took.”
“And some of Henry’s portion went to Kellet?”
“Aye.”
I took a moment to digest this. Kellet had violated his vows, breaking the seal of the confessional. Was blackmail a worse crime than this?
“When Henry died…what then?”
“Kellet come t’me. Told me what ’e an’ Henry was about. I wondered ’ow Henry got so prosperous, like,” Thomas muttered.
“He had iron hinges for his door, and an iron spade,” I commented.
“Aye,” Thomas mumbled.
“Henry blackmailed Edmund also?”
“Aye.”
I knew what Edmund must have confessed to Kellet. No wonder then that the smith thought his dalliance with the baker’s wife too costly. He had been paying a high price for Henry’s silence.
“Have you sought goods of the smith?”
“Aye,” he grimaced. “Threw me out, ’e did.”
“His sin is known. He has no need to pay to keep it from me or any other. I saw Emma in dispute with Andrew Miller. Next day I saw her leave the mill with a sack. Did Henry blackmail the miller, also?”
“Aye. Andrew confessed givin’ short weight.”
Why a miller would think himself in danger should this news be about I do not know. All know millers do such a thing. Indeed, they consider such taking a part of their fee. Although Lord Gilbert is perhaps more strict about the conduct of his demesne tenants than most nobles. Andrew must have thought an occasional gift to Henry atte Bridge a small price to pay to keep the man silent.
While I thought on these things Thomas looked up and spoke. “Did John Kellet slay me brother?”
“He did.”
“All ’cause o’ them shoes?”
“Aye. Greed will destroy a man…eventually. Had Alan yet worn shoes when we found him in the hedgerow I might have been satisfied that a wolf caused the beadle’s death. When Henry and John feared that I would seek out Henry and demand of him what he knew of Alan’s death, they determined to waylay me along the north road. But your brother failed to kill me, so John Kellet killed him, rather than me, to silence him. So I believe.”
“That fat priest should die,” Thomas spat.
“For killing a man who would have killed me? As you would have. Two brothers much alike.”
“But we didn’t.”
“Not for lack of effort or desire.”
“What will t’ bishop do with ’im?”
“The church executes no one. And I cannot prove he murdered your brother…nor can any man, I think.”
“’E’ll go free, then?”
“Not after what you’ve told me. The bishop’s court will demand penance, and when he completes that, he’ll be made a servant at some monastery, I’d guess.”
Thomas turned from me to face the wall. I heard him mutter imprecations against the church for allowing a murderer to escape hanging. Of course, he had escaped hanging only because he had not laid his cudgel a third time across my yet tender head. Or perhaps not. He might have got away with it. And surely Henry deserved hanging. But Thomas thought only of himself and the injuries done to him. He did not consider the wounds he gave others. But for the Spirit of God in some we are all much the same.
I turned to leave the cell. I had the knowledge I had come for. Uctred pulled the door closed behind me. As it slammed shut Thomas cried out.
“Wait…what will you do with me?”
“A jury of presentment will consider your crimes. You will be tried at hallmote, I think.”
“You will leave me here ’til Michaelmas?” he shouted through the opening in the door.
“’Twas your choice to deal with a poacher and lay blows across my head. And you will have a companion soon enough.”
Uctred dropped the beams through the iron fittings and across the door. A shadowed nose and eye pressed against the hole as we turned and climbed the steps to sunlight and fresh air.
I sent the porter’s assistant to Alvescot with a message for Gerard that I wished to see him and his sons immediately. No one wishes to receive such a notice from a lord’s bailiff. Gerard, whose conscience, so far as I knew, was unmarred, would be concerned. Walter would worry with each step which brought him to Bampton Castle. If he had a conscience. A little worry can be a good thing. Although in Walter’s case worry before he poached Lord Gilbert’s deer would have served better than worry after.
Gerard and his sons arrived just before dinner. I decided to let them wait while I took my meal, so directed the porter’s assistant to assign them to an anteroom off the gatehouse until I should call for them. Another hour or so of apprehension would do Walter no harm.
Dinner this day was the usual three removes, and more elaborate than many. The cook, I think, was practicing for Lord Gilbert’s return to Bampton now little more than a fortnight away.
For the first remove there was Vyaund cyprys, boiled duck, and currant tarts. The second remove featured a roasted kid, stuffed partridge, and a custard. Grooms, of course, received of the second course only the custard. Since the Sumptuary Laws of 1363 they are permitted but one meal of meat or fish each day.
For the third remove there was fried pigeon and coney and for the subtlety a Lombardy custard. My belly was well filled and I was content with the world. Perhaps my interrogation of Walter Forester would have been sharper and more effective had I been hungry.
I found Richard and Walter yawning and scratching themselves on a bench in the gatehouse anteroom. Vermin, no doubt. Their father snored peacefully, propped against the opposite wall of the small room, on the other bench.
The verderer’s sons leaped to their feet as I entered. Their bench banged off the wall behind them and awakened Gerard. The old man snorted, blinked, and stood also when his rheumy eyes fixed on my shadow in the doorway.
I stared silently from Gerard to his sons for several heartbeats. I wished them to know from the outset that their presence at the castle was about no ordinary business. I would allow them time to imagine what business it might be.
Gerard was puzzled. But his face betrayed no guilt. I was relieved. Had he seemed defensive or addressed me quickly on some trivial matter I would have suspected otherwise.
“You summoned us, an’ ’ere we are,” the old forester said. He was tottery from his nap, and swayed on his feet as he spoke. “Somethin’ amiss w’ the timbers?”
That explained the verderer’s brow, which was beginning to fold into worry lines.
“Nay. They serve well. Lord Gilbert’s new stables are nearly ready for his return. ’Tis another matter we must speak of.”
But I did not speak of this other matter immediately. I waited, looking from father to sons. ’Twas Walter who looked away first. When he did so I felt ready to broach the matter at hand.
“Two days past a man of the Weald was found with a joint of venison in his sack.”
“A poacher!” Gerard cried. “In my…I mean, Lord Gilbert’s forest?”
“Aye. So ’twould seem.”
“Who is the fellow?” Richard asked.
“He is called Thomas atte Bridge…but he claims he is not a poacher.”
“How then did ’e come by venison?” Gerard fumed. Walter remained silent, looking from his father to me and back again.
“Blackmail. Claims he learned of the poacher’s work and threatened to expose the man did he not share the spoil.”
“Is this poacher known?” Gerard seethed.
“Aye, to me…and to you.”
“Nay,” the old man protested.
