Mel Starr - The Unquiet Bones

“A gentleman might have…would have, surely. I would not.”

I thought I heard a choke in his voice. But perhaps it was the wind whipping snow about the eaves of his dwelling as we approached.

He stopped at the door, blocked it, and turned to me. “You think I killed her, then?”

“I am unsure,” I replied. “But I will tell you there is no warrant to accuse any other.”

“Will Lord Gilbert’s bailiff charge me?”

“I do not know.” That was no lie. I did not know, and saw no point in yielding more information to him then. “Murder is not business for a manor court, as you well know. The king’s sheriff, in Oxford, will take whatever steps he sees fit.”

“Aye,” he muttered, “at Lord Gilbert’s word and the coroner’s court.”

That, I agreed, was probably true.

I pointed Bruce toward home. He knew a stable and respite from the snow awaited him, so ploughed resolutely through the drifts.

The spire of the Church of St Beornwald was invisible in the falling snow, but as I approached the town, well past the ninth hour, I heard, over the sighing wind, the slow steady tolling of a passing bell ringing from the tower. Someone in Bampton was dying this cold evening.

Wilfred took Bruce when I entered the castle gatehouse and told me that Lord Gilbert wished to see me immediately upon my return. I walked across the castle yard, ankle deep now in mud and slush. John the Chamberlain set off to seek Lord Gilbert while I brushed snow from my threadbare cloak and stomped my boots clean. As I did so, feeling began to return to my frozen feet.

“Ah…what news, Master Hugh?” Lord Gilbert hailed as he approached across the now-empty hall. He led me to the solar before I could answer and bid me warm myself at the fire. We sat before the blaze, and I related my discoveries to him.

“You are no better informed of Sir Robert’s death than before your journey, then?”

“No,” I agreed. “I fear not, but those who knew him think it likely his habits had much to do with his death.”

“Well, no matter,” Lord Gilbert commented. “You have done well on the other business. I think we know what happened to the lass from Burford, and how she came to be here.”

“You believe the testimony against Thomas Shilton strong enough to prosecute him?”

“Do you not?” he replied, with one quizzically raised eyebrow. (It was this skill of his I was trying, with little success, to emulate. Perhaps it is a talent inbred only in the nobility.)

“I see no other likely culprit,” I agreed, “yet I admit to misgivings.”

“Why?” Lord Gilbert was not pulling at his chin. I thought this significant.

“I have met the man. I said once before, you may remember, that he seems incapable of such a crime.”

“What do you think me capable of, Hugh?”

He caught me unready for such a question. I was silent.

“I am a calm, reflective man, am I not? Most of the time?”

I agreed that this was so.

“But in battle, when my blood was hot, I have hewed men limb from limb with no regard. Is there a thing which raises a man’s blood more than battle?”

“Jealousy, perhaps,” I answered.

“Precisely,” he said, and smacked me on the knee. “You take my point readily.”

“Then what is to be done?” I replied.

“Your discoveries and the verdict of the coroner’s court must be presented to the sheriff at Oxford. I have delayed departure for Goodrich long enough. I will leave justice in your hands, Master Hugh. When the weather improves you must go to Oxford.

“I will send Arthur and two others with you. An unaccompanied bailiff is more easily dismissed than a man who commands a retinue. I know Sir Roger.”

I nodded understanding of what was expected of me. Indeed, distasteful as I found it to imagine Thomas Shilton performing the sheriff’s dance at the end of a rope, I saw no other course. Perhaps the jurors would decide our evidence flimsy and release the fellow.

Then justice for Margaret Smith might not be done. But to hang the wrong man would give no peace to the girl’s spirit, either.

I changed the subject. Through the castle walls and muffling snow the dismal ringing of the passing bell could yet be heard. I enquired of Lord Gilbert who was dying.

“Some cotter in the Weald. I know him not. A tenant of the bishop.”

“My patient,” I said. “I feared this would be the outcome.”

“Of what does the man suffer?” Lord Gilbert inquired.

“Old age, and a broken hip.”

“Ah…well, either will suffice to end a man’s life.”

“I must call on him on my way home,” I said.

“Home? Oh, you speak of Galen House. Ha…this is now your home,” he exclaimed, sweeping his hand about him as he did so. “Galen House will be cold, but I will have a fire laid in your room here, and bread and meat provided.”

“I will return shortly. I must visit Galen House for more of the draught I use to ease the man’s discomfort.”

“You take this man’s death hard, I think,” he observed.

“Perhaps. More so than some others.”

“Why so? You admit little hope of saving one injured such as he, and so far past his prime.”

“He has a daughter. She will be orphaned.”

“Has she no family to care for her?”

“Half-brothers, but they resent their father’s second wife and her offspring, so will have no truck with the girl.”

“Hmm.” Lord Gilbert went to pulling at his chin, which in this case I thought a good sign.

“She’ll be the vicars’ responsibility. How old is the lass? It’ll be their charge to provide for a ward of the bishop’s manor.”

“A child, m’lord. She is perhaps twelve or thirteen years, but very slight for her age, I think.”

“Old enough to work in the scullery?”

“Yes, I should say.”

“Quick-witted? Obedient?” he asked.

“She seems so. Devoted to her father and willing to do all to ease him.”

“Then if the vicars will discharge her, and they surely will, as she’ll bring them no advantage, you can hire her as scullery maid…if you wish.”

“I will tell her so this very evening. She frets of what will become of her. This news will ease her mind when she will be distraught enough that her father is leaving her.”

I did not delay taking a draught to Henry atte Bridge by first visiting his bed empty-handed. Rather, I made my way directly to Galen House. It seemed cold and empty. Well, it was cold and empty, but I mean that it seemed already no longer my home. I wondered if it ever would be again. If it was, it would mean that I had failed at my new position. I resolved not to inhabit the place again, although memories of the house remained warm, if the house itself often was not.

Alice answered my knock at the cottage door. It seemed to me I always visited the place in darkness, and once again was compelled to stand within the door, shaking snow from my feet and cloak, while I waited for my eyes to become accustomed to the shadows.

This acclimation took less time than earlier visits, for a fire burned brightly on the hearth-stone, sending light to all corners of the hut. There was a measure of warmth, as well, and I could not help but observe the flames with some surprise.

Alice saw the object of my gaze, and said, “Your wood, sir. Woodman said as ’twas you told him to bring it.”

I remembered. Four days ago, had it been?

“Father’s near gone. I thought to keep ’im warm.”

“You have done well,” I told her. “Does he rest easy?”

“Aye. But he’ll try to rise now an’ again. He conjures my mother, and would go to her.”

“I have another draught. Help me raise him and we’ll see if he can take some of it.”