Rest Not in Peace (15 page)

Lord Gilbert pointed to a bench near the cold hearth and invited me to sit. I did so, then told him of what I had learned from Isobel.

“The Statute of Laborers has caused much enmity,” he said when I had finished. “If a gentleman pays only what the law permits, his laborers will go elsewhere, but if he pays enough to entice men to remain in his employ he will run afoul of the ordinance and be fined for his infraction.”

Trust Lord Gilbert to see the matter from a gentleman’s perspective, rather than that of the commons.

“Did Sir Henry fine any gentleman for paying wages above what is allowed?” he continued.

“Isobel did not say.”

“Probably did,” Lord Gilbert said. “He was in great want, I think. A penny is a penny, no matter whose purse it may be plucked from.”

Lord Gilbert closed his book, gazed thoughtfully at the window, then continued. “Sir Geoffrey is the felon, then?”

“So it seems.”

“I am sorry to hear it. He was valiant in battle.”

“So was Sir Henry,” I said, “but his courage did not prevent him dealing unjustly with men who deserved better.”

“Will you arrest him this day? If you do so, Lady Margery can be away tomorrow.”

“You believe that you have heard enough evidence against Sir Geoffrey to satisfy the King’s Eyre?”

“You think not?”

“I would like to be more certain.”

“Bah… you are too precise. There are few certainties in life.”

“Aye. Nevertheless, I would like another day or two to seek more evidence against the man. Now that I know better where to seek for it, the proof of Sir Geoffrey’s guilt may be more readily found.”

“Very well. Where will you search first?”

“It may be time to press Walter.”

“Sir Henry’s valet? Why him?”

“He gave the sleeping draught to Sir Henry. It was his duty and he admits that he did so.”

“If he admits this, why seek more from him?”

“Sir Henry was given more than a thimbleful of the stuff. Perhaps Walter did so at some other man’s urging, told that it was all for Sir Henry’s good.”

“Sir Geoffrey?”

“Aye. It may be that Sir Geoffrey hoped the greater dose would send Sir Henry to an endless sleep. He was, nevertheless, prepared with other measures if it did not.”

“Hmmm. I can see how it might have been. But what of the bodkin and bloody linen found in the squires’ chamber?”

“How Sir Geoffrey got the portpain I cannot guess, but it would have been no great trouble to enter the squires’ chamber and leave the incriminating stuff behind whilst they were out.”

“Did the Lady Anne take the portpain with the silver, and give part of it to Sir Geoffrey?”

“If I have the wit to ask the proper questions of the proper people, we will soon know.”

“Seems unlikely,” Lord Gilbert said. “More likely Lady Margery might have given it to him. But that would make her complicit in her husband’s murder, would it not?”

“Mayhap.”

“And how did Lady Margery come by the portpain? Would she steal my linens?”

“Who can say?” I shrugged.

“You are off to see the valet, then?”

“Aye. I have heard that he and other of Sir Henry’s grooms and valets play at nine man’s morris in the gatehouse
anteroom with Wilfred the porter and his assistant, when they have no duties to attend to. I’ll first seek him there.”

I bowed to my employer and backed to the door of the solar. A few moments later I stood under the portcullis and watched as Wilfred and his guests attempted to relieve each other of farthings and ha’pennies. The game ceased when my shadow darkened the door. Lord Gilbert has not forbidden his grooms and valets from gambling, but there were yet guilty expressions on five faces. No man likes his lord’s bailiff to find him at some questionable business. And Sir Henry’s servants surely knew the consequence of unwisely putting one’s coin at risk.

The men had been kneeling upon the flags of the anteroom, but scrambled to their feet when they saw who it was who looked down upon their sport.

“Master Hugh,” Wilfred said, tugging a forelock. “I give you good-day. How may I serve you?”

“’Tis Walter I seek.” I motioned to the valet to follow me from the gatehouse and saw his companions exchange questioning glances as he fell in behind me.

I wished to speak privily to the valet, so took him also to my old bachelor chamber off the hall. I did not want Sir Geoffrey to come upon us suddenly and see me in serious conversation with Walter. He might assume what I was about.

Silence may be as great a menace as threatening words to those who hold secrets. I did not speak to Walter as we crossed the castle yard from the gatehouse to the hall. When we entered my old chamber I motioned for him to sit upon the bench, then walked behind him to the window, where I gazed out upon the castle yard and made pretense of collecting my thoughts. After a few minutes of this sham I faced him and spoke.

“You told me that you prepared Sir Henry’s wine with a thimbleful of the sleeping draught I provided. Is this not so?”

“Aye.”

“But when I inspected the pouch, much more than that was missing… Who told you to give Sir Henry a greater dose? Sir Geoffrey? Lady Margery? Sir John?”

Walter glared at me indignantly. “I provided only what you required. A thimbleful. No man told me to increase the dose.”

“’Twas your own choice, then, to give Sir Henry more of the crushed lettuce seeds than was meet? Did he request it?”

“Nay. ’Tis not what I meant. No man, nor woman either, told me to give him more than was asked, nor did I do so.”

“Someone did. If not you, who would do so?”

“Don’t know. After Sir Henry drank the draught I left his chamber.”

“Leaving the pouch of crushed lettuce seeds upon his table?”

“Aye. Just so.”

“And you saw no man nearby, in the corridor outside Sir Henry’s chamber, perhaps?”

Walter was silent. Here is a question he does not wish to answer, I thought at the time.

“Who did you see?”

Walter studied the back of his right hand, evidently considering his words and his fingernails. The silence grew oppressive, but I said no more, allowing the valet to soak in his discomfort.

“Sir Geoffrey was there,” he said finally.

“He saw you leave Sir Henry’s chamber?”

“Aye.”

“Did he speak?”

“Aye. Asked if Sir Henry slept. I told him, ‘Nay,’ but should do so soon, if your potion was successful.”

“What did Sir Geoffrey say then?”

“Said no more. Went to ’is chamber an’ I went to the stairs and sought my own bed.”

“You saw no more of Sir Henry, or Sir Geoffrey, ’til next morning?”

“Aye.”

“Has Sir Geoffrey spoken privily to you since Sir Henry was found dead?”

Once again the valet seemed reluctant to answer. I took his silence as answer enough, and continued.

“What did he say?”

“Said as how I was not to tell you or Sir Roger that I saw ’im after I’d given Sir Henry the potion. An’ if any man pressed me on the matter I was to say ’twas Sir John I met in the corridor.”

“Why would you do so if it was not so?”

“Sir Geoffrey said ’e’d make it worth my while to do so… but if I said ’twas ’im I saw, I’d suffer for it.”

“Why do you speak of it to me, then? Sir John is dead, and cannot refute the allegation if you tell me it was him you saw outside Sir Henry’s chamber. Sir Geoffrey is hale and healthy. Do you not fear his vengeance for speaking of this?”

“I did. That’s why I would not tell of it before. But I see now ’tis a coward’s part I’ve played. Sir Henry wasn’t a bad master, an’ didn’t deserve to die as ’e did.”

“At Sir Geoffrey’s hand, you think?”

“Suppose so. Been tryin’ to think who else could’ve done the murder.”

“And…?”

“Don’t see anyone else as havin’ reason or chance to do it.”

“Not Squire William?”

“Thought at first it might be ’im as slew Sir Henry. Sir Henry was about to dismiss ’im, I think.”

“Because he was unhappy that Lady Anne esteemed the lad?”

“Aye. An’ was he away there’d be one less retainer to provide for.”

“And a loss of reputation in the eyes of his peers. No knight would willingly keep fewer knights and squires in his household.”

“Suppose so. Don’t know much of that sort of thing amongst gentlefolk.”

“I am told that Sir Henry angered many folk around Bedford. He was a Commissioner of Laborers, charged with enforcing the Statute of Laborers, as you will know. ’Tis said he was unjust in the fines he levied.”

“Don’t know about that,” Walter said. “Wasn’t my business. Who said so?”

I made no reply, but thought it odd that Lady Margery’s ladies-in-waiting would know more of Sir Henry’s affairs than his valet, and that Walter would not speak of the fine his father had been required to pay some years past.

“Will the sheriff arrest Sir Geoffrey?” Walter asked.

“If there is evidence of his guilt,” I replied.

“Does evidence point to any other?”

“Some does,” I said. I did not wish for the valet to think the matter resolved, when I was yet uncertain myself. At that moment I did not believe Sir Geoffrey guiltless, but thought another might be involved. Who, I could not say. And without more proof the King’s Eyre would likely set him free. I might send a commoner to the gallows with the evidence I had, but not a gentleman. Not even a gentleman who was once of the commons.

I
sent Walter on his way and returned to the solar. For what I wished to do next I would need Lord Gilbert’s aid. I wanted to interrogate Lady Anne.

“What did you learn from the valet?” Lord Gilbert asked.

“He saw Sir Geoffrey in the corridor outside Sir Henry’s chamber, just after Sir Henry had consumed the sleeping draught.”

“Sir Geoffrey’s chamber is there. Where else would he be if he was going to his bed?”

“He told Walter to say, did anyone ask it of him, that ’twas Sir John he saw… said he would do well by him if he did so, but the valet would find trouble if he told the truth.”

“Why, then, did he do so? Does he no longer fear Sir Geoffrey’s wrath?”

“My thoughts also,” I replied. “Walter said Sir Henry was a good lord and deserved better.”

“So he will now speak the truth when he would not six days past?”

“So he said.”

“You believe this?”

“I’ve no reason not to.”

“And what of the sleeping draught? You said much of the herb was missing from the pouch. Did Walter provide it to Sir Henry?”

“He said not.”

“Then who did?”

“Perhaps Sir Geoffrey went to Sir Henry, found him yet awake, and offered to fetch more wine so he could take more of the potion.”

“Would Sir Henry take this act of kindness from a man he knew wished to steal his wife?”

“Why not? He had already perhaps consumed some of the crushed lettuce seeds, to no effect, good or ill, so would have seen no reason to reject such an offer.”

“What if, when Sir Geoffrey returned with the wine, he had put some other substance into it?”

“Poison?”

“Aye.”

“When I tasted the dregs in Sir Henry’s cup I could detect no off flavor.”

“Are there no poisons which are tasteless?” Lord Gilbert asked.

“There are some. But if he poisoned Sir Henry’s wine, why pierce him with a bodkin?”

“Wanted to be sure of Sir Henry’s death, I suppose. But you think poison unlikely?”

“Aye,” I said. “I do. The increased dose of my potion would have sent Sir Henry to a deep sleep, so that a man might do him to death without awakening him.”

“Then arrest Sir Geoffrey and let’s be done with this matter. Send him to Sir Roger and let the King’s Eyre sort out the details.”

“I have yet a few questions.”

“For whom?”

“Lady Anne. Would you send John Chamberlain to request that she join us here?”

“What do you expect to learn from her?” Lord Gilbert asked.

“If I knew her replies I would not need to ask of her.”

“Oh… aye, just so. Very well. Seek John and tell him to request Lady Anne’s presence in the solar.”

I did so. John was easily found, but he must have had some difficulty locating Lady Anne, for I returned to the solar and with Lord Gilbert waited nearly an hour before Lady Anne appeared.

Wealth can stiffen a man’s spine, and a maid’s also, I think, but poverty will undermine confidence. Sir Henry and his daughter were needy. John Chamberlain ushered Lady Anne into the solar and her apprehension was clear.

Lord Gilbert and I stood, and my employer motioned to Lady Anne to take the best chair. He dismissed John, and I seated myself on a bench while Lord Gilbert resumed his place.

Lady Anne had stolen the silver of one of the great barons of the realm, and even though the goods had been returned, was now facing him and his bailiff. Neither I nor Lord Gilbert had spoken a word but in greeting, yet a tear appeared upon her cheek, glistening in the light as the afternoon sun slanted through the solar windows.

Lord Gilbert looked to me and folded his arms across his broad chest. No doubt he also saw Lady Anne’s reaction to this encounter. Good. Fear may be, in my experience, a great encourager of truth, especially if one fears being caught in a lie by a powerful lord, or even his bailiff.

“Six days past,” I began, “you helped yourself to Lord Gilbert’s spoons and knives. When you were found out, and the return of the silver was demanded, you wrapped them in linen and left them in the screens passage, near the pantry, as was demanded.”

Lady Anne made no reply to this review of the matter, which I took to mean that she had no objection to the truth of the accusation. Lord Gilbert must have thought the same. He spoke next, and bluntly.

“Why did you take my silver?”

Tears coursed down both of Lady Anne’s cheeks. She bit her lip, and then answered.

“I did not plan to do so.”

“Then why?” Lord Gilbert said.

“I went to the screens passage to seek the butler,” she sniffed. “Lady Margery wished an ewer of wine in her chamber and her ladies were all about other duties. I saw the pantry open, and a box there with silver, and no other person about.”

“So you took the opportunity to seize m’lord’s silver,” I said, “but a page saw you leave the pantry.”

“Aye,” she agreed.

“You were found out. Why did you not return my silver then?” Lord Gilbert asked.

Lady Anne hesitated. “Thought as he who saw me was but a youth, and I a lady, he might not be believed if he did accuse me. I was ready to charge him with the theft.”

“Why did you not do so?” I asked.

“My conscience troubled me. If Lord Gilbert was like my father, the page would hang if I was believed.”

“If you thought Lord Gilbert might be like your father, why risk such a theft?”

“I am a knight’s daughter, but have nothing. I once owned jewels. Not many, but I had some. Father sold them all to pay against his debts. Since the great death, crops fetch little and tenants demand reduced rents. I’ve had no silk or linen for a new gown these two years… nor even wool.”

“Your want overcame your fear of discovery?” I asked.

“Aye. I’d no sooner returned to my chamber with the silver than I regretted the deed. But I did not know what I was to do.”

“So when Walter told you that your theft was discovered, and the silver must be returned,” I said, “you were not surprised that your guilt was known?”

“Nay. I expected so.”

“You wrapped the spoons and knives in a portpain and left them in the screens passage, as Walter told you to do. I had promised that no man would be present to see you return the silver, and none was.”

“Nay,” she said. “’Twas not like that.”

I looked to Lord Gilbert, and he returned my gaze, one eyebrow lifted, as is his custom when puzzled.

“How was it, then?” I asked. “How did you come by Lord Gilbert’s portpain? Don’t deny it. One of his portpains is missing from the pantry.”

“I did not return the silver. Walter did.”

“Ah,” I said. “But there is yet the matter of the portpain the silver was wrapped in. How did you have that?”

“I had no portpain. When Walter told me I was found out, and if the silver was returned the matter would end, I begged him to return it for me. He refused at first, but Lady Margery heard us quarrel and demanded the cause. I said I wished Walter to perform some service for me and he would not. Lady Margery demanded that as he valued his position, he do as was required.”

“Lady Margery did not ask what it was you desired of Walter?” I asked.

“Not at first.”

“When, then?”

“She did not leave us. Stood planted, hands on hips, waiting for Walter to do as I wished. We stood thus until I could bear it no more. I went to my chest, withdrew the silver, and gave it to Walter.”

“‘What is this?’ Lady Margery demanded of me. ‘Whose spoons and knives are these, and what is Walter to do with them?’”

“I told Lady Margery all; that I had taken the silver in hopes that I could sell it for enough to buy silks and fine
new shoes, but must return it as I had been found out.”

“What did Lady Margery then say?” Lord Gilbert asked.

“Called me foolish.”

“I don’t often agree with Lady Margery,” he said, “but she spoke true. ’Twas foolish indeed to steal my silver. Could you not guess the stuff would be missed?”

Lady Anne did not reply for some time. When she did her words stunned us both. “She said if I wanted to take Lord Gilbert’s chattels I should be certain of not being discovered.”

“She was angry that your theft was revealed, rather than that you had stolen goods from your host?” I said.

“Aye.”

“What then?” I asked. “Did Walter then do as you wished?”

“He did. Took the silver from my hands, but dropped a spoon. ’Twas then Lady Margery told him to wait.”

“For what?”

“She left the room. Don’t know where she went. Returned soon enough with a length of linen cloth. Must have gone to her chamber for it. Told Walter to wrap the silver in it so no one would see what it was he had when he took it to the screens passage. Lady Margery did not know that no one was to be nearby to see the return of the silver.”

Here was an interesting tale. The missing portpain in which the silver was returned had been in Lady Margery’s possession. Had the bloody fragment in the squires’ chamber also been in her hands before it was used to absorb Sir Henry’s blood?

If so, was it to Sir Geoffrey that she had given a scrap? Or did Sir Geoffrey have the linen first, and give the remnant to Lady Margery?

The more I learned the more confused I became. I began to wish that I had never seen the small drop of blood
on the floor of Sir Henry’s chamber. Had I not, I would never have examined Sir Henry’s ear and discovered a murder. I would have, for want of any contradictory knowledge, proclaimed the death as common to a man of Sir Henry’s age. Lady Margery’s accusation that my potion was at fault would have gone unchallenged.

Even I might have thought the accusation just.

I dismissed the thought. What kind of man am I to accept injustice if to struggle against it brings inconvenience? Is a calm, peaceful life worth such a price? Can a man see harm done to another yet go to his bed and rest easy of a night? Mayhap some men can, but I would be loath to think myself one of them. Where would men be if the Lord Christ had decided that being nailed to a cross was too inconvenient, and rather than offer His life for the salvation of all who believe, preferred a life free of sorrow and pain?

Lord Gilbert studied me in the silence which followed Lady Anne’s revelation. An eyebrow, as usual, was raised.

“You will speak to no one of this interview,” I said.

“But the chamberlain drew me from Lady Margery. She will ask where I went.”

“Very well,” I sighed. “If she asks, tell her all. Tell her I know of the portpain, and how a fragment of it was used. Tell her I know of her dalliance with Sir Geoffrey. Tell her I am about to seize a murderer and take him to Sir Roger to appear before the King’s Eyre.”

Lady Anne curtsied to Lord Gilbert, backed to the door, then fled from our presence. I heard her footsteps echo in the corridor as she hastened from the scene of her discomfort.

“What do you make of that?” Lord Gilbert asked. “The daughter steals my silver and the mother – well, stepmother – steals my linen. Find a murderer, so I may be rid of them. Lady Petronilla’s jewels may vanish next.”

“Perhaps Lady Margery did not take the portpain.”

“Why, then, did she have a part of it? Did some other steal it and give part of it to her?”

“Perhaps… or ’twas the other way round. She took the portpain and gave a fragment to another.”

“To Sir Geoffrey? To wipe away her husband’s gore when murder was done?”

“Mayhap.”

“Well, then, you told Lady Anne that you were about to arrest a murderer. Do so.”

“I did not tell Lady Anne that I was ready to seize a murderer. I told her to tell Lady Margery that I was. There is a difference.”

“Oh… aye. You play games with me.”

“Nay. I attempt to do right. When felons use trickery to escape the penalty due them, it is sometimes needful to use deception to trip them up.”

“Who do you deceive? Sir Geoffrey?”

“Aye. If he is the murderer, and is told that I am soon to arrest him, he may attempt some deed to avoid capture, or perhaps try to flee. I am going to find Arthur and Uctred and set them to watch at the marshalsea. Sir Geoffrey may send a page to saddle his horse, as if to go riding in the country. If he does so it will be another bit of evidence for his guilt. He will likely be attempting to escape capture.”

“Be careful. If he believes you are ready to accuse him, the deed you speak of may be a third murder… if ’twas he who plunged a dagger into Sir John. A man cannot be hanged three times for three murders.”

“I believe he did so, and I will heed your warning.”

I found Arthur and told him to seek Uctred and together keep watch over the marshalsea. I hoped, when Lady Margery learned from Lady Anne what I knew, that she would go to Sir Geoffrey and set him to flee, or do some
other thing which might confirm his guilt. I told Arthur to keep the marshalsea under close study, but not to appear to be doing so. He rolled his eyes at this instruction, being directed to do a thing whilst appearing to do another.

I wandered about the castle for the remainder of the afternoon, awaiting some incriminating act from Sir Geoffrey after he learned from Lady Margery what I knew. Lord Gilbert’s grooms began to erect tables in the hall, but there was no sign of Sir Geoffrey. I walked to the marshalsea to question Arthur, and learned that the knight had not been near the stables, nor had any of Sir Henry’s pages, either. Had he hidden himself away in his chamber? Or already fled castle and town? I entered the stables and went to the stalls where his beasts were kept. They were both present, his page evidently having returned them from the meadow for the night before I set Arthur and Uctred to watch the place. If Sir Geoffrey had fled to save his neck he did so afoot, which no knight would do.

Lord Gilbert must have thought it unseemly to serve an elaborate supper on such a day. The removes that evening were simple, even though ’twas not a fast day. His cook prepared capons farced, cormarye, rice moyle, and cabbage with marrow. And parsley loaf with honeyed butter. For the subtlety a simple chardewarden sufficed.

I had spent many hours in the past week watching Sir Henry’s household at their meals in the hall, seeking, but not finding, some sign of guilt in expression or behavior. Why should this supper be any different?