Mel Starr - Rest Not in Peace

Sir John’s death was not planned, I thought, until the fight with William left him wounded and less able to defend himself. And as neither of the squires nor Sir Geoffrey had yet been accused of Sir Henry’s murder, Walter saw a way to slay Sir John and have the sheriff and King’s Eyre do away with William.

The stolen silver and portpain, I was convinced, had nothing to do with murder, but the coincidence of their theft at such a time had served to complicate matters and draw me down unproductive paths.

From a distance I heard the bell sound to call us to our dinner. I looked to Sir Geoffrey and nodded toward the chamber door, then led him to the corridor. He followed, and closed the heavy door behind him.

As this was a fast day, no meat, eggs, or cheese were served. The first remove was stewed herring, sole in cyve, and boiled plaice. For the second remove there was charlet of cod, and roasted salmon in spiced sauce. For the third remove the cook presented cyueles, crispels, mushroom tarts, and a fruit and salmon pie. For the subtlety there was pears in compost. It is sometimes difficult to enjoy such a meal when I know that my Kate is home in Galen House consuming a pease pottage with no pork to flavor the dish. Well, some discomfort must be accepted to do the work Lord Gilbert asks of me.

Walter’s place near the foot of a side table was vacant. Sir Geoffrey saw this also, and gave me a knowing glance as Lord Gilbert’s chaplain said a prayer for the meal and the valets served the first remove. Those who sat low at the tables received only some of the stewed herring with their stockfish and maslin loaves.

There was another empty chair at dinner this day. Lady Petronilla’s place was vacant. I am a surgeon, not a physician, but I thought it likely that Lord Gilbert would soon approach me regarding his wife’s indisposition.

I was eager for the meal to end, to learn if my ruse was successful. No one, of course, could leave the hall until Lord Gilbert indicated that the meal was done by rising from his place. This he did without lingering over the subtlety, perhaps concerned for his wife.

As soon as Lord Gilbert stood I glanced to Sir Geoffrey, nodded toward the stairs, and left my place at the head of a side table. On my way to the stairs I passed behind Arthur, tapped the groom upon his shoulder, and bid him accompany me. A bailiff almost never gets in trouble by having too much muscle to enforce his authority.

The three of us approached Sir Geoffrey’s chamber and found the door closed as when the knight and I had left it an hour and more past. I waited for Sir Geoffrey to enter his chamber, then followed and went straight to the chest.

We had approached the room in silence, so Arthur knew nothing of my plot or why he was brought to the place. He stood at the door, unwilling to enter a gentleman’s private space, and waited with a puzzled expression upon his broad face.

Sir Geoffrey stood aside and allowed me to lift the lid to his chest. Nothing there seemed amiss. All was as I had left it. The book of hours lay upon the two folded kirtles, in the same place it had been when I last saw it. At the other end of the chest was Sir Geoffrey’s fine cotehardie, also folded neatly, as it was before we took dinner. The knight saw these things also.

“All is as it was. No man has been in my chest, I think.”

“We will be sure,” I replied, and began lifting out garments, book, shoes, and boots. At the bottom of the chest, beneath Sir Geoffrey’s riding boots, was folded his extra pair of braes. This garment seemed rather bulky. I lifted it from the chest and as it unfolded another cloth fell from it which had not been in that place in the morning. A bloodstained kirtle had been wrapped in the braes.

Sir Geoffrey looked upon the garment silently as I lifted it from the depths of his chest, then finally spoke. “’Twas Walter, then.”

“Aye. This is surely his kirtle, placed here while we dined, to incriminate you. ’Tis of linen, as you might wear. I suspect it once belonged to Sir Henry, and Walter put it to his own use now that Sir Henry has no need of the garment. You return to the hall, or seek Lord Gilbert in the solar. Lady Petronilla is unwell, so he may be attending her in her apartments. I will take Arthur to confront Walter. You need have no part in the business. You may replace your goods in the chest. I will take this kirtle with me.”

I folded the stained garment and placed it inside my cotehardie, under my arm, where no man could see it, then turned from the chamber and bid Arthur follow. The fellow needed to know what we were about to do, so I stopped in the corridor to quickly explain what he had just seen.

He nodded understanding, then spoke. “Cicily ain’t herself, either. Heard you say Lady Petronilla’s unwell. I know you ain’t a physician, but mayhap you could call an’ see what ails ’er?”

I promised to do so, and we then descended to the lower level and sought the cramped chamber where Sir Henry’s valets and grooms had bedded for the last month. Walter expected me. He was seated on a bed, and stood quickly to his feet when I entered the room. He did not wait for me to speak, but blurted out his news.

“’Twas as you thought,” he said. “There is at the bottom of Sir Geoffrey’s chest a kirtle spotted with blood, wrapped in braes so as to not be found.”

“’Tis no longer there,” I said, and drew the garment from under my arm.

“Ah,” the valet said, “you have already discovered it. Have you seized Sir Geoffrey?”

“Nay. I have come to charge you with the murder of Sir John Peverel and see to it that you are taken to the dungeon.”

“What? Not so! I did but as you asked of me.”

“I did not ask you to place this kirtle in Sir Geoffrey’s chest.”

“I found it there, while all other castle folk were in the hall, at dinner.”

“Not so. I inspected Sir Geoffrey’s chest before dinner. This kirtle was not amongst his possessions then, but was an hour later. Who else could have hid it there? All but you were in the hall.”

I reached out a hand and pulled Walter’s cap from his head. He had artfully coiled his liripipe so as to cover an ear. There was a small scabbed wound where his left earlobe should have been. I was sure that under the collar of his cotehardie I might find a scratch made by Sir John’s fingernail.

Walter attempted a brave front, but he was not skilled at deception. His jaw hung slack and his eyes darted about the chamber as if seeking some heretofore undiscovered means of escape.

“I am told that your father is a smith.”

Walter made no reply, but his mouth opened and closed as a trout drawn from Shill Brook and laid upon the bank.

“Was it he who made this bodkin?” I said, and drew the implement from my pouch. I would be pleased to no longer need to carry the thing about. One day the sharpened end of the tool had punched through the leather of my pouch and poked my wrist. I do not mind having upon my person blades and such with which I may help injured folk to mend, but this bodkin was used for an evil purpose and I would be glad to be rid of it.

“Did you tell him what use you had planned for it?”

“Nay,” he blurted. “Me father knew nothing of it. He bears no fault in this.”

“You had it in mind to slay Sir Henry before you came here, is this not so? Did you begin to plot before your cousin’s death, or was it not ’til after that the notion came to you?”

Walter sat heavily upon the bed. “Wanted only to better ’imself, did Arnald,” he said. “Sir Henry’d not reduce rents, him bein’ so bad off, an’ a Commissioner of Laborers as well, so Arnald took ’is wife an’ children to take up a yardland of Sir Jocelyn Parrott. Arnald not bein’ a villein, there was nothin’ Sir Henry could do to stop ’im goin’. Right bitter Sir Henry was, too.”