Mel Starr - The Unquiet Bones

I nodded understanding, bowed, and with John made my way back to the inn. At least I would not need to spend another night in that place. Until the next week.

Six days later, this time with Arthur my only escort, I made my way back to Oxford. I did not sleep well the night before my departure. I reviewed in my mind the evidence I must give, seeking some late insight which might incriminate or reprieve Thomas Shilton.

Next day the trial was done and verdict rendered before the ninth hour. The clerk called for my testimony, which I spoke as concisely as possible. I was nevertheless on the witness stand for more than an hour. The finding of the coroner’s jury was read to the court. Then Thomas Shilton was permitted to speak in his own defense. He related the same account he had thrice told me, and again protested his innocence.

I thought that, mindful of his mortal danger, he might offer new proofs of his guiltlessness. He did not, or could not. He did, as was permitted, bring testimony of three men of Shilton to his upright life and blameless character. I watched the jurymen, substantial citizens of Oxford all, lean forward in their box to hear the words of Thomas’ advocates. They were successful and prosperous men, who knew when to trust, and when not to trust, the words of another. It seemed to me they gave credence to these witnesses and I thought, from the expressions on the jurymen’s faces, that Thomas might soon be on his way back to Shilton, guilty or not.

Some on the jury must have believed Thomas and his defenders, for it took two hours and more for them to return to court with their verdict: guilty.

Sir William pronounced sentence: Thomas Shilton would be taken from court to his cell at Oxford Castle. On Saturday at the sixth hour he would be hanged in the castle yard. A cloud at that moment obscured the sun and the courtroom went dark.

I never had much appetite for the fare offered at the Stag and Hounds, and this night less than usual. I desired food for my soul, not my body. I bid Arthur farewell at Cornmarket Street and set my feet for Balliol College while Arthur made his way down the High Street to fill his belly at the Stag and Hounds, a thing he might later regret.

The porter remembered me. It was his business to remember faces of those who had the liberty of Balliol College. I enquired of Master John Wyclif, if he had the same rooms as when I was a student. He did. As I made my way across the college yard I saw a lamp glowing dimly from his window.

Master John remembered me. I was uncertain whether or not this was a good sign. It seems to me that a master must recall most readily those scholars who perform in extraordinary fashion, either well or poorly. I did not want to consider which might be my circumstance.

He bid me enter heartily, and asked if I had supped. I had not, so I lied. I pray God will forgive me this. As He has other, more serious infractions of mine to consider, I think it sure He will.

Master John was finishing his own meal, a bowl of pottage and part of a loaf at one hand, and an open book at the other, beneath his lamp.

“When I saw you last you were considering the profession of surgeon,” he said as he brushed crumbs from his beard. “Did you follow that path?”

“Aye. I am practicing surgery…in Bampton. At Lord Gilbert Talbot’s request.”

“His request for you to practice surgery? Or to do so in Bampton?” Master John inquired.

“Oh, in Bampton. I sought custom here in Oxford for a time.”

“Do you find enough work there?” he asked. “’Tis not so large a town, I think.”

“Aye, enough. Not overmuch, but I am recently appointed Lord Gilbert’s bailiff for the manor there.”

“Then you will be well occupied.”

“I trust so. It is my employment I would speak to you about.”

“Ah, my lad, I know nothing of collecting fines or surgery, and very little of the human body, but that my own seems to perform as God intended…most of the time.”

I told him that surgery was not the topic of concern to me, then related the tale of my assignment to identify a decayed body and discover a murderer.

“And so,” Master John concluded when my account was done, “you have seen justice done for the girl at the trial today.”

I could not answer. To say “no” would be to implicate myself in a great injustice. To say “yes” would be to voice a certainty I did not feel. No fool ever became Master of Balliol College. Well, not to my knowledge, anyway. Master John saw my hesitation and knew what it signified.

“You think this Thomas of Shilton wrongly convicted?”

“No…that is, there is no other who had both cause and opportunity.”

“No other you know of,” Master John said while he chewed his last bite of bread, “so he must be culpable, in the absence of any other.”

“Aye. Lord Gilbert will see justice done for the girl. I would see it done as well.”

“And so long as someone hangs, justice will be done?” he asked.

“So all seem to believe.”

“And you, Hugh, what do you believe?”

“True justice requires precision, I think. Else when murder was done we should not raise the hue and cry for the guilty. We should simply seize and hang the most convenient sacrifice. A life for a life, who would care which life, unless it was your own?”

“You have sought the truth about this murder for many weeks, yet you cannot be easy in your soul about your conclusion?”

“No,” I admitted, “I cannot.”

“Why have you come here? You wish me to offer some absolution? To tell you that your good intentions will suffice in exchange for an innocent life…perhaps innocent?”

Master John could be hard when he chose. Not out of disdain or anger, but because he wished his pupils to think for themselves rather than wait upon his wisdom. I knew when I approached the college that such words from him might come. I relished them, as a monk wears a hair shirt. But Master John’s harsh questions would not expiate my sin if my error sent an innocent man to the gallows two days hence.

Nevertheless, I complained, “Your words are severe.”

“So is hanging. Have you seen a man hang? The lad’s face will swell and grow purple. He will kick and struggle while students shout imprecations at him. He will lose control and soil himself. And the last sound he will hear will be accusations of his villainy, as perhaps he should, be he a true villain. But if not, he will die innocent of murder but perchance with another crime on his soul; hate for those who have misused him so. Is it worse to go to God the doer of a foul deed, or the thinker of foul thoughts?”

He awaited my answer in silence. I saw that his was not a rhetorical question. He expected an answer.

“I think there is no difference to God,” I said finally.

“You speak the truth. What did our Lord say about speaking ill of another?”

“Those who call their brother ‘fool’ are in danger of hellfire,” I replied.

“A punishment equal to that awarded murderers, regardless of what our brother Dante might say,” he added.

“So if Thomas is a guilty man, he will, unless he confess his sin to Christ before the morrow, see the torments of hell,” I reflected. “But if he be innocent, but brims with anger for me and others who destroy him, he will also die in sin?”

“I fear so. Unless he can forgive with a noose about his neck.”

“Then I have put him in an impossible position. His only escape to heaven may be that he is guilty and will confess it so.”

“Or,” Master John said softly, “to forgive you your error…if error it was.”

“Then I must visit him in the castle jail. Do you suggest it?”

“I think for your good, and the good of his soul, you must. But I would share a pint with you before you go this night.”