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  The Tainted Coin

  ( Hugh de Singleton - 5 )

  Mel Starr

  Mel Starr

  The Tainted Coin

  Chapter 1

  I would have preferred to remain in bed a while longer. The October morn was cool, my bed warm, but Bessie stirred in her cradle and Kate was already up and bringing the coals to life upon our hearth. I arose, clothed myself hurriedly, and bent to lift my daughter from her cot. She smiled up at me from the woolen layers into which Kate had tucked her the night before. Elizabeth was now nearly a year old, and beginning to sleep through the night, much to Kate’s joy, and my own. Children are a blessing from God, but not when they awaken before dawn and demand to be fed.

  I had placed the babe upon my shoulder and turned to the stairs, when from below I heard an unwelcome pounding upon Galen House’s door. When some man wishes my attention so soon after the morning Angelus Bell has rung, it can be to no good purpose. A window was near, so rather than hasten down the stairs, I opened it to see who was at my door so early in the morn.

  My visitor heard the window open above him and when I peered down I looked into the gaunt, upraised face of John Kellet, curate at St. Andrew’s Chapel.

  “Master Hugh,” he shouted, “you must come at once. There is a man wounded and near dead at St. Andrew’s Chapel. Bring your instruments and make haste!”

  I did so. Kate had heard Kellet’s appeal and awaited me at the foot of the stairs. She took Bessie from me, and over her shoulder I saw my breakfast awaiting upon our table — a loaf and ale. It must wait. I filled a sack with instruments and herbs from my chest, unbarred the door, and stepped into the foggy dawn.

  “Quickly, Master Hugh,” the skeletal priest urged, and set off down Church View Street at a trot, his bare, boney feet raising puffs of dust from the dry dirt of the street. I flung my sack over a shoulder and followed. I had questions about this abrupt summons, but Kellet was already too far ahead to allow conversation. I loped after the priest, the sack bouncing against my back.

  Kellet led me to the High Street, thence up Bushey Row to the path to St. Andrew’s Chapel. The parish Church of St. Beornwald is a grand structure, but the chapel is old and small. ’Tis little more than a quarter of a mile from Bampton to the chapel, and soon the ancient building appeared in the fog. Kellet plunged through the decrepit lychgate and led me to the porch. There, upon the flags, I saw a man. The priest had placed the fellow upon a pallet so he did not rest upon the hard stones. I bent over the silent form and thought Kellet’s trouble unnecessary, for the man before me seemed insensible, if not already dead.

  “Found ’im here at dawn, when I rose to ring the Angelus Bell. I heard a moan, so opened the door an’ found the fellow under the porch roof, just where he now lies. Put a pallet ’neath ’im an’ sought you. I could see ’e was bad off, even in so little light as in the porch.”

  The curate lived in the chapel tower, in a bare room but four paces on a side. He need not go far from his bed to ring the bell of St. Andrew’s Chapel, for the bell-rope fell through a hole in the center of his chamber to the base of the tower at ground level.

  The porch lay in shadow, so the nature of the man’s wounds was obscure. I asked Kellet to take one end of the pallet, and I grasped the other. Together we lifted the unconscious stranger to the churchyard where the rising sun was visible through the thinning fog and his wounds and injuries became apparent.

  The man had been beaten senseless. His nose was broken and askew, his scalp lacerated just above an ear where a blow had found his skull, his lips were purple and swollen, and it seemed sure his jaw was broken and teeth were knocked loose.

  “You heard him moan when you rose to ring the Angelus Bell?”

  “Aye,” Kellet replied.

  “Did he say anything when you found him?”

  “Nay. He was as you see ’im now.”

  Whoever this man was, he had used the last of his strength to reach sanctuary, as I think he assumed the ancient chapel to be. I looked closely at the face, but could not recognize him as any man I knew. I asked the priest if he knew the fellow.

  “Nay. ’Course, he’s so abused, he might be someone I know. In his state his own mother’d not know ’im, I think.”

  I silently agreed with the priest, then bent to examine the man’s injuries more closely to learn was there anything I might do to save his life and speed healing of his wounds.

  I am Hugh de Singleton, surgeon, trained at the University of Paris, and also bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his lands in Bampton. Many would find the work I must do as surgeon disagreeable, repairing men’s bodies when they have done themselves harm, but I find my duties as bailiff, collecting fines and dealing with obstreperous tenants, more irksome.

  With my dagger I cut away the wounded man’s cotehardie and kirtle, the better to inspect his hurts, and as I did so considered that the supine form presented me with two tasks: I must treat his injuries, and discover who had dealt with him so.

  The man’s body presented as many wounds as his head. So many bruises covered his ribs that they might have been one great contusion. I tested one purple blemish and felt the ends of a broken rib move beneath my fingertips.

  My examination roused the unconscious fellow. I saw his eyelids flicker, then open. Perhaps he saw my face above him, perhaps not. His eyes seemed not to focus, but drifted about, hesitating only briefly when they turned to me. Did he take me for a friend? Who can know? He surely did not think me one of his assailants, else he would not have spoken as he did.

  With pain and effort he opened his swollen lips and said, so faintly I had to ask John Kellet if he heard the same words, “They didn’t get me coin.”

  I had learned two things: whoso attacked the fellow had sought a coin, or perhaps many coins, and more than one had done this evil. I would learn no more from him, for as I began to inspect a bloody laceration between two ribs, his chest heaved and was then still.

  “Dead?” Kellet asked after a moment.

  “Aye. You must think back on finding the fellow. Is there anything you can remember of this morn which might tell who he is and who has done this?”

  “I will think on it while I ring the Passing Bell. I have already offered Extreme Unction, before I sought you. I could see how ill used he was, even in the dark of the porch, and feared he might not live till I returned.”

  “While you do so I will fetch the coroner. Hubert Shillside must convene a jury here before we may do any other thing.”

  I heard Kellet ring the bell of St. Andrew’s Chapel as I left the churchyard and its tumbled-down wall. I noted several places where someone — Kellet, I presume — had replaced fallen stones so as to halt the decay. My eyes traveled to a section of the wall where, three years past, I had hidden to escape Thomas atte Bridge and the priest, who intended my death. Kellet, for this felony and others, was sent on pilgrimage to Compostela. He returned a transformed man, and was assigned to assist the almoner at the Priory of St. Nicholas, in Exeter. There he was so assiduous at seeking the poor that he came near to impoverishing the priory, it not being a wealthy house, and the prior beseeched the bishop to be rid of him. As no curate had been found for St. Andrew’s Chapel, Kellet was reassigned to the place. He left it three years past a corpulent hedonist, but returned a year ago an emaciated pauper, who wore no shoes at any season and gave to the poor nearly all of the meager living he was awarded as curate. I have never seen a man so reformed, and indeed, when first I learned of the change, doubted it was truly so. May the Lord Christ forgive me for mistrusting the alteration He can work in a repentant man’s life. All saints were once sinners, and any sinner may become a saint.

  Hubert Shillside, Bampton’s haberdasher, w
as no more pleased than I had been to open his door so early, but accepted his duty as coroner, and when told of the death at St. Andrew’s Chapel, set out to assemble a jury while I walked to Church View Street and Galen House.

  I told Kate of events at the chapel, hurriedly gobbled the loaf she had set out for me, swallowed a cup of ale, then set out again for the chapel. I arrived with Shillside and his coroner’s jury. The haberdasher asked of the priest what he knew of the corpse, and was told what I had already heard. Kellet could think of nothing more to explain the dead man’s condition.

  All who viewed the corpse agreed that the death was murder, not misadventure, and so Shillside did readily declare. No weapon was to be found, so the coroner, no doubt hungry to break his fast, absolved himself and his jurymen of further responsibility in the matter and turned the death over to me.

  As the coroner’s jury departed the place, I told Kellet to once again take in hand an end of the pallet. Together we carried the corpse through the porch, into the chapel, and deposited it on the flags before the altar.

  “I’ll say a mass, have a grave dug, and bury the man this day,” the priest said.

  I wished to know where this stranger had been attacked, to see if there might be at the place some evidence of his assailants. It could not have been close to the chapel, for he would have cried out when attacked, and Kellet would have heard him. But the dead man had been so badly injured that he would not have crawled far. I searched the grass of the churchyard for blood and found traces which led to the lychgate. The curate saw, and followed. Beyond the gate was the path, dry from absence of rain for the past fortnight. In the dust it was easy to follow the track of a crawling man back to the east, for the sun was now well up over the fields and meadow which bordered the narrow road. Nearly two hundred paces to the east the path entered a wood, and a few paces beyond that the marks of a crawling man disappeared into the verge.

  I studied the place where the man had crawled from the forest. Why did he struggle to leave the place and crawl to St. Andrew’s Chapel? In his battered condition this required much effort. Was he familiar with Bampton, so that he knew help might be found could he reach the chapel?

  John Kellet had followed from the chapel and with me studied the path where marks in the dust told of the man’s entry upon the road.

  “Look there,” the priest said, and pointed a few paces beyond. Between road and forest was a swathe of dry grass and across this patch of vegetation two parallel tracks of bent-down foliage showed where a cart or similar wheeled conveyance had turned from the road and entered a narrow opening which led into the forest. Marks of the cart wheels and a horse’s hooves, and the footprints of men were visible in the dust of the path where the vehicle entered the wood, but although we searched for many paces in both directions from the place, neither Kellet nor I could find any mark where a cart might have left the wood and regained the road. Whatever had entered the forest was yet there.

  The priest followed as I traced the path of the cart into the wood. Fallen leaves covered the forest floor, so the track was soon obliterated, but it was possible to guess the way by seeking openings between the trees and bushes large enough to admit passage of a horse and cart.

  We had walked perhaps fifty paces from the road when I heard a horse whinny. Another forty paces brought us to a shaded clearing in the wood where before us stood a horse, harnessed to a cart, its reins tied to a small beech. The horse neighed again, no doubt pleased to see men who might offer it water and food.

  “Why is this beast here, so distant from the road?” Kellet wondered aloud. “And did it belong to the man now lying dead in St. Andrew’s Chapel?”

  My mind had posed the same questions, and I thought it likely the answer to the second question was “yes.” An inspection of the cart might confirm this. It was well made, with two wheels. A waxed cloth had covered the cart, but was drawn aside and hung from the cart to the forest floor. I peered into the cart and saw there several chests, open and upended. Their contents were strewn about. There was a packet of combs, some of wood and cheaply made, but others of fine ivory. Another small chest had held an assortment of buckles, pins, buttons, and a package of needles. These were all tossed about in the cart. A larger chest had held several yards of woolen cloth in a variety of colors. This fabric was flung about, and one bolt lay partly over the side of the cart, dragging upon the leaves. Here was a chapman’s cart. The owner made his living selling goods in villages too small to have haberdashers and suchlike merchants.

  I began to form an opinion of what had happened here. The chapman, I thought, had decided to sleep the night under his cart, the weather being yet mild. He led his horse deep into the wood, away from the road and felons who might prowl the countryside, but was followed. Perhaps men saw the track his cart made in the dust of the road, as did the priest and I, or mayhap he was trailed from the last town where he did business.

  Here in the forest men surprised the chapman and demanded his purse. He refused to give it up, so they set upon him with a club, but yet he would not tell them where it was hid. They beat him senseless, near to death, ransacked his cart, then left him in the forest to perish.

  Kellet had inspected the contents of the cart from over my shoulder. As I pondered the discovery I saw him reach for a sack and untie the cord which closed it. He examined the contents, then poured some into a wooden bucket which lay in the cart beside the sack. The horse smelled the oats, and neighed in anticipation. The priest took the bucket to the beast, which plunged its muzzle in eagerly. No doubt the animal was thirsty as well.

  A fallen branch next caught my eye. It lay at the edge of the clearing, three or four paces from the cart, and seemed freshly broken. One splintered end was white in the dappled sunlight, and the limb lay atop the fallen leaves, not under, as should be had it occupied that place for a day or more.

  I lifted the broken limb and saw a thing which caused me to recoil. At a place where a twig had broken from the branch and left a raised and thorn-like barb was the dark stain of blood and what appeared to be a bit of flesh. The priest saw me examining the club, and when the horse had consumed his ration of oats Kellet joined me in studying the cudgel.

  “Broke it over ’is ’ead, I’d say,” Kellet said.

  The limb was as large around as my arm, and as long. Blows from it would easily break a man’s ribs or skull.

  I was not optimistic that I could find the felons who had done this murder. Had they taken goods from the chapman’s cart, I might seek in villages nearby for men who had wares to sell, or whose wives wore new buttons upon their cotehardies or bragged of ivory combs. But if the villains did take goods from the cart, they left much behind. Why so? Unless some men boasted of this attack, I would have no clue which might lead to the assailant.

  Even the horse and cart might be carried away to some town and sold. The beast would fetch ten shillings, perhaps twelve, and the cart another eight or ten shillings, for it was well made and sturdy. Whoever murdered the chapman had left here in the woods goods to the value of as much as three marks. Did the chapman cry out loudly as he was attacked, so as to frighten the felons away? Kellet had heard no such screams, but I could think of no other reason thieves might leave such loot here in the forest.

  “Whose goods are these now?” Kellet asked.

  “Unless we can discover some heir to the dead man, they become Lord Gilbert’s possession, being found upon his land.”

  “Oh, aye. There is much wealth here. I had thought some might be sold to help the poor through the winter to come.”

  “Lord Gilbert is not a greedy man, no more so than most of his station. Some of the buttons and buckles of the meaner sort he will give to his grooms and valets, but there may be some he will allow to be sold. I will speak to him about it.”

  I replaced the waxed cloth atop the cart, then led the horse through the wood to the road. Here I halted to again study the dust of the road to see if it might tell me more of what had hap
pened here. Many men had walked this way since the last rain, and horses also. It was impossible to tell which of the tracks might have been made by the men who had slain the chapman.

  We walked to St. Andrew’s Chapel, where Kellet left me to set about his duty to bury the chapman in the hallowed ground of the churchyard. I led the horse and cart through the town and under the Bampton Castle portcullis to the marshalsea, where I told a page to unharness and care for the beast, but to leave the cart where it stood. I then sought John Chamberlain and requested of him an audience with Lord Gilbert. I awaited John’s return in the hall, but was not long abandoned. John returned with announcement that Lord Gilbert was at leisure and would see me in the solar.

  That chamber, smaller and more easily warmed than the hall, was Lord Gilbert’s choice when the weather turned cool and damp. The day was mild, but a fire blazed upon the hearth when I was ushered into the solar. A great lord cares little for use of firewood, as he will always have supply. And, in truth, the warmth was pleasing. If I had such resources to hand I would this day have a blaze in all of the hearths in Galen House.

  “Hugh, what news?” Lord Gilbert said, looking up from a ledger. Lord Gilbert is a bearded, square-faced man, ruddy of cheek and accustomed to squinting into the sun from atop a horse. Unlike most lords, he desires to keep abreast of financial dealings within his lands. Each year I prepare an account for his steward, Geoffrey Thirwall, who resides at Pembroke. Thirwall visits Bampton once each year, for hallmote, when he examines my report. Most nobles allow their stewards final say in matters of business, as, in truth, does Lord Gilbert. But, unlike most, Lord Gilbert wishes to keep himself informed of profit and loss first hand, rather than rely only upon the accounts of bailiff and steward. Many great lords have lately been reduced to penury, and must sell lands to pay debts. The plague has taken many tenants, and dead men pay no rents. Lord Gilbert is not in such straightened circumstance. Perhaps his inspection of my accounts and those of his other bailiffs is reason why.