house which stands where Bell Lane joins the Broad Street, content to observe rather than join those who cavorted in the street. I was surprised to see Edmund the smith press through the throng and join the dancers. I had thought him a stolid, humorless sort, but he pranced with abandon, and gracefully, also. I was amazed that a man of his bulk could move so pleasingly.
Edmund’s dancing did not hold my interest for long. After observing him circle the marketplace my eyes drifted to the crowd of onlookers. Among these I saw Philip the baker and his wife. They did not stand together. Philip was but a few paces to my left. His wife was near Alice, opposite my place. Her eyes were fixed on the dancers and her face glowed with admiration. Well, it glowed with something.
I looked from Alice to Margery, the baker’s wife, and saw the same expression on both faces. Alice’s attention was yet fixed upon Will Shillside. What, or who, I wondered, put the color into Margery’s cheeks?
Her eyes followed the dancers and my eyes followed hers until they rested upon the sweating, twirling form of Edmund the smith. Sweat ran in rivulets from Edmund’s forehead and cheeks and left glistening streaks through the soot on his unwashed face.
The dancers tended to twirl as they cavorted about the marketplace, so each participant passed my place several times. Their exertions caused their brows to flow with sweat, and perspiration soon stained kirtles and cotehardies. The moisture brought with it disagreeable odors when some dancers passed my place. Among the most repulsive was Edmund, who, I think, considered bathing a waste of good water. As he whirled past my wall I noticed others wrinkle noses in distaste and exchange glances. But his smell seemed to cause no annoyance to Margery. She smiled warmly at the blacksmith each time he passed her place. This seemed to encourage the fellow. He spun so enthusiastically I thought he might lose his equilibrium and stumble into the crowd.
He did not, but when the pipers ended the tune he swayed some on his feet, dripping and panting. Then, unaware that I watched, he turned to Margery and grinned, then walked slowly past my place. Philip stood a few paces to my left. As Edmund passed the baker he turned, faced him and smirked, then continued across the marketplace toward his forge. The throng parted to allow Edmund to pass, their noses no doubt warning of his approach.
Onlookers to the dance began to drift away when the musicians showed no intent to resume their tooting and banging, and tired dancers wandered off to their homes and a mug of ale.
Through the thinning throng I saw, across the marketplace, the frowning face of Ralph Dodwell. The vicar’s arms were folded tightly across his robe. He did not, I think, approve of the frivolity he had witnessed. As I watched he unclenched his arms and stalked off toward the church and his vicarage.
The glances exchanged between the blacksmith, the baker, and the baker’s wife convinced me there was mischief here. The baker’s wounded neck was further evidence. If this triangle became known in the town — and who could say ’twas not already — inhabitants would chose sides in the affair and much disquiet would follow. This would displease Lord Gilbert when he learned of it. I saw it as my duty to prevent such an uproar. I could see but one way to do that.
When I chose the profession of surgeon I did not foresee myself involved in the secret passions of potential patients. Even when Lord Gilbert invited me to serve as bailiff the thought that I might find myself embroiled in illicit lust did not occur to me. But now I found myself in such a place. There are many paths in life which, when chosen, seem broad, smooth, and bright. But after we have traveled down them too far to turn back they become dark, rough and twisted. We are left with no choice but to continue, to make our way as best we can through the snarls and hope for a better journey when we reach the other side of the tangle.
Of the two men, baker and smith, I thought the baker most likely to share the truth if pressed. No man likes to admit he has been cuckolded, but even less would he admit to adultery. And the blacksmith was of more unyielding character than the baker.
So I followed Philip to the bakery, and shouted for him to attend me as he was about to follow his wife through the shop door. Philip glanced at me and frowned, as did Margery, but I paid no heed to their dark looks. I invited Philip to walk with me and without awaiting an answer set off down High Street toward Bushey Row. I was sure the baker would follow. He did. When a lord’s bailiff makes a request, ’tis much like a command. May God forgive me my pride, but I enjoy such moments. ’Tis well such times occur, else the onerous duties of a bailiff would overwhelm me.
I slowed my pace as we reached Catte Street so Philip could catch up. He did so at Bushey Row, where I stopped and turned to face him.
“How long,” I challenged him, “has your wife betrayed you with Edmund Smith?”
“Betrayed me?”
I thought from his reply and the flash in his eye that the baker might disavow my claim. Indeed, I believe the thought crossed his mind. But denial quickly faded from Philip’s face and his eyes dropped to study the mud at our feet.
“Aye…’tis plain enough.”
“It is?” the baker begged. “’Tis known in the town?”
“If not, ’twill soon be, unless the business ends. How long,” I asked again, “has this gone on?”
“Near two years, I think,” Philip muttered.
“You are uncertain?”
“Aye.”
“And this is why you attacked Edmund with his hammer?”
The baker fingered the scar on his neck and mumbled assent.
“Why now? Why did you not confront him when you first suspected?”
The baker looked away, as if to study the forest which lay east toward St Andrew’s Chapel. “I…I feared ’twould do no good. Edmund is a strong man. I could not threaten him, nor could I make his deeds known. The town would laugh at me before ’twould censure him.”
“So you did nothing?”
