Mel Starr: Rest Not in Peace

A cresset was burning upon a stand, where it had been all night should Sir Henry have wished to rise and visit the garderobe. I lifted it and held it close to the dead man’s face. Two windows gave light to the room, but they were narrow, and one faced north, the other west, so that the morning sun did not illuminate the chamber.

I first inspected Sir Henry’s neck to see if any contusion was there. None was. I felt the man’s scalp, to see if any lump or dried blood might betray a blow. All was as it should be. I pried open the lips — no easy task, for rigor mortis was begun — to see if Sir Henry might have choked to his death upon regurgitated food. His mouth was clear.

Because Sir Henry was already stiffening in death I assumed that he was dead for some hours before he was found. De Mondeville wrote that rigor mortis begins three or so hours after death, and becomes severe at twelve hours after death.

A blanket yet covered the corpse. I drew this aside, and with my dagger slit Sir Henry’s kirtle so I might inspect the body for wounds or evidence of blows. There were none.

Beside the bed, next to where the cresset had been placed, was a cup. I held it to the window and saw in the dregs the few remains of the pounded seeds of lettuce which had been in the wine. Was some other potion added to the cup? I touched the dregs with my fingertips and brought them to my lips. I could detect no foreign flavor, although this is not telling, for there are several malignant herbs which leave little or no taste when consumed. Monk’s Hood is one. And for this they are all the more dangerous.

The walls of Sir Henry’s chamber were of stone, of course, and the door of heavy oak. If he felt himself afflicted in the night, and cried out for aid, he might not have been heard, especially if his call was weak due to an affliction which took his life.

I went to the door, where Arthur and Sir Henry’s valet stood, and asked the valet if anyone had heard Sir Henry shout for help in the night.

“Don’t know,” he replied. “I spend the night in the servants’ range. I wouldn’t have heard ’im.”

“Has no other, those whose chambers were close by, spoken of it?”

“Nay. None said anything.”

“It was you who found him?”

“Aye.”

“Has anything in his chamber been moved since then? Has Sir Henry’s corpse been moved?”

“Nay… but for Lady Margery throwin’ herself upon ’im when she was brought here an’ saw Sir Henry dead. Lord Gilbert drew her away. Told her he had a man who could tell why Sir Henry was dead. That would be you?”

“Aye. I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon, and bailiff at Bampton manor. You are…?”

“Walter Mayn, valet to Sir Henry… was valet to Sir Henry.”

“Two days past I was asked to provide herbs which might help Sir Henry fall to sleep. Was there some matter which vexed him, so that he awoke of a night?”

Walter did not reply. He looked away, as if he heard some man approach at the end of the passageway. A valet is to be circumspect, and loyal, and hold his tongue when asked of the affairs of his lord. The man did not need to say more. His silence and glance told me that some business had troubled Sir Henry. Whether or not the issue had led to his death was another matter. Might a man die of worry? If so, this was no concern of Lord Gilbert Talbot’s bailiff.

“Who slept in the next chamber?” I asked the fellow.

“Sir Geoffrey Godswein.”

“And across the passageway?”

“Sir John Peverel.”

“They are knights in Sir Henry’s service?”

“Aye.”

“And they did not speak of any disturbance in the night?”

“Not that I heard. There was lots of screamin’ from Lady Margery and all was speakin’ at once when Sir Henry was found.”

I decided that I should seek these knights, and the Lady Margery, if she was fit to be questioned. I told Arthur and Walter to remain at Sir Henry’s door and allow no man, nor woman, either, to enter the chamber ’til I had returned.

Lady Margery I had seen in the hall, so I returned there and found Lord Gilbert and Lady Petronilla comforting the widow. Lady Margery’s eyes were red and her cheeks swollen. She had seen me an hour before, but through teary eyes.

“Master Hugh,” Lord Gilbert said, rising, “what news?”

“Hugh?” the woman shrieked. “This is the leech who has poisoned my husband?”

Lord Gilbert answered for me. “Nay, Lady Margery. Master Hugh is as competent as any at his business. He has assured me that the potion he sent to aid Sir Henry’s slumber could not cause death.”

“Of course he would say so. Something did. And Sir Henry took none of the potion until the night he died.”

The woman stood, her fists clenched, as if prepared to strike me. Lord Gilbert saw, and took her arm.

“’Tis of that night I would speak to you,” I said. “Your chamber is not far from your husband’s. Did you or your maids hear anything in the night? Some sound which might now, when you think back upon it, have told of Sir Henry’s distress, even if in the night, when you heard it, you paid no heed?”

“Nay, I heard nothing. ’Twas the potion you gave which caused his death. It was to bring sleep, you said. So it did, the sleep of death. This man,” she turned to my employer, “should be sent to the sheriff for trial before the King’s Eyre for the murder he has done.”

“Surely Master Hugh has done no murder,” Lady Petronilla said. “If so be his potion brought death ’twas surely mischance, not felony.”

Lady Margery stared skeptically at Lady Petronilla, but said no more.

Across the hall, as far from the grieving widow as could be yet remaining in the chamber, I saw two knights sitting upon a bench, their heads close together in earnest conversation.

“Sir John and Sir Geoffrey occupied chambers near Sir Henry, is this not so?”

“Aye,” Lord Gilbert replied, and nodded in the direction of the solemn knights.

I walked in the direction of his gaze and the two knights stood when they saw me approach.

“I give you good day,” I said courteously, although my words were but an affectation, for no such day could be good. “You are knights in service to Sir Henry?” I asked, although I knew the answer.

“Aye,” the older of the two replied. “I am Sir John Peverel. This is Sir Geoffrey Godswein.”

Sir John was a large man, taller than me and three stone heavier. His hands were the size of a dexter’s hooves. Sir Geoffrey was smaller, a man of normal size.

I introduced myself and my duty, and asked if they had heard any cry in the night, or any other sound to indicate that Sir Henry might have been in distress. Both men shook their heads.

“Heard nothing amiss ’til Walter shouted for help,” Sir Geoffrey said.

“When he did so you went immediately to Sir Henry’s chamber?”

“Aye.”

“Who entered first?”

“I did,” Sir Geoffrey replied.

“What did you see? Tell all, even if it seems of no importance.”

“Walter stood at the door, which was flung wide open, bawling out that Sir Henry was dead. I pushed past and saw ’twas so.”

“Were the bed clothes in disarray, as if he’d thrashed about?”

Sir Geoffrey pursed his lips in thought, turned to Sir John as if seeking confirmation, then spoke. “Nay. All was in order. Not like Sir Henry’d tossed about in pain before he died.”

Sir John nodded agreement, then said, “His eyes were open. You being a surgeon would know better than me, but if a man died in his sleep, they’d be closed, seems like.”

I agreed. “Unless some pain awoke him before he died.”

“Then why’d he not cry out?” Sir Geoffrey asked.

I had no answer.