Mel Starr - The Unquiet Bones

Alard looked down at the hammer dangling from his right hand. “We had words ’bout that. A few times.”

I thought, from his manner and tone, that Alard and his daughter might have visited the subject more than a few times. I said nothing, waiting for him to continue on his own.

“She liked the attention, y’see. ’Twas Tom she’d chosen. Most other lads hereabout knew it. Didn’t stop ’em as thought the matter weren’t settled.”

“Did Margaret give them reason to think ‘the matter weren’t settled’? Is that what you had words about?”

“Aye.” He hesitated. “Told her as it wasn’t right, leadin’ lads on. She’d laugh an’ say ’twas but a lark. I told her they might not see it that way.”

“Any young men in particular who thought they might have a chance with her?”

Alard paused and contemplated his hammer again. “’Bout all of ’em, I suppose. Maybe John, the miller’s boy,” he bent his head toward the mill, just in view upstream, “was most taken with her.”

“What kind of fellow is he?”

“Oh, he’ll do well. Inherit the mill with but a small fine to the Earl. His wife’ll not want for bread nor ale.”

Spoken like a true father. I asked again, phrasing my question differently. “What of his appearance? Tall? Short? Handsome? Ill-favored?”

“Oh…well, not so handsome. Short, stocky fellow. Some lasses might not care for his looks, but he’ll get more appealin’ to his wife as the years pass an’ the family grows an’ he provides.”

“Are there girls who are interested in him?”

“I suppose. I think Theobald’s daughter — he’s in trade, wool merchant — would have him.”

“Would have him, or wants him?”

Alard smiled thinly. “All right…wants him.”

“What did the merchant’s daughter think of Margaret?”

“They wasn’t close. Her bein’ of a different station. She didn’t much like it that the smithy’s daughter could dress plain an’ get more attention than her in fine clothes.”

I thought my next appointment should be with the miller’s son. I bid Alard farewell, took Bruce by the reins, and led him up the path along the river to the mill.

The creaking and grinding machinery drowned out my call, so I walked through the open door and found the miller at his work in the dusty interior. He peered through the haze at me, trying to place me among his circle of acquaintances. He held up a finger to indicate a brief delay, then resumed his work. When he finished he pushed past the sacks of flour recently ground and made his way to me.

“I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon of Bampton. You know of the fate of Margaret, the smith’s girl?”

The miller motioned me to follow him out the door to the relative quiet of the yard. “Aye…woeful thing.”

“Did you know her well?”

“Watched her grow up.”

That did not answer my question, but I could see that the miller thought it did. I was to learn that he was a man of few words.

“I’ve heard she was likely to marry Thomas of Shilton.”

“So it’s said.”

“Had she other suitors?”

“Nay. How am I to know?”

“I heard your son was interested.”

“More the fool he.”

“Oh…Why do you say so?”

“Always puttin’ on airs. Nose in the air. A smith’s daughter, mind you. Thought she was too good for my John…or most o’ the rest ’round here.”

“But not too good for Thomas Shilton?”

“Even him.”

This was a surprise. “How so?” I asked.

“He’s to come into a yardland an’ hopeful of another. She probably thought he was as good as she could catch. But she made ’im work for it.”

“Work?”

“Followed her about like a slave, he did.”

“So you’d not have been pleased had she set her cap for your John?”

“Nay. I suppose a babe or two would have shifted her mind…but there are those it don’t.”

“Is your son about? I would speak to him before I go.”

“Nay. Gone to Swinbrook.”

“Does he return today?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tell him I will call.”

The miller stared at me, unblinking, and said, “Why?”

“I should have explained. Lord Gilbert Talbot has charged me with the discovery of Margaret’s killer, as her body was found on his land.”

“My John had naught to do with anything like that.”

“I do not suspect him. But perhaps he may know something of Margaret’s friends or activities which might point me to the guilty party.”

The miller shrugged. “I’ll tell him you will call.”

Bruce knew the way home and would have broken to a trot had I not held him back, so eager was he for oats and a warm stall. I was eager for my own warm hearth. Well, it would be warm after I renewed my fire. I had learned much this day. Whether it would lead me to a killer or was but gossip, I could not know. Such is the way with knowledge; we cannot know when we acquire it when, or if ever, it will be useful to us.

I was pleased to see the spire of the Church of St Beornwald rise above the nearly naked trees when I neared Bampton. The spire is impressive for a town the size of ours but not, perhaps, as graceful as some others. It is solid and substantial, like the villagers who worship under it.

It was near dark when I left Bruce at the castle and made my way to my own door. I lit a candle, built a small fire of the few sticks of wood remaining to me, and made a supper. Days were short. Nights were long. I should have slept well in preparation for a return to Burford, but I did not. Rather, I lay in the dark and reviewed what I had learned. But I could find no pattern.

As soon as dawn gave light I was at the castle gate. I had forewarned Wilfred the evening before, so he was prompt in releasing the bar and swinging open the gate. The marshalsea had Bruce ready. I swung my bag of instruments over his broad rump and set out for Burford once again.

I had seen several forests along the road to Burford which in the recent past had been coppiced, then left unattended; due, no doubt, to the reduced number of laborers available for the task. As I passed one of these thickets but a few miles north of Bampton, I heard a rustling in the grove and saw through the leafless saplings a sow and two of her offspring, which had thus far escaped the autumn slaughter, rooting for acorns in the fallen leaves. The sow raised her head suspiciously as Bruce and I passed, but determined that we were no threat and went back to plowing the forest floor with her snout. Her passage through the coppiced woods was clearly marked, and I idly scanned the upturned leaves as Bruce ambled past the scene. The pigs were soon lost to my sight, but as I turned to the road before me, I caught from the corner of my eye a flash of color which seemed out of place in an autumn wood.

I halted Bruce, and turned him to retrace our path. I peered into the grove, and there, a hundred feet into the forest, among the upturned leaves, was a patch of blue. I dismounted and made my way through the thick-grown pollarding to the object. One sleeve of a blue cotehardie lay above the fallen leaves where the rooting pigs had left it, and was thus visible from the road. I swept away more leaves with my hand, and uncovered the garment, stained and dirty, but whole. I lifted it from the mold for inspection. It was a gentleman’s cotehardie. A sumptuous one. It was cut short, in the fashion worn by young men who wished to show a good pair of legs. It was of dark blue velvet, woven in a diamond pattern, and lined with light blue silk. The long sleeves were cut in dags, ornamented with a trim of yellow velvet, and embroidered with gold thread. Even through its filthy condition, it proclaimed its owner a young man of pride and station. Its chiefest flaw, besides the earth and leaves accumulated on it, was a small slash, about two inches long, at the front of the garment. Dirt and mold clinging to the cotehardie obscured a dark stain about the tear. Only later did I discover this discoloration.