Rest Not in Peace (7 page)

“Have you seen any man enter the pantry but for Humphrey?”

“N–nay. No man.”

Something in his tone caught my attention. “No man? Who, then? A woman?”

Andrew looked to Humphrey as if seeking guidance, but the pantler returned only a stern frown. The youth finally spoke. “The lady what’s a guest of Lord Gilbert.”

“Which lady… the lass, or Lady Margery?”

“The lass.”

“Why did you not speak of this?” the pantler said through tight lips. Then to me he said, “Why would a knight’s daughter steal a portpain?”

I saw a gleam of understanding flash in his rheumy eyes even as he asked the question. “You think the maid helped slay her father? Cut that bloody piece from what she took?”

“Mayhap.” To the youth I said, “When did you see this?”

“Three, no, f–four days past,” he stammered.

“Did you see her enter the pantry and leave it?”

“Nay. Didn’t see ’er go in… only come out.”

“What did she carry?” the pantler asked.

The page hesitated, considering, I think, whether he would find himself in more trouble by telling the truth or by deception.

“She was puttin’ somethin’ up the sleeve of ’er cotehardie,” he finally said.

Stylish sleeves for a lady’s cotehardie are voluminous, but it seemed to me unlikely that the Lady Anne would try to stuff a portpain into one. “What was it she hid there? Could you see?”

“Had some of m’lord’s silver, spoons an’ knives.”

Gentlemen and ladies who dine at Lord Gilbert’s table bring their own knives and spoons, as is the custom, but I knew that my employer kept a supply of silver utensils in the pantry for occasional use. I have found need of them
upon the occasions I dine at the castle, but they are seldom brought forth, as they are rarely needed.

“Where,” I asked the pantler, “is Lord Gilbert’s tableware stored?”

Humphrey nodded toward the pantry door. “In a wooden box.”

“Is the box locked?”

“Nay. Pantry’s locked, so no need for a lock on the box… so I thought.”

“How many knives and silver spoons are kept there? When did you last count them?”

The pantler now seemed as ill at ease as his assistant. “Don’t count ’em regular, like.”

“When did you last do so? How many knives and spoons are stored in the pantry?”

“Twelve of each,” Humphrey said.

“Go count them now.”

The pantler turned and entered his pantry. He disappeared behind the open door with his candle and I heard what I assumed to be the lid of a box fall upon a shelf. It takes little time to count a dozen knives and spoons, even less if some are missing. Humphrey appeared from behind the door, raised his palms, and said, “Eight knives an’ ten spoons. That’s all as is there.”

“And when you last counted all were present?”

“Aye.”

“When was that?”

“Afore Whitsuntide. Just before Rogation Sunday. Lord Gilbert was to have guests at ’is table that day an’ wished to be sure all would have proper knives an’ spoons, as some might not have their own, not bein’ gentlefolk.”

The pantler turned to his youthful assistant and, with as much anger as his aged voice could muster, demanded why he had not been told of the theft when it occurred.

“Who’d ’ave believed me if the lady said otherwise? An’ when she saw that I’d seen what she’d done she gave me such a glare as I knew I’d be in trouble did I accuse her.”

“But the spoons and knives are gone,” the pantler said. “That would be evidence of your truthfulness.”

“She’d ’a said I took ’em… that she saw me in the screens passage with ’em an’ thought I was about me work.”

“The lad speaks true,” I said. “Lord Gilbert is a just man, but he’d sooner believe the daughter of a knight than his page.”

“What you gonna do?” Humphrey asked of me. “You bein’ Lord Gilbert’s bailiff, it’d be your business to see to the return of ’is silver. And the portpain.”

I had wished that knowledge of the missing portpain should remain between the pantler and myself, but now the page also knew of it. I turned to Andrew and faced him with my sternest expression.

“You will not speak of this with any other soul,” I said. “Not the stolen silver nor the missing linen. You understand?”

The youth swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing like one of Kate’s hens pecking at the ground, and nodded understanding.

“You will need to be about preparing for Lord Gilbert’s dinner, so I will leave you to your work. Remember, not a word to any man of what has gone missing.”

The two, aged and young, nodded, silent, evidently in awe of my fearsome visage. Here was much change in my life. Five years past I could not have summoned a scowl which would have frightened a nursling. Now, after serving some years as Lord Gilbert’s bailiff, I was learning the potency of an occasional peevish frown.

I would be untruthful if I wrote that the experience was unpleasant, but I must guard against the subtle but
inexorable onset of pride, for holy writ proclaims that the vain must soon fall. There are Oxford scholars I remember from my youth at Baliol College who are overdue for a tumble.

I
left the screens passage and sought my employer in the solar. I found him there, with Lady Petronilla, entertaining Lady Margery and Lady Anne. Lord Gilbert was out of his element, for when John Chamberlain announced me at the door to the solar I found the three women plying needle and thread at some embroidery whilst m’lord sat stiffly beside the cold hearth. When I asked if I might speak privily to him he leapt to his feet as if freed from captivity.

He may also have thought that my desire for confidential conversation indicated progress in discovering a murderer. I had to disappoint him. And rather than solving one problem for Lord Gilbert I laid another before him.

“The Lady Anne?” he said in disbelief when I told him of what Andrew the page had seen. “Why would the lass take my silver?”

“You said Sir Henry was destitute. Perhaps Lady Anne was tired of wearing the same worn gowns and desired new.”

“Aye,” Lord Gilbert agreed thoughtfully. “Well, she’ll not have one by way of my silver. You must see that the spoons and knives are returned.”

I had feared he would give the task to me, for ’twas sure to be unpleasant. But that is why gentlemen employ such as me: to do those disagreeable things they would prefer not to do themselves.

“But do not,” he continued, “retrieve them in so impolitic a manner that Lady Margery will be embarrassed.”

I nodded understanding and my employer concluded by saying, “You can be a tactful man, Hugh, when you put your mind to it. I have every confidence that you will see the silver returned with little fuss.”

“Prying stolen spoons and knives from a thief of gentle birth without annoyance will be like taking bacon from a pig with no squealing.”

“Hah,” Lord Gilbert laughed and swatted me across the back. “I shall be pleased to learn how you do it.”

And with that he returned to the solar, his wife and guests, one of them a thief, there to await dinner.

Confronting a beautiful lass with her felony would not be a pleasant task, especially so as she was of rank and I am not. So, as Lord Gilbert had presented the task to me, I decided to bestow it upon another. I sought Walter, Sir Henry’s valet, and found him crossing to the hall from the servants’ quarters, intent upon his dinner. He would not enjoy it much when he learned what he must do.

I greeted the fellow, but he was not interested in conversation. His eyes went from me to other castle servants who, like him, were hurrying toward the hall and a meal.

“I will not detain you long,” I said, and went straight to the heart of the matter. “I have learned that Lady Anne took four of Lord Gilbert’s silver knives and two spoons from the pantry four days past.”

“What? Lady Anne? Surely you are mistaken. She…”

“She was seen. I have just this day learned of the theft. Lord Gilbert knows of it and demands that his silver be returned promptly.”

“Who saw her do such a thing? The man lies.”

“He does not. The silver has been counted and the missing pieces numbered. You are to speak to Lady Anne this day, at dinner, and tell her that her theft is discovered and the spoons and knives are to be returned immediately.
Tell her that an hour after dinner the screens passage will be vacant. No man will be there. She is to leave the stolen goods upon the floor beside the pantry door, where Lord Gilbert’s pantler may find them and return them to their place.”

“But what if she denies the theft?” Walter said. “I cannot believe it of her.”

“Tell her that much unpleasantness will follow before this day is done if she does not do as I require. Remind her that the sheriff of Oxford is resident in the castle.”

The valet made no reply for a moment, I think trying to invent some reason whereby my accusation might be impeached, or, failing that, to find some way to avoid the task I had laid upon him.

“Aye,” he said finally, and I nodded toward the hall, releasing him to his dinner and his duty. He would appreciate neither this day.

I followed the valet, sought Humphrey, and told him that one hour after dinner ended neither he nor Andrew must be near the screens passage, nor the hall nor the kitchen, either. I did not tell him why I asked this of him, for fear Lady Anne would resist and the precaution would be for naught.

I took my meal in the hall again that day. It was a fast day, so Lord Gilbert’s table featured baked herring, viand de leach, brydons, blancmange, sturgeon, salmon in syrup, and a void of sugared apples, wafers, and hypocras.

I once again sat at the head of a side table, from which place I could observe Lady Anne at the high table and Walter, far down the opposite side table. Walter appeared to have little appetite, and it is true that he did not enjoy the delicacies which we of higher estate consumed, but I believe his abstinence due more to the task I had assigned him than to the quality of the stockfish and maslin loaf before him.

The Lady Anne ate well and conversed freely with Lady Petronilla, beside whom she sat this day. I noted that several times Lady Anne’s eyes met those of squire William, although when this occurred they both looked quickly back to their meal. And was it my imagination, or did a winsome pink blush spread across Lady Anne’s cheeks after one of these exchanges?

It seemed sure that Walter had not yet presented my demand to Lady Anne. He had no opportunity to do so before dinner, and when the grooms and lesser folk had finished their meal he left the hall with the others.

But as we who remained finished the void I saw him peer from the screens passage and knew he waited to deliver to Lady Anne the requirement that Lord Gilbert’s silver be returned. There was nothing now for me to do. I departed the hall and left Walter to the onerous task I had assigned him.

One hour passed slowly. When the time was nearly gone, and I was about to seek the screens passage, I saw Walter walking toward the marshalsea and hastened after him. He feared I would challenge him about Lady Anne, I think, and so when I came within earshot he said, “I repeated your words to Lady Anne. Does the silver not appear as you wish, ’twill be no fault of mine.”

The valet was defensive, but in his place I might have been as well.

“There is another matter I wish to speak to you of,” I said.

Walter’s face, already somber, fell even more as he imagined other disagreeable labors I might assign him.

“Sir Henry,” I began, “lay awake nights. I was asked to provide a potion which would help him sleep. When I asked you what caused his wakefulness you did not reply. It is now time for you to do so. You cannot be charged with betraying your lord. He is in his grave.”

The valet did not answer at once, but looked about, and beyond my shoulder, as if to see if some man might appear who could extricate him from an uncomfortable place. No man did, so he finally spoke.

“S’pose can do no harm to Sir Henry now. He was penniless. Had debts ’e couldn’t pay, an’ gentlefolk an’ bankers he’d borrowed from who wanted their coin.”

“Could he not sell lands from his manor?”

“Tried. But others knew of ’is embarrassment an’ thought to gain from him cheap. Wouldn’t sell to such folk. Said ’e’d not give his house or lands away to any man.”

Sir Henry was not the only gentleman to suffer financial reverses these past years. Since plague took so many lives, grain has declined in price, and with it the value of the land upon which to grow it. A knight who needs money will raise little from his lands.

“His debts were greater than his worth?”

“Probably. Didn’t speak of such things when the common folk was about. Heard ’im arguin’ about it with Lady Margery once. Shoutin’ at each other, they was… not like I was tryin’ to hear.”

“What was Lady Margery’s complaint?”

Walter’s mouth twisted into a crooked grin. “What does most ladies want of their husbands? Silks an’ furs for new gowns, an’ shoes an’ such, an’ more servants to care for it all.”

“Sir Henry could not afford these?”

“Nay. Said he’d told her before there was not a shilling to spare for new clothes, an’ why would she not accept that.”

“What was her reply?”

“Said if she’d known he was so poor she’d not ’ave wed. Wealthier men had sought her hand, an’ still would was she free of him.”

“Lady Margery spoke of being free of Sir Henry?”

Walter’s eyes were downcast, and he moved a pebble with his toe, then said, “Aye… she did.”

Holy Church permits no divorce. The only way an unhappy wife may be free of her husband is through his death, or annulment of the marriage. But annulment requires the good graces of a bishop, generally gained by a liberal contribution to the bishop’s purse. Walter knew this well. I had another question.

“Did Lady Margery have any new husband in mind, you think, if she was free of Sir Henry? Was that another reason for Sir Henry’s wakefulness?”

The valet was again silent for the space of a dozen heartbeats before he said, “Not for me to say.”

“But you have, all but the man’s name. Was it not so you would not have hesitated. Who is it who has caught the lady’s eye?”

“Don’t know,” he protested. “Just talk.”

“You’ve heard gossip, but are unsure ’tis true?”

“Aye.”

“What does gossip say? What name is tied to Lady Margery?”

“More’n one.”

“She’ll bring little estate to any new husband. But more than one man is rumored to have an interest in Lady Margery if she were free of Sir Henry?”

“So I’ve heard. An’ even a small estate is of value to ’im as has none.”

“What names, then?”

“Haven’t heard that.”

“No names? From whence do these rumors come?”

“I speak to Lady Margery’s servants. Hear talk from them… but never names.”

“What do these women say? Was Sir Henry a cuckold?”

“May be. Isobel Guesclin, what’s Lady Margery’s companion, said as much.”

Worries about money and a faithless wife might cause any man to stare at the ceiling of a night. I remembered then the reddened cheeks of the Lady Anne, and asked Walter what he knew of the lass.

“Children may sometimes cause a man to lose sleep. Lady Anne is a thief. Has she done other mischief which might have brought distress to her father?”

Walter’s face twisted into a sardonic grin. “What lass don’t cause ’er father worry? ’Specially be she as pert as Lady Anne.”

“How did she bring worry to Sir Henry?”

“Wanted to wed, I heard.”

“Who?”

“William, the squire.”

This explained the stolen glances and pink cheeks I’d seen at table. “Sir Henry objected?”

“Aye. Wished her to wed another.”

“Who?”

“Dunno. A wealthy knight of Sussex, is all I know. Needed money, did Sir Henry, an’ thought to use ’is daughter to get ’is hands on some. So I heard.”

Where Sir Henry would gather funds to provide a suitable dowry for his daughter was another question, but one Walter could not be expected to answer.

The valet, who had been at first reluctant to speak of his employer’s family, had become loquacious, as if he found it a release to unburden himself.

“If any other reason for Sir Henry’s sleepless nights occurs to you, I would hear of it,” I said.

Walter touched a forelock and I bid him “Good day,” confident that an hour had now passed since dinner had ended, and that I knew better how matters stood in the
family and household of Sir Henry Burley, deceased.

The hall had long since been cleared of tables, and stood empty and silent. My footsteps echoed from the walls as I crossed the great room to the screens passage and looked toward the pantry door. The space is dark, even on a bright day, for the only light which penetrates there comes from windows in the hall. But when I looked toward the pantry I saw a white parcel upon the flags. A piece of linen cloth was wrapped about two spoons and four knives. Lord Gilbert’s property was returned.

I set out to seek Humphrey, and found him a moment later, where he sat before the oven gossiping with John Baker, a groom nearly as ancient as the pantler.

I held the returned silver out to Humphrey and told him to replace the items in the locked pantry forthwith. “And perhaps count Lord Gilbert’s spoons and knives more regularly in the future,” I said.

Humphrey rose, took the silver from me, and hobbled off toward the pantry. I bid John “Good day,” and set off for the solar where I might find Lord Gilbert to tell him that his property was recovered. ’Twas then I glanced to the white linen cloth which had been wrapped about the silver. It seemed to me much like the bloodstained fabric which I had plucked from under the fireplace mantel of the squires’ chamber.

My route to the solar took me back through the screens passage and the hall. I stopped in the empty hall, withdrew the bloody linen from my pouch, and spread it upon the ewerer’s table. I then took the cloth which had been wrapped about the silver and unfolded it next to the stained fabric. When I placed the two side by side I saw readily that they were parts of the same piece. They had not been sliced square, across the warp and in line with the woof, but on a slight angle, as if whoso wielded the
blade which had divided the portpain had slashed through the fabric hurriedly. The angle of the cut on the two cloths matched perfectly.

Here was a perplexing discovery. Would a lass murder her father? What else was I to think? Lady Anne had taken Lord Gilbert’s silver and was a thief. Would such a person find it troubling to add murder to a felony already committed? And if the lass would steal silver she would not balk at making off with a portpain. Perhaps she took linen and silver at the same time and Andrew overlooked the cloth when his eyes fell upon the knives and spoons.

’Twas sure that Lady Anne was the thief who made off with the silver. Walter spoke only to her to relay my demand that the silver be returned. Or did he mention the command to another?

No, that was unlikely. If some other thief had Lord Gilbert’s silver in his possession and thought I suspected only Lady Anne, he would not return the stolen goods, but rather would allow me to continue in my error and accuse the lass.

But would the maid be so foolish as to return the silver wrapped in the same portpain she had used to wipe away her father’s blood, a bloody fragment of which I was intended to find, so as to place blame for the felony upon a squire? Which squire? Not William Willoughby. ’Twas him she wished to wed. So said Walter. Robert de Cobham, then, was to fall victim to the plot, but how was I to know that when the only evidence I had against any man was the bloody linen and the bodkin embedded in the lampstand? I might pursue William as readily as Robert. Would Lady Anne, and her accomplice, had she one, risk that? Especially if aid came from William?