Mel Starr - The Unquiet Bones

“Perhaps not. But I will not deceive you. Even young men, hurt in summer, do not easily rise from an injury such as yours.”

“What is to be done?” He coughed again.

In Paris I read of an Italian physician who believed he could improve the recovery of his patients with such injuries by raising the head of the victim’s bed. For, especially in winter, a man who cannot rise from his bed will soon die as his lungs fill with fluid. It was this physician’s belief — I cannot recall his name — that elevating the head might retard injury to the lungs common to a supine position.

I made a poultice of pulped root of comfrey, packed it about the injured limb, then wrapped it in woolen strips. The break was too high, as are most fractures of the hip, to apply a splint. Comfrey is thought to speed healing of broken bones when applied so. In this case I had doubts, but felt no harm in trying. And it gave the man hope that something could be done for him. I am convinced that hope is a curative in the ill and injured, for I have seen those severely wounded recover when they should not have, because they thought they would. And I have seen those ill, but capable of recovery, pass to the next world because they were persuaded they would not recover.

I asked the girl for ale, but she had none. I wished to make a draught to ease her father’s pain. I did not bother to ask for wine; in a house that has no ale there will be no wine.

I excused myself, walked the frozen streets back to Galen House, and armed myself with a flagon of ale. It was weak stuff, sold before the village taster had approved it. But for what I intended, it would serve. Alan the beadle accosted me on my return to the Weald cottage, but bid me farewell when in the star-lit gloom he recognized me and learned of my business.

Into the ale I mixed the ground seeds and root of hemp. This concoction would relieve pain and induce sleep. I told Alice that in the morning she must find men who would lift the head of her father’s bed, and showed her how high it should be raised. There was nothing more to be done. I promised to return the following evening with another potion, then stumbled home through the cold and dark to an equally cold bed. For all my desire to find a wife to warm it for me, I had made little progress to that end.

The Angelus bell woke me before dawn, but I lay in bed until light streaked my windows. Lord Gilbert had bid me attend him, so shortly after dawn I made my way to the castle. His chamberlain escorted me to the solar, where Lord Gilbert, his wife, Lady Joan, and the guest were seated about a blazing fireplace. I felt warm for the first time in several weeks.

Lord Gilbert bid me be seated. I did so in some embarrassment, for my apparel was plain, and not in the best repair. I noted the hem of my cloak torn out, as it had been for many days, and it seemed to me that Lady Joan’s eyes fell also on the offending seam.

“I would hear your opinion of this business. What do you make of it, Master Hugh? Have you reflected on this matter since we parted last night?”

My thoughts had indeed been swimming through the various interpretations which could be assigned to finding a cotehardie and dagger together in a forest.

“M’lord, I have thought of little else. As the cotehardie and dagger were found some distance from the road, it seems to me likely that Sir Robert and his squire were drawn there as they passed by. Perhaps a call for assistance took them from the road. But someone, I think, wished them away from the path…to a place where what was to happen could not be seen by a traveler.”

Lord Gilbert pulled at his chin and nodded agreement. “The cotehardie?” he asked.

“When Sir Robert saw that he had been lured to an ambush, perhaps he threw off the cotehardie, to preserve it, or to escape the restrictions to movement and his own defense that such a close-fitting garment would cause.

“I think the fight went badly. The squire lost his sword, else he would not have been reduced to defending himself with but a small dagger. In time, even this was lost.”

“And the fight was over,” Lord Gilbert growled. “What then?”

“Death, m’lord.”

“But why? You may rob a man without killing him.”

“I think this was no robbery. It is as you said. A man may be robbed on the road, not in a forest, if enough strength is presented to him so that he will not challenge his state. It is my belief that Sir Robert’s death was desired.”

“And the squire?”

“A witness, to be done away with?” I returned his question with another.

“Then we have three murders to resolve. What has become of my estate?”

I did not approve of the “we” of his remark. I thought Lord Gilbert’s assignment to seek out one murderer enough. But I admit my curiosity was aroused, and before I could think of grounds to object, Lady Joan spoke.

“What do you suggest be done, Master Hugh?” she asked softly.

I could not ignore the lady. No man could, but that is a matter best addressed another time. And indeed, I had given the matter some thought.

“Lord Gilbert, you have hounds.” It was a statement, not a question. “I think they might serve a useful purpose in this business.”

“And what might that be?” he queried.

“I would take the keeper and two of your best hounds, and two grooms, perhaps Arthur and Uctred, and allow the hounds to search where yesterday we found nothing. I will take the cotehardie; there may yet be some scent upon it a hound could trace.”

“You would have the hounds search for a grave, then?” Lord Gilbert asked.

“Yes. We must also have shovels.”

“Reasonable. Murderers would not bury their prey in a churchyard.”

I stood to leave and carry out my task, but Lady Joan spoke before I could turn. “Master Hugh, you need a seamstress to repair your cloak,” she remarked, pointing to the undone hem.

“Indeed,” Lord Gilbert agreed. “Master Hugh needs care. We must see that he is kept in good repair, body and soul.” Then turning to me: “You need a wife, Hugh…and there are other compensations than keeping one’s garments mended.” He chuckled, and from the corner of my eye I saw Lady Petronilla blush faintly.

“You keep me too busy seeking felons. I have no time to seek a wife.”

Lord Gilbert laughed again. “There are females about. Many in Oxford of a certainty, who might seek you if you but gave sign you might be found.”

This was news to me. I paid little attention to town gossip, but apparently Lord Gilbert, or his wife, was party to local chatter.

“Shall I wear a notice on my back?”

“That would not be necessary.” Lady Petronilla found voice, looked up from her embroidery, and entered the conversation. “A well-directed smile at the appropriate moment will suffice. You seem so sober and businesslike.”

“M’lord sets me to sober tasks,” I replied.

“I do,” Lord Gilbert agreed. “And for that I am sorry. But I have no other to assign to the work. I will send John to the fewterer, and assign Arthur and Uctred to accompany you for the day.”

“And I,” Lady Joan declared, “will find needle and thread and mend your cloak while John carries out his business. Then you will not catch your foot and stumble in your search.”

The guest, Sir John, who had been a silent listener to our conversation, frowned slightly at Lady Joan’s offer. Then I understood his presence. Another prospective suitor for Lord Gilbert’s sister. I am no keen observer of the human condition, but it seemed to me that, if Sir John was indeed wooing the fair Joan, his suit was not going so well as he might wish.

Lady Joan left the solar for the tools she needed, returned, and demanded my cloak. She was expert with needle and thread, well-practiced in embroidery from her youth, no doubt, and had the hem like new in little time. When she finished her task she rose, held out the cloak, and bade me put it on. She held out the sleeves and settled the cloak on my shoulders with a pat of her delicate fingers. I felt my skin burn through the layers of wool as she adjusted the fit, and my heart burned as she smiled.