Mel Starr - The Unquiet Bones

Alice went to the far side of the bed and together we got her father vertical enough that he could take a few swallows. A brief light of reason flickered in his eyes as he tried to gulp the potion. I believe his wits were active enough that he remembered the relief it brought.

“Has the vicar been here?” I asked the girl when our work was done.

“Aye. Went to him this mornin’. I was sure father would not last ’til sixth hour.”

“But he did,” I said. “Did Father Thomas offer Extreme Unction?”

“Nay. Said as how father might live an’ what sorrow would then follow. I was to send for him if father took worse. I went to t’vicarage just before ninth hour to tell ’im father was failin’. He set t’curate to ringin’ t’passin’ bell, but he ain’t come yet. Will father live the night, Master Hugh?”

I went back to the sleeping figure, now resting quietly, for the draught had done its work, and placed my ear against his chest. His breath came in shallow gasps. I feared briefly that the weight of my inclined head might stop it altogether. A thin rattle in the throat accompanied each choking breath.

I shook my head. “No, I will not give you false hope. He wishes to go to your mother, you say?”

The girl nodded, her throat too full for words.

“God is merciful to those who love Him. He will grant this request soon. I will stay, if you wish it. When the time is near I will fetch Father Thomas or one of the others.”

There was nothing to do but wait, and feed the fire. The curfew bell sounded, then the steady reverberation of the passing bell continued, louder now, for the snow had stopped, and the peal was unmuffled. The child sat cross-legged on the ground, gazing into the fire. I saw at intervals the reflection of a tear on her cheek and my heart was heavy for her grief. I sat on a stool across the flames and listened to her father breathe. I have learned that as a man’s breath weakens, it becomes more noisesome, like some men; the most clamorous are often least effective at their business.

I heard, over the snapping of fresh wood on the fire, a sigh. The child was weeping again. “Do you mourn your father,” I asked, “or yourself?”

The girl sniffled and rubbed a sleeve against her nose. If she was to work in the castle scullery, that behavior must be changed.

“I know not,” she whispered. “I know my father will go to God, so it is unseemly to sorrow overmuch. But he has cared for me. Now I must make my path in the world and I know not how.”

“Lord Gilbert,” I told her, “has made me bailiff of his manor here. There is work and a place for you at the castle kitchen, if you wish it and the vicars will release you.”

This announcement did little to staunch her tears, but she raised her head and looked about rather than stare dimly into the coals, as had been her practice. Then a slight smile turned the corner of her lips, incongruous with the tears which continued to flow.

“My brothers would storm, to see me live at t’castle. Told me yesterday, when father dies I am to leave this house…where I go they care not.”

“Then they will not care that you find a place at the castle,” I said.

“Oh, they’ll care ’bout that,” she explained. “They’d not care was I to perish, as how they meant. They’ll care was I to prosper.”

“Shhh,” I said, and listened to Henry atte Bridge’s labored breathing. His chest was rising and falling more quickly. I rose from the stool. “It is time…I will fetch Father Thomas.”

The sky had cleared while I sat gazing into the fire, waiting with Alice for death. The world was all white and silver, from the ground beneath my feet to the sky and stars and crescent moon above. I might have enjoyed a walk on such a night had my destination been other than it was, and my feet warmer.

It took some time and much thumping at the vicarage door to rouse Father Thomas. He suffers the disease of the ears, which this night was a blessing, for the tolling of the passing bell just outside the vicarage did not much disturb his sleep.

“Master Hugh! What is your need? I did not know of your return.”

I explained the reason for my call, and the vicar went immediately about gathering the tools of this unhappy business: his surplice and stole, and the blessed sacrament. Rather than rouse his clerk from bed, he appointed me to attend him as server, so I led him to the Weald ringing a bell and carrying a lantern. As we passed the church I saw a face peer whitely from the porch and a few minutes later, as we turned from Mill Street into the Weald, the passing bell went silent. To the great relief, no doubt, of he who must ring it and his assistant, and the neighbors of the church.

Henry atte Bridge was not conscious when we arrived at his hut, so could not confess his sins. This troubled Alice, but Father Thomas reassured her that the blessed sacrament would suffice for her father’s entry to the next world. He then pried open the man’s mouth, placed the wafer on his tongue, and clamped it shut. A prayer, and the business was done, which was well, for as the vicar stood, his task complete, Henry atte Bridge produced a great sigh and breathed no more.

“Will you have a wake?” I asked Alice.

“Nay. I’ve nothing to offer any. My brothers will not provide.”

“Have you a shroud…or coffin?”

“I bought a shroud. I’ve no one to carry ’im to churchyard, though.”

“Your brothers will not do even this for their father?” I asked.

“I will not ask them,” she replied.

“You will not need to,” I told her. Midnight or not, I strode to the first of the brothers’ huts and pounded on the door until an angry face appeared. This visage was not, I suspect, any more inflamed than my own.

I told the fellow in few words what I thought of his filial devotion, and in my remarks managed to insert announcement of my new authority as bailiff at Bampton Castle. He was a tenant, as was his father, of the Bishop of Exeter, but I knew he would prefer to be on good terms with Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. I ended my tirade by telling him what I expected of him and his brother when the new day dawned. He tugged at his forelock in acquiescence, and I turned and stalked back to the girl and the vicar. I had rather enjoyed telling the fellow what I thought of him, and what I required he do. This, I recognize, showed a lack of humility and is a sin. I enjoyed it, nevertheless, as I think did Father Thomas. It is the nature of sin to be pleasurable, else we would have less trouble avoiding it. The vicar grinned at me as I returned to Alice’s door. My words must have carried through the still night, which meant that other cotters in the Weald heard the scolding as well. This, I reasoned, was probably a good thing.

Father Thomas, his work temporarily complete, went out into the snow to the vicarage. I would have stayed to sit up with the girl but she would not hear of it. “I will wash him and stitch him in his shroud. You can do naught for him in death.” She did not add, although she might have, that I had done little for him in life, either.

The funeral was set for the sixth hour. I determined to attend: the man had been my charge, and I was eager to learn if Alice’s cantankerous brothers accepted my authority.

Late next morning, after a maslin loaf and a pint of ale, I walked out the castle gate, and a few steps later turned from Mill Street to the Weald. Fifty yards down the path I saw mourners preparing for the procession to the church. Henry atte Bridge lay on the ground before his hut, his body sewn into a crude homespun hempen shroud. The plant and its seeds, I mused, had eased the man from this life, and would accompany his bones to the next.

As I approached two men lifted the body to a crude bier: two rough planks supported at either end by two short poles. Two more men stood silently, ready to assist the others at the ends of these shafts. One I recognized as the brother who had received my wrath twelve hours before. He studied the overflowing banks of Shill Brook intently, refusing to meet my eyes.