the thistles and nettles of the hedgerow. No beast would come upon it from behind. The dead lamb lay forty paces west. No wolf who fed there this night would need another meal.
I sent the reeve and one archer to the castle for supper, and kept the other archer with me. It was not yet dark, but I did not wish both archers absent should the wolf return before they finished their meal. I would send the unfed archer to his supper later.
I might have sent them both with John, and kept a bow and arrows with me as I watched alone. But this would have been a mistake had the animal chosen that moment to return to its kill. If wolves laugh, the beast would surely have done so as any arrows I loosed fell wide of their mark.
John and the first archer returned, well satisfied, and I sent the other to his meal as the twilight faded. Only the outline of bare tree limbs was visible to the west, where the setting sun still gave illumination to the sky. By the time the second archer stumbled up to the blind from his supper, the meadow lay tenebrous under a starlit sky.
If a wolf had chosen to return then silently to finish its meal, we should never have seen it. But two hours later a waning moon rose over the greenwood to the east and the pale white carcass of the lamb became visible. It was undisturbed. I was uncertain whether to be pleased or regretful that we had not been visited in the dark.
We were not visited in the moonlight, either. One by one my companions fell asleep. Their steady, measured breathing was the only sound to break the silence of the night. I let them sleep. Unless they snored, as one of the archers was wont to do. A gentle kick usually brought him awake and stopped his rumbling. And the reeve woke from his slumber several times to watch with me. He may as well have slept, for no beast visited the meadow that night.
I sent my companions to their homes as the sun rose over the fields and forest to the east toward Aston. I required of each man that he rejoin me at the screen at sunset. I was unwilling to accept failure. There would be many others awake all this night in the church, keeping the Easter Vigil. We four would honor God by doing our duty to Lord Gilbert and the tenants and villeins of his manor.
I returned to my chamber in the castle and lay on my bed for a fitful sleep until dinner. I dreamed of pale blue yarn and wooden-soled shoes and slavering wolves.
The castle cook revived my body and spirit. A good meal almost always performs that miracle. There was this day a leg of mutton, a coney pie and a ham, with mushroom tarts, a compost and cooked, spiced apples.
Thus refreshed, I went about manor business for the afternoon. It was my duty to inspect Lord Gilbert’s manor each day. This day there was plowing to oversee and the manuring of a field ready to be planted to barley. As dusk settled on the town, I joined the stream of residents walking to the Church of St Beornwald for the lighting of the great Paschal Candle and the commencement of the Easter Vigil. My soul was drawn to remain, but duty demanded otherwise. I stood at the rear of the nave while the great candle was lit, then quietly made my way out through the porch into the darkening churchyard.
The two archers were at the blind before me, and John Holcutt appeared soon after. This night was colder, and the waning moon appeared in the east an hour later. We shivered in the cold and waited for the moon to rise. When it did it was often obscured as a thickening body of clouds drifted from north to south across the town and meadow.
At dawn the clouds thickened more, and in the growing light I could see what only the touch on my face had told me ’til then: snowflakes drifted across the meadow. But the lamb lay as it had been for two days.
My knees were stiff with cold and it was with some discomfort that I stood and stretched. I remember my father, who rarely complained of anything, lamenting aching joints when winter came. Was I become my father already?
We four peered over the screen at the undisturbed lamb, stamping our feet to drive out the cold. This exercise was not successful.
Neither was the watch over the dead lamb, so I called it off. I told John and the archers that, unless the wolf gave more sign, we would no longer seek it, but hope that it had traveled to some far county.
I walked, stiffly at first, like an old man, back to the castle and my chamber. I wished to clean myself before Easter Mass, so asked for a bucket of hot water to be brought. I would not eat. It is my custom to fast before mass, as was once customary, but now seems an uncommon privation.
I had laid the blue yarn found in Alan’s scalp on my table. My eyes fell upon it as I awaited my bucket of hot water. I picked it up, sat on my bench, and twirled it mindlessly. I had contemplated that thread many times but was no nearer to its significance, if it had any, to the beadle’s death and his missing shoes.
While I toyed with the yarn I heard a soft rapping on my door. I bid the maker enter, and Alice atte Bridge pushed open the door. Her right shoulder sagged under the weight of a bucket of steaming water.
So it was that the girl saw me twisting the blue yarn about a finger. She stood watching, awaiting instructions.
“Any place will do, Alice,” I nodded at the bucket. She took me at my word and dropped her burden in the middle of my chamber, still watching the blue yarn. The girl turned slowly to leave, obviously curious about the yarn. I found myself eager to explain to her — to anyone — its importance. So I told her of finding Alan the beadle, which news she had surely heard already, and of the pale blue yarn found in his hair, and his missing shoes. I did not ask her if she knew of a garment of that shade. I should have. Alice seems incapable of falsehood. I might have been spared a brawl in a darkened road and a thump across my skull.
I dismissed her and went to scrubbing myself, attempting to wash away cobwebs of sleep as well as dirt, so as to prepare my soul and body for the celebration of our Lord’s resurrection. I was more successful with body than with spirit, for had I not been standing for the mass I should have fallen asleep during Thomas de Bowlegh’s homily. This message, I thought, was not one of his best. But perhaps his discourse lost its power at my ear rather than at his lips.
By tradition Lord Gilbert’s servants, tenants, and villeins would receive a feast this day at the castle. Most Lords fed only their servants an Easter dinner, but Lord Gilbert, though parsimonious on other occasions, was lavish when it came to sharing his board at Easter. Perhaps he is more charitable than most nobles. Or perhaps he likes to display his wealth.
Although Lord Gilbert was absent at Pembroke, he instructed me to continue the custom. The great hall at Bampton Castle is small, so I ordered tables set up in the castle yard for the villeins, while tenants would dine in the hall. The day was cool, but there was no more snow, so those who ate in the yard were not much discomfited.
Tenants and villeins who dined at Lord Gilbert’s table this day brought eggs, which was also customary. We who fed at the castle board would see our fill of custards and poached eggs for the next fortnight.
There was, as is traditional, no work done for the next week. I chafed to see such idleness, but I suppose ’tis well for men to have some relief from their labors. Especially since, when Hocktide was past, the work of summer would truly begin.
The week was cold, not lending itself to celebration. The clouds which appeared on Easter eve remained over Bampton ’til Thursday, bringing Scotland’s weather with them. Better both the Scots and their clime remain to the north.
On Hocktide Sunday I set up a table in the castle yard — the weather being much improved — and collected rents and fees due Lord Gilbert. Harvests had been good the previous two years, so there were few unable to pay. These, as Lord Gilbert instructed, were granted extra time, but their arrearages were carefully noted. In times past a tenant unable to pay his rent might be cast out and his land leased to another. But since the great death there were few workers and much unused land. A tenant dismissed could not be replaced. And tenants knew this. I was pleased that most paid without complaint. Lord Gilbert would surely have been unhappy to return to Bampton to discover that rents were uncollected. But he would have been equally unhappy should I dismiss a tenant who could not be replaced.
On the Monday and Tuesday after Hocktide Sunday the residents of Bampton indulged in a curious spectacle, unknown to me before I came to the town. On Monday the wives of Bampton whipped their husbands through the streets. On Tuesday husbands got revenge and whipped their screeching wives through the town. I suppose no harm was done. I saw few who took advantage of the custom to lay on strong blows. Certainly wives, whatever disagreements they might have with their husbands, did not thrash them, for they knew they would receive similar blows next day. And husbands who scourged their wives too strongly knew they would eat cold pottage ’til Whitsunday for their vigor.
