Mel Starr - Rest Not in Peace

A small wood bordered the track to Wootton. We led our beasts into this grove until they were well hid from any traveler who might pass this way. We removed their saddles and tied them to trees a few paces apart, so they should not entangle themselves, then set out afoot for the village and manor of Wootton.

Sir Henry’s manor house was in great need of repair. Daub had peeled away from the wattles in several places, and the thatch was rotting and thin. Had I not before known of his impoverished state, I would have learned of it upon seeing his house. I wondered what Lady Margery thought when she laid eyes upon the place for the first time.

Beyond the manor house the single street of the village extended perhaps two hundred paces to a small church. Between the church and Sir Henry’s house this street was lined with the homes of tenants and villeins. A few of these houses were in disrepair and uninhabited. Sir Henry would not reduce rents upon his lands to attract men to take up holdings abandoned due to the pestilence. Near the church I saw a thing which brought me great pleasure. A pole was erected before one of the houses, and atop it there was an upturned basket. Some ale wife had fresh-brewed ale and was advertising her supply. I pointed toward the place and Arthur and I made our way there.

A child played in the toft before the house, and within the place I heard a babe voice its displeasure over some matter probably having to do with food. I knocked upon the jamb, for the door was open, and a moment later a wary female face peered suspiciously at me from the dark interior of the house. There are surely few visitors to a place like Wootton.

“You have ale for thirsty travelers?” I said, and nodded toward the pole and basket.

“Aye… fresh-brewed yesterday.” The hard look upon the woman’s face softened as she realized she had customers. “A ha’penny for a gallon,” she continued.

The woman invited us to sit upon a crude bench at her table, and produced two wooden cups of dubious cleanliness. I hope Lord Gilbert appreciates the afflictions I endure in his service.

The squalling babe fell silent and peered at us. I took a swallow of ale, which was not watered and was well brewed. Then I spoke to the woman.

“Does your lord require laborers? We seek employment.”

“Hah,” she snorted. “If you’ll work for naught and be pleased for the chance.”

“Your lord has enough men that he does not need to find more?”

“Nay. He has few enough. But Sir Henry’s a Commissioner of Laborers. Won’t pay a farthing more than the Statute of Laborers requires, an’ will seek out an’ fine them as disobeys the law.”

I allowed my face to express what I hoped the woman would take as sorrow. “Do men not flee his lands?” I asked.

“As you have fled from your lord?” she winked.

“We be just honest men seeking a decent living,” Arthur said.

“Some have fled, but many Sir Henry has sought out and brought back… an’ he levied great fines upon ’em, too.”

“Not a popular man, then, I’d guess.”

“Oh, aye,” the woman chuckled. “That’s why you’d not find ’im home did you seek him to ask for work.”

I said nothing, but cocked my head as if perplexed by her words. She continued.

“Sir Henry an’ his household set out for some place beyond Oxford, so I heard. One of ’is squires learned that some folk hereabout was plottin’ to kill ’im, an’ the knights an’ squires what serve ’im, also.”

“He is a cruel lord?”

“Aye,” she spat. “A few months past, jus’ before Candlemas, I b’lieve, Arnald Crabb set ’is goods in a cart an’ went off to another manor. Near to Wolverton, I heard. Sir Henry knew it must be that the lord he was to rent land from must’ve reduced rents to seek new tenants, so sent men to discover was it so, an’ bring Arnald back if it was true.”

“Arnald was a tenant of this place?”

“Since ’e was born. His kin live ’ere yet… uncle is smith in the village.”

An alarm bell rang in my mind. Walter’s father had been a smith.

“Smiths often seek better wages, I hear. Has your smith ever sought to better ’imself?”

“Once, years past, it was. I was but a wee lass. Charged folks more for hinges an’ nails and such stuff than the statute allowed. Sir Henry put a stop to that, right enough.”

“So this Arnald was fined for daring to take up lands of another for lower rent than permitted?”

“Nay… ’e’s dead. Can’t fine a dead man. Sir Henry sent men to bring ’im back, but folks at ’is new place fought to stop ’em, so I heard. Arnald got hisself pierced in the fight an’ died next day.”

“And his family lives here yet?”

“Aye… well, not ’is wife. She wouldn’t return an’ Sir Henry thought it best to leave ’er be. Lots o’ cousins, though.”

“These were not angered when Arnald died?”

“Oh, aye. That’s why Sir Henry fled the place, you see. They was plottin’ to do away with ’im. Him an’ ’is knights an’ the two squires, as well, like I said.”

“You said Sir Henry was visiting a place beyond Oxford? Was his name Sir Henry Burley?”

“Aye,” she said, with some suspicion furrowing her brow. “How’d you know of ’im?”

“He’s dead. We were in the town of Bampton a few days past, an’ learned of the death.”

“He tried to flee the revenge of them he’d plundered, but didn’t travel far enough. Was ’e murdered?”

“So men there said.”

A look of satisfaction crossed the ale wife’s face, but this rapidly faded. “’Is wife’ll be as hard as Sir Henry ever was, an’ Sir Geoffrey’ll no doubt have the post Sir Henry had… an’ Lady Margery, too.”

“Sir Geoffrey?”

“One of Sir Henry’s knights, an’ a favorite of Sir Henry’s wife, if you know what I mean.” The woman winked.

“Who else of Arnald’s kin live nearby, that they could plot against Sir Henry?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Why’d you want to know? Half the village knew of the plan, not just Arnald’s family. Only cousin what didn’t know of what was to happen was Walter, I’d guess.”

“Walter?”

“Aye. A valet to Sir Henry. Don’t think ’e knew of the scheme. Folks didn’t trust ’im, you see, bein’ Sir Henry’s valet.”

I had consumed nearly half the ale from the crusted wooden cup, and thought I need drink no more. Walter was a cousin to a man slain by Sir Henry’s men. I knew that Walter had had opportunity to murder Sir Henry. Now I knew he had reason, as well.

I thanked the ale wife for the drink, and nodded toward the door. Arthur saw and rose from his bench. Together we left the hovel and set off toward the decrepit manor house and the east end of the village.

Arthur had heard all of the conversation, and spoke as we approached Sir Henry’s dwelling.

“’Twas Walter, then, who did murder, an’ not Sir Geoffrey?”

“It may be. But I have no proof of it, nor can I think of a way to confirm it to be so.”

“It’s a long way back to Bampton. You’ll think of somethin’.”

I might have wished for Arthur’s confidence.

We had seen no village large enough to have an inn while on the way to Wootton, so were required to sleep that night upon piles of leaves in a wood nearby to a place called Cranfield. I discovered the name when, next morn, I smelled the village baker at his work and sought fresh loaves of him. We halted in the journey that day to allow the horses to feed in a meadow beside the road, but even with this delay we arrived at Chetwode Abbey while the sun was yet well above the trees. The abbot did not seem much pleased to see us again. We left the place next day at dawn, paused once again in Oxford to seek a meal, and entered Bampton shortly after the ninth hour.