Mel Starr - Rest Not in Peace

“He would not consider reduced rent to keep the man upon his lands?”

“Nay. An’ he knew well enough that’s why Arnald was goin’ off to Sir Jocelyn. No man would pile ’is goods on a cart in January an’ travel to a new place lest there was good reason.”

“How did Sir Henry learn what rent Arnald paid to Sir Jocelyn?”

“Don’t know. Sir Henry had spies, though. Paid folks a part of the fine if they’d tell ’im of them what was violating the Statute of Laborers.”

“I am told that Sir Henry came here to Bampton to escape a plot against him.”

“Aye,” Walter said through thin lips. “Some of the lads had too much ale an’ William overheard ’em makin’ plans. Was it not for ’im, Sir Henry’d have been dealt with right proper an’ I’d not have to…”

The valet fell silent for a moment, then spoke again. “Sheriff’ll hang me, won’t he?”

“Aye. You have confessed to me. And I have evidence now to convict you of Sir John’s murder even if you had kept silent. The King’s Eyre will have no sympathy for your excuse. The judges are men of property and endorse the Statute of Laborers. The court will require my witness, and I will tell what I have learned and what you have said. You must prepare yourself to meet the Lord Christ.”

Walter looked to his feet. “S’pose I always knew things might turn out this way. What would you ’ave done was your kin slain for seekin’ to better ’imself an’ care for ’is babes? An’ your father fined for chargin’ a decent price for ’is work?”

I did not reply. I feared my answer.

“I have heard of a Commissioner of Laborers who was discharged when King Edward was told of his malfeasance,” I said instead.

“Hah. He was probably not sendin’ the King ’is proper share. So long as the King gets ’is coin he’ll not much care what becomes of a tenant with but a yardland to ’is name.”

It would have been impolitic for me to agree with a felon’s assessment of his sovereign, so I bit my tongue and made no reply. I do not know much of the King but that he is advanced in years and not well and enjoys the company of a lady named Alice, but I suspect that Walter spoke true. This may be treasonous, but I write for my own remembrance. It is unlikely that the King or his officers will plumb the depths of my chest to seek the gatherings upon which I write of the death of Sir Henry Burley and Sir John Peverel.

I turned to Arthur. “Take Walter to the dungeon, then tell the marshalsea that I will need Bruce and two palfreys tomorrow morning. We will take Walter to Sir Roger… you will accompany me.”

Arthur did not seem much pleased about this new duty. Perhaps he thought of Cicily and her indisposition. But he tugged a forelock, reached out a meaty hand for Walter’s arm, and lifted the downcast fellow to his feet. I would be melancholy also if I saw in my future a dungeon, unsympathetic judges, and providing entertainment for the young scholars of Oxford as I did the sheriff’s dance.

I found Lord Gilbert and Sir Geoffrey in the solar. The knight had told my employer of how matters stood, for when I entered the chamber Lord Gilbert stood and congratulated me.

“I have sent Walter to the dungeon in Arthur’s care,” I said. “We will take him to Oxford tomorrow. He may await the King’s Eyre under Sir Roger’s authority.”

“Well done, Master Hugh. Well done. Sir Roger would have taken the squire to his dungeon to await the judges.”

“Or Sir Geoffrey,” I said. “Perhaps this business will influence the next Commissioner of Laborers appointed for Bedford to deal more wisely with the commons, and gentlemen, who run afoul of the statute. Walter will hang, but that will bring no satisfaction to Sir Henry Burley.”

I said this for the benefit of Sir Geoffrey, who, I was certain, hoped to move shortly into the office, and matrimonial place, of his deceased lord.

I departed the castle feeling oddly unsatisfied. It was while I paused upon the bridge over Shill Brook that the reason for this ennui came to me. What of the portpain? Most of the portpain had been in Lady Margery’s possession. Had she taken it from the pantry, or had Lady Anne? If Lady Margery stole the portpain, when and why did Walter come to have a part of it when he slew Sir Henry? And if Walter was the thief, how did most of the linen cloth come into Lady Margery’s possession? Gazing into Shill Brook provided no answers.

I turned from the calming stream and returned to the castle. Wilfred seemed surprised to see me return, but men in his position are not to question the coming and going of their betters. The porter tugged a forelock and turned from me as if uninterested in what I was about. Perhaps he really had no interest in my return.

Bampton Castle dungeon lies beneath the buttery, at the base of a narrow, dark, stone stairway. Moisture gathers there in the summer, and the place is clammy with mosses. ’Tis an unpleasant place to be, as is proper. If a man has behaved in some lamentable fashion it is appropriate that he find himself in uncomfortable circumstance, the better to consider the felony which brought him there.

Two timbers, hinged on one side and dropped into a niche in the stone on the other, fastened shut the door to Walter’s cell. There was, at the level of my collar, a small window in the door. I opened it and bent to peer into the cell. Walter was not visible, for the dungeon was illuminated by only a small, barred opening in the upper wall opposite the door.

Walter must have heard the small door open, for a moment later his face, apprehension in his eyes, appeared before me. This window was small, barely larger than the palm of my hand. Large enough to pass a loaf, a cup, or a small bowl of gruel through to the cell’s inhabitant, but no larger.

Only a portion of my face would have been visible to the valet, and that in shadow, so he did not know who peered at him through the small hatch. Perhaps he thought some groom was bringing him a loaf. He was soon disabused of this notion, if he’d entertained it. He recognized my voice when I spoke.

“The portpain,” I said. “Did you steal it from the pantry, or did Lady Margery?”

Walter stared at me for some time, looked away once, then, without speaking, disappeared from my view to a corner of his cell. I heard what sounded like a body sliding down the stones of the wall, and a sigh as his haunches reached the filthy rushes.

“You,” I repeated, “or the Lady Margery, or some other? Lady Anne, perhaps?”

There was no reply.

“Why will you not answer? You can face no more severe penalty, so speak. If ’twas you took Lord Gilbert’s portpain, what did you think? That you could sell the linen in Bedford when you returned there?”

Walter still made no reply.

“It must be, then, that Lady Margery stole the portpain. If ’twas you,” I said, “you would have no reason to keep silent. But as you will die for your murders, you think to save Lady Margery, I think. Considerate of you, to protect the lady. Of course, the act will cost you little. But I wonder why she gave you a portion of the stolen linen. Did she know the use you intended for it? All know that Lady Margery was displeased with Sir Henry.”

I heard Walter stand and move through the rushes. A moment later his face appeared through the open hatch.

“Lady Margery found I’d taken the portpain an’ demanded it of me. Said she’d find some way to return what remained of it before ’twas known to be missing.”

“Why did you not say so?”

This explanation was unsatisfactory. Lady Margery had not been angry with Lady Anne for stealing Lord Gilbert’s silver, but rather had been cross with her stepdaughter for being found out. Why, then, would she demand that Walter return a stolen portpain, a thing of much less value than stolen silver? Because he was but a valet, and not high-born?