Mel Starr - The Tainted Coin

Rushes were thin upon the floor, and had not, I think, been changed for many months. So when I knelt beside the woman my knees rested upon dirt. She looked up to me and seized my arm with bony fingers when I bent close. Her bed lay nearby, and I wondered why, if she was ill, she had not sought it rather than the uncomfortable place where she lay, her head pillowed by the wall of her house. I soon discovered the reason.

“Kicked me, the knave,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“Them as was pryin’ about Amice’s house last night.”

The effort to report this to me sapped the woman’s strength. She had raised herself upon an elbow when she spoke, but fell back against the wall, exhausted, when she finished.

Arthur peered over my shoulder. I told him to take the old woman’s shoulders, and I would lift her feet. Together we would lay her upon the bed. Then, when she was more comfortable, perhaps I might learn more of who had kicked her and why they had been prowling about Amice Thatcher’s house. I thought I knew the answer to both questions.

The crone gasped when Arthur and I lifted her from the floor, but sighed gratefully when we set her gently upon her bed. I placed her pillow beneath her head, and when I did, she spoke again. “Ale,” she whispered.

Arthur heard, and crossed the small house to a crude table where rested an equally crude ewer. I watched as he lifted it, then turned it upside down.

“Empty,” he said. “Seen another ale house down toward the marketplace. Be back shortly.”

“Who was it did you this injury?” I asked when Arthur disappeared through the door.

“Dunno,” she mumbled. “Heard voices. Opened the door to see who was about so late, an’ saw a light in Amice’s house.”

The woman fell silent for a moment, as if to renew her strength, then continued. “Thought Amice was come home, so went ’cross the street to see was it so. Wasn’t.”

Again she hesitated, longer this time, and did not resume until Arthur entered with the ewer filled.

“Two men was searchin’ her place. Overturned all, they did.”

“You surprised them?”

“Aye.”

Arthur poured ale into a cup, gave it to me, and I lifted the woman’s head from her pillow so she could drink. The liquid seemed to invigorate her. She continued her tale with a stronger voice.

“I heard thrashin’ about, an’ seen they was up to no good, so left ’em an’ sought me own door, but one of ’em saw me an’ caught me up before I could get home. Knocked me down, ’e did, then kicked me in the ribs. Kicked me again, in the head. I must ’ave swooned, ’cause next I remember is the two of ’em draggin’ me inside. One said, ‘We can’t leave her on the street. Someone will find her, mayhap before we can finish the search.’

“They thought I was dead, see, or near so. The other said, ‘Don’t worry. Folk’ll not trouble themselves over some old woman found dead in her house.’ They left me where you found me.”

“Were these the same fellows who took Amice Thatcher away?”

“Dunno. Too dark, an’ they had but one cresset lit in Amice’s house.”

“Where did the fellow kick you?”

She drew a hand to her ribs. “Just here,” she said.

I touched the place through her threadbare cotehardie and the woman gasped under the light pressure of my fingertips. “Ow,” she rasped. “Hurts, that does.”

I touched another rib, above the tender place, and received no response. But when I moved my fingers lower, the crone caught her breath again. I found two cracked ribs where some villain had delivered a kick to the old woman’s side as she lay upon the street.

“You say he kicked you in the head, also?”

“Aye.”

“Let’s have your cap off and see what injury may be there.”

“Who are you, an’ why are you seekin’ out my wounds?”

“I am Hugh de Singleton, bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot on his manor at Bampton, and also a surgeon.”

“Master Hugh can fix you up proper, like,” Arthur said. “Ah, well, then, I thank you. Most folk don’t care much what befalls an old woman.”

Under the woman’s cap I found a small laceration in her scalp. The cap and her braided hair had cushioned the blow. The wound required no stitches, and although there was caked blood in her hair, a scab now stopped any further flow.

“Them rogues break her ribs?” Arthur asked.

“Aye. Two, I think.”

“What’ll be done with her? Can she care for herself with two broke ribs?”

“Nay. She must be bound tight, and have care for many weeks. Return to St. John’s Hospital. Seek the infirmarer and tell him of what has happened here. Ask for two lay brothers to come for… what is your name?”

“Amabel. Amabel Maunder.”

“Have them bring a pallet. Amabel is too abused to walk, even with aid.”

Arthur departed for the hospital while I remained with my patient. I considered leaving her for a short while and seeking the New Inn, where I had left my instruments, but thought better of it. Nothing I had brought from Bampton would help Amabel Maunder, and the infirmarer at St. John’s Hospital would have linen, which could be wound tight about the old woman’s ribs to ease her pain while the bones knit, and herbs to dull the ache.

’Tis but a few paces from St. John’s Hospital to the bury, so Arthur returned with the lay brothers and a pallet in a short time. I saw Amabel received at the hospital, and made provision with the infirmarer and a sister to have her ribs bound, and for ale laced with the ground seeds of hemp to be provided her twice each day. There was nothing else to be done for Amabel, but I did promise the woman that I would return to her house, tell her neighbors of her plight, and ask them to keep watch over her house and scant possessions.

So it was that Arthur and I returned to the bury and met John Mashon. As we approached Amabel’s hut I heard from the toft next door a rhythmic thumping. I rapped upon the door of this house, but there was no response. The pounding in the toft covered the sound of my fist against the planks.

Arthur followed as I walked around the house to the toft. There I found a man flailing away upon a length of wet flax. He was preparing to make thread. The fellow was absorbed in his work, so did not notice our approach until we were nearly upon him. He stepped back in alarm when he did see us, and raised his flail before him as if to defend himself. Perhaps in the bury such readiness is needful.

“Amabel Maunder, your neighbor, was attacked last night,” I said quickly, and stopped in my place so to cause the man no further worry. “Did you see or hear anything?”

“Amabel? She’s got naught worth stealin’, and does no man harm.”

“She was not assailed for either of those reasons. She saw men lurking about Amice Thatcher’s house, and when they knew she saw, they knocked her down and kicked her. She has two broken ribs and a lump upon her head. I have taken her to St. John’s Hospital.”

“You have? Who are you?”

“A friend to Amice and Amabel. What do you know of last night and Amabel’s attackers?”

The man shook his head. “Heard somethin’ in the street, but it’s not healthful to meddle in other folk’s business.”

“Especially in the dark of night,” I agreed. “Did you hear any words which might tell who did this thing?”

The thread-maker hesitated. Perhaps he feared retribution. I assured him that I would hold his information secret. His furrowed brow did not relax. I think he set little store by my pledge, but after warring with himself, and considering what had befallen his inoffensive neighbor, he finally spoke.

“All was silent, see, else I wouldn’t ’ave heard.”