Mel Starr - The Unquiet Bones

“Oh?” (This was fast becoming my favorite word.)

“I supposed she knew, so I made no promise.”

“Knew what?”

“That when she decided, we should wed.”

“Had you asked her?” The light was dim, for the commons will not burn a lamp or candle when daylight, no matter how thin, gives light, but I thought I saw him redden at the question.

“Aye…well…not like askin’, actually.”

“Then how, actually?”

“Oh, we’d talk about how many children we’d have. What I could do with another yardland; perhaps rise to gentry someday.”

I understood why such conversations might lead a man to think the question of marriage had been answered. “You said that when you quarreled at the river she spoke of a gentleman keeping his promise.” I added.

“Aye, she did. When was I supposed to have had this dispute in t’churchyard?”

“About Whitsuntide. Matilda does not remember exactly.”

Thomas smiled. “She remembers what did not happen, and cannot remember what did.”

“You insist you were not there?”

“Yes,” he answered with more vehemence than I had yet seen from him. “It may have been Margaret in dispute with a man, but the man was not me.”

“He was broad-shouldered and fair, like you. Are there others Margaret knew well who fit such a description?”

“Walter, the hayward’s lad,” said the father.

Thomas chuckled softly. I turned to him with raised eyebrows. “All the lads knew Margaret, but you’re askin’, did Margaret know him?” Thomas commented.

“Well, did she?” I asked.

“Knew of him. Would never meet ’im past curfew in t’churchyard.”

“Oh?”

“Had no prospects,” the father spoke again. “Handsome an’ strong as Thomas, but she’d not be interested in a hayward’s son.”

“I have been trying,” I told the three, “to log this churchyard encounter in to the last events of Margaret’s life. Matilda’s was, I think, the last sight any acquaintance had of her yet alive, but perhaps for her father.”

“If such a fool as Matilda heard or saw anyone in t’churchyard at all. Talks to her husband, indeed,” the mother exclaimed in a superior tone.

I decided to lay my knowledge out for all to see. “You claim not, but a witness says you quarreled with Margaret Smith but a few days before you took a cartload of oats to Bampton Castle. You returned next day. Margaret was not seen alive again.”

“You speak foolishness,” Thomas said sharply.

“Put yourself in my place.” I wished someone could be in my place, for this work was repugnant to me.

“Put yourself in mine,” he replied. “I was to marry a beautiful maid; over-spirited, perhaps. I’d made no promises her father would take amiss. An’ should I wish to kill her, why would I put her in Lord Gilbert Talbot’s cesspit? There are barren places along the road I could have hid her. What of that?”

What of that, indeed? I did not speak for a time. I remembered well our first meeting, when to spare him sorrow upon sorrow I had refrained from telling Thomas where the girl was found.

“How did you know Margaret was found in the cesspit?” I finally asked.

I saw him swallow, but not a mouthful of pottage. That lay cold in his bowl. He replied readily enough, “Roger atte Well told me.”

“Who is he?”

“A villager here. Was a villager here. Took ill a fortnight ago; could not rise from his bed after three days, and died six days past.”

“How did he know of this?”

“His sister married a cooper in Witney. T’cooper’s brother is cooper in Bampton,” Thomas replied.

“So gossip spread this far? Has Roger a widow?”

“Aye.”

“Where might I find her?”

“She lives in t’house beside t’well,” Thomas replied evenly. “If you would speak to her, I will take you there…now, if you wish.”

I did wish it. Together we pushed through the snow to the widow’s cottage. She answered the knock at her door suspiciously, startled that anyone would call on her on such a day. But at second glance she recognized Thomas and admitted us.

I told the woman that I had learned from Thomas of her husband’s death and expressed my sorrow for her loss.

“Got soaked comin’ home from Witney,” she explained. “Made some staves for ’is brother-in-law; lives in Witney. I told him he should await a better day to take ’em, but he would not delay. Wanted t’money, y’see. Caught a fever two days later, an’ now here I am, an’ he’s gone. Little use a few pence is to me now.”

“Did your husband, on his return, speak to you of events in Bampton? About a girl’s death there?” I asked.

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she tried to divine a motive for my question. She was suspicious, although I tried to make my tone as gentle as possible.

“Nay. Don’t recollect he said anythin’ ’bout anybody dyin’ in Bampton. I know who you mean, though. Wan’t any of our business, was it?”

I turned to peer through the gloomy cottage at Thomas, but directed my words to the woman. “He said nothing about the manner of Margaret’s death, or where she was found?”

“Nay. I told you, he said naught about it.”

“How much did he receive for his staves? Did he say?”

“Oh, aye. Fourpence for t’bundle.”

“Did he learn of other Bampton town gossip on his journey?”

“Aye,” she chuckled lowly.

“What did he learn?” I leaned forward as if I was a fascinated co-conspirator in exchanging tales.

“You live there,” she replied. “You should know all.”

“Perhaps I have missed something? I have no wife to keep me informed.”

The woman chuckled again but was otherwise silent, considering, I suppose, whether or not to enlighten this foolish man regarding things he should already know.

“He spoke of Lady Joan,” she said finally.

“Oh?’ The one-word question worked again, this time assisted by a raised eyebrow. I had seen Lord Gilbert perform this asymmetrical feat and was laboring to perfect it myself. The woman answered readily.

“Word is she traveled to Cornwall to catch a husband, but,” she cackled, “he got away.”

“Anything else?” I prompted.

“Of Lady Joan? No, not that I recall.”

“Of townsfolk, then?”

“Hah. S’pose it’ll do no harm, as I don’t know the woman, but rumor is there’s a wife of the town grown unnatural fond of the smith.”

Bampton’s smith rarely scrubbed away soot and sweat. On approach he could be smelled from thirty paces. Fondness for him, bachelor though he was, might be construed as unnatural in several ways.

I thanked the woman for her time and rose to leave. Both she and Thomas peered quizzically at me. Why should I be satisfied with information so inconsequential and disjointed? When we were well away from the house, Thomas voiced his puzzlement.

“What was that about, then?” he challenged. “Did you not know of Lady Joan, or the smith?”

“Not the smith, no, although I take her story lightly there. Does it not seem odd to you, Thomas, that her husband would speak to her of such ordinary things but not tell her the startling news of a murdered girl found in Lord Gilbert’s cesspit? If he would tell you, why not his wife?”

“You doubt my word?” he challenged.

“It had occurred to me.”

“No man can say I’ve been false to him, nor woman, either! Ask any in Shilton. I was not with Margaret in t’churchyard when the crone accuses me, and Roger atte Well did speak to me of Lord Gilbert’s men finding my Margaret!”

“Your Margaret?”

“Aye! She would have been. When whoever was misleading her affections tired of her.”

“Would a man have grown tired of Margaret?”