Mel Starr - Rest Not in Peace

“You will return on the morrow to seek a murderer?” Sir Roger asked.

“Aye. I will be well rested for the work.”

Galen House and my bed loomed large in my thoughts as I passed under the castle portcullis and set out for Bridge Street and home. I had rarely dosed myself with even a thimbleful of crushed lettuce seeds, as sleep generally comes readily to me. I had no experience at consuming so great a portion of the herb. I did not pause at the bridge over Shill Brook, as I often do when no pressing business calls, for worry I might succumb to sleep while gazing into the flowing water and tumble into the stream.

I had forgotten my scratched cheek. When I arrived at my home and Kate saw me her eyes went wide and she asked what had befallen me. I told her of Lady Margery’s anger, and for a moment thought she was about to strike out for the castle to avenge me.

“The woman must be forgiven,” I said. “She is a new widow and does not see things as they are.”

“But folk will see your cheek and think I have done this.”

“Those who know us will know you would not do such a thing to your husband, and that I would not treat you so as to give you cause. Why should we care what others will think?”

Kate was not much pleased when she learned what I had done to prove to Lady Margery that Sir Henry’s sleeping draught could not have caused his death.

“What am I to do,” she asked, “if you fall to sleep upon the table while eating your supper?”

“Carry me up to our bed,” I said in jest.

“You like my cookery too well. You are no longer the slender youth I wed.”

“Am I grown fat?”

Kate frowned and assumed a thoughtful air. “Not yet,” she said.

“But if you continue to feed me with mushroom tarts and coney pies and roasted capons I soon will be, eh?”

“’Tis a mark of honor for a wife that her husband is well fed.”

“Then I will do what I may to bring you respect amongst other women. And if I fall to sleep here, over my loaf and ale, leave me. I may sleep as well with my head upon an elbow as upon a pillow, after so much lettuce seed as I’ve consumed. But I am alert enough yet, I think, to climb to our bed. When I am well asleep, turn my head upon the pillow.”

“Turn your head?”

“Aye. I wish to know if a man could fall to such a deep sleep that he would not awaken if his head was moved.”

I managed to remain awake through a simple supper, but became drowsy when the meal was done. I climbed the stairs to our bed chamber, lay down, and was deep asleep when the sun sank beyond the trees of Lord Gilbert’s orchard and forest to the west of Bampton Castle.

Kate’s rooster awakened her next morn, but not me. The sun was well up when I finally blinked awake. It occurred to my muddled mind that I was yet alive. My experiment had been a success. A surfeit of crushed lettuce seeds had not stopped my breath. I had been sure it would not, but yet… well, that is the point of an experiment — to learn what is unknown, even if the result seems sure.

I admit to being a bit unsteady as I descended the stairs. When Kate saw me enter our modest hall she said, “I could’ve shaved away your beard and you’d not have cared.”

I was yet too stupid from sleep to understand her words. My spouse saw this, rolled her eyes, shook her head, and said, “I was to turn your head upon the pillow, remember?”

“Oh, aye. You did so?”

“Indeed. I turned your head one way, then the other, and prodded you in the ribs, too. I even poked where the arrow pierced you under your arm. I know the wound is yet tender, but you lay as dead. But that your chest rose and fell with each breath I might have thought you were.”

I had little appetite this morn, which is surely a reflection of too much crushed lettuce seed the night before, as I am usually eager to break my fast. My tongue felt as though one of the poulterer’s geese had molted in my mouth, however, so a cup of the baker’s wife’s ale was welcome.

My cup was near empty when Kate spoke again. “What did you learn when I turned your head last night?”

“I learned nothing when you turned it, but this morn I have learned that a man may be so deep in sleep that his head might be moved so as to drive a sharp object through his ear and into his brain, doing murder while the fellow is asleep.”

Kate shuddered. “Is this what happened to Sir Henry?”

“So I believe. The Lady Margery thought my sleeping potion to blame for her husband’s death. I drank a fistful of crushed lettuce seeds in a cup of wine to prove her wrong, but I have also proven that under the spell of such a draught a man might be murdered and be able to do nothing to prevent his death.”

“Had Sir Henry enemies?”

“One, at least, although his wife and those in his service say not. What man who has achieved anything of import has not made enemies while doing so?”

“Either they are ignorant,” Kate said, “or they do not wish to cast suspicion on one another.”

“Aye,” I agreed.

“Which do you believe it is?”

“I do not know Lady Margery or Sir Henry’s daughter or his knights, squires, valets, and grooms well enough to say.”

“But you have thoughts on the matter.”

“Aye. Some man in Sir Henry’s service has done this. And some others may have suspicions which they do not wish to voice.”

“A friend of the murderer?”

“Or fearful for their own life, perhaps.”

Kate was silent for a moment, then spoke again. “A man who would do murder once might do so again, if he thought he was about to be found out.”

“Aye. A man can only hang once.”

“Then I beg you take care. I need a husband and Bessie needs a father.”

“You may trust me to do all necessary to keep body and soul entwined.”

Kate had set a maslin loaf before me, but I had no appetite for it, nor did she. It lay untouched upon our table while we spoke.

“Why do men murder one another?” Kate asked.

“Many reasons, I suppose.”

“Aye… but some reasons are rare and others common, I’d guess.”

“And what,” I asked her, “are the customary reasons for one man to slay another?”

“Surely you can imagine such causes.”

“Aye, but I would know your thoughts.” My Kate is quick of wit, and had provided good counsel in previous entanglements in which I had found myself.

Kate finally picked up the loaf and tore a fragment from it as she spoke. “Greed, of course. One man wants what another has.”

“Sir Henry was in reduced circumstances.”

“A knight with no funds?”

“So it seems.”

“A man may possess things other than money,” Kate said, “which another man may want.”

“Such as?”

“A wife… or a daughter.”

“Ah, just so. Sir Henry had both.”

“I’ve not been to the castle since they arrived. Are they comely?”

Here was perilous ground, but I trod nimbly across it.

“Some men might think so. They are not repulsive.”

“Hmmm. I suspect you of great tact,” Kate smiled.

I am no fool. I changed the subject. “Why else, do you think, do men do murder?”

“Some grievance, perhaps. An ancient wrong, or a new one, for which a man might seek vengeance.”

“’Twould have to be some offense Sir Henry did to one of those of his circle now lodged in the castle.”

“Was he a hard man with his inferiors?”

“I know not. ’Tis a thing I must learn, and it should not be difficult. A man who holds a grudge against his lord can usually be persuaded to speak of it, especially if the lord is a corpse and can do him no injury for his words.”

“What if,” Kate replied while chewing a portion of the maslin loaf, “such a man fears speaking ill of his lord, lest doing so will turn suspicion upon him for his lord’s death?”