“It’s personal, like,” Edmund replied, and wiped his mouth with the back of a ham-like fist.
“When personal understandings lead to blows delivered on town streets the, uh, understanding is no longer confidential. And you will surely be reported to the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church. No man can expect to assault a priest without censure.”
The smith finished the last of his loaf, and stood while he chewed it. His hands, no longer occupied, he clenched and relaxed as they hung from his broad shoulders. Perhaps he intended I witness this, or perhaps it was involuntary. Edmund stood before his bench for a moment, then walked toward me and did not stop until he was close enough that I could smell his breath. The maslin loaf had done little to sweeten that emanation. What charms he held for the baker’s wife I cannot guess, but neither his cleanliness nor his fragrance, I think, were part of the attraction.
He stopped his advance inches from me. I could not decide at that moment if I wished to be Hugh de Singleton, surgeon, or Hugh, Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. Hugh the surgeon would retreat. Lord Gilbert’s bailiff would not be intimidated. I took a deep breath, which Edmund probably noted, nearly choked on the odor, and stood my ground.
The smith was brawny but short. His attempt at intimidation failed in part because when his feet stopped he was staring from inches away at my collar, while I looked down on his greasy, thinning hair. It is always best to be atop the castle wall, looking down on the attacker.
“My doins’ wi’ t’priest is private,” Edmund repeated in a soft voice which nevertheless carried a threat.
“Not when you strike him in the public streets…’tis no longer private. If he will, he may bring a charge against you at hallmote, or lodge a complaint with the bishop, whom he serves. I saw all, and would be his witness.”
A hint of a smile crossed the smith’s lips. “He’ll make no charge,” he assured me.
“It seems no man will make a charge against you. You near slice a man’s head off, and thump another in the street, yet neither man will assert their right against you in manor court. I wonder why this can be?”
The smith shrugged but provided no other answer. He left it to me to continue the conversation. Edmund must have disliked staring at my collarbone, for as I spoke he backed away a step. It was a small victory.
“I have learned a thing which may disturb the serenity of the town,” I said softly. “Lord Gilbert would be distressed should he return and find it so.”
“What has this to do with me?” Edmund challenged.
“Much, as you well know.”
Before the smith could object I continued, “You are not to see Margery, the baker’s wife, again. If I find that you have done so I will levy leirwite against you. Twelve pence, I think. And I will double…no, triple your rent.”
Edmund was not intimidated.
“Bah, I care little for your threats. The town needs a smith. Where will you find another if you force me out?”
“The castle smith will deal with town business ’til we can replace you.”
Edmund’s eyes fell to study the clinkers at his feet. He had not considered this, I think.
“There be other towns happy to find a smith,” he replied. “You cannot harm me by drivin’ me off.”
“I have no wish to do you harm. I will act only to preserve the peace on Lord Gilbert’s manor of Bampton…as I am bound to do. If you see Margery again you will be free to seek another town. After you pay the fine for leirwite.”
As I spoke I moved closer to the smith, so he was again forced to either stare at my neck or look up to my face. I braced myself against the odor and held my ground. I hope Lord Gilbert will appreciate the sacrifices I make to preserve good order on this manor.
Edmund shrugged and stepped back again. Another success. “Was gettin’ too costly, anyway,” he muttered, then turned to his cold forge.
I did not know what may have been costly about the smith’s dealings with the baker’s wife. She demanded presents, I assumed.
“You will heed this warning, then?”
“Aye,” Edmund growled to the back wall of his smithy. As he spoke he grasped his hammer in what seemed a perfunctory gesture. I decided that so long as I had his acquiescence I would not press further a man with an iron hammer in his strong right hand. I turned to leave, but before I departed the cinder-coated toft I spoke once more. I could not resist nailing down a triumph.
“My eyes and ears will be open to discover if you keep this bargain,” I said in my sternest voice, several paces now from Edmund and his hammer.
I suppose Edmund heard, but he gave no sign. He continued to stroke the hammer handle while he stared at the blank back wall of the smithy. I left him there.
If I could not learn the reason for John Kellet’s bellyache from Edmund, I thought I might do so from the priest, so I set off from the smithy toward St Andrew’s Chapel.
Trees along the way were in the full bloom of June. Brilliant shades of green filled the space between fields and sky. I wonder why God chose to color his leafy creation green when it is living, and red and gold when dying? Were I God I would have done it the other way round.
There is much about this world which would be different were it created by men. And most men think did they have the job, they could make a better world than the one we possess. But when I see the muddle men have made of the world they are given, it seems unlikely to me that, with the opportunity, they could create a better.
I resolved to be content with green summer foliage. Perhaps in heaven there will be time enough in eternity for God to take questions. There are many things I would ask of Him, not just His choice of color for a leaf.
These maunderings so occupied me that I was upon St Andrew’s Chapel before I had time to think of questions I might ask John Kellet. I need not have concerned myself with this, for the priest’s condition, when I found him, brought with it its own questions.
Chapter 13
The chapel door was ajar. I pushed it open on squealing hinges and stepped into the structure, waiting there until my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The chapel is ancient, and its windows few and small, from a time when glass was rare and more dear than even now it is. And those few, narrow panes were coated in dust and grime, so little light entered even where it might. ’Tis an insult to our Lord, I think, to allow his house to decay so.
My eyes adjusted to the shadows as these thoughts swept through my mind. The priest wore black, an excellent camouflage in such a place, so when I first scanned the room I did not see him. Not until I studied more closely the tower steps — an especially dark corner of the chapel — did I see the man sitting on the lower step, his arms across his belly, slowly rocking to and fro.
The priest was so lost in his own misery that he had not noticed my entry. The opening door had permitted a shaft of light to penetrate the chapel, but the priest’s eyes were closed. He muttered to himself as he swayed on the step.
It is, I know, improper to intrude on a man’s thoughts at such a time. But had I not done so I might have been much longer at unraveling the tangled deaths of Alan the beadle and Henry atte Bridge.
Kellet’s complaints covered the sound of my entry and approach, so that I stood quite close to the man and heard his words clearly. “Damn him…he’ll pay. An’ the others, too. Damn him. Henry got hinges…I’ll have more’n that. Damn him…he’ll pay…a penny…no, tuppence a month or I’ll see that all know.”
“All know what?” I asked.
The priest jerked as if Edmund had boxed his ears. His head snapped back, his eyes opened wide with fear, and he leaped to his feet — a move which surprised me, given the size and apparent affliction of his belly.
The beam of light from the open door was behind me. My face was in shadow, my form silhouetted against the light. I believe the priest thought for a moment that the blacksmith had followed him to the chapel and overheard his groaning threats. But my form is nothing like that of Edmund, which Kellet quickly noted. His hands had flown up to protect his paunch, but fell when he realized he was not in danger of another blow.
