Deeds of Darkness Read online

  We stood together on the bridge advising each other of our lack of success in discovering Hubert Shillside. I spoke of the corpse I had seen in the abbey church three days past, and asked if the dead man had been returned to Wytham.

  “Wasn’t ’im,” one of the monks said.

  “What? The dead man found in the wood – the one I saw before your altar – was not the man missing from Wytham?”

  “’At’s right. Wife come to the abbey to fetch ’im ’ome, saw it wasn’t ’er husband, an’ swooned to the tiles.”

  “Who was it then,” I asked, “the man you found dead in the wood?”

  “No man knows. Must be another man missin’ from hereabouts what nobody knows of. Couldn’t leave ’im before the altar no longer. Abbot Gerleys ’ad ’im buried yesterday in St. Leonard’s churchyard.”

  During this conversation I had glanced into the Windrush several times. I cannot cross a bridge without pausing to gaze into the stream. Spring rains had deepened the river and increased its flow. I could not see to the streambed from the center of the bridge.

  Our friends turned from the bridge to return to the abbey, their search completed for the day. I bid them “Good day,” asked them to commend me to Abbot Gerleys, then stepped forward to follow them down from the bridge. There was nothing more to be done. I might as well go home to Bampton.

  As I set about doing so my eyes lingered upon an object twisting gently in the flow of water about fifty paces or so downstream of the bridge. I assumed it to be a branch of a tree fallen into the stream, but something caused me to halt and view the object more closely.

  It was raised above the water nearly the length of my hand and wrist, and was brown, as a fallen limb would be, but had a shape unlike that of a tree branch. The object seemed like an ankle garbed in brown chauces, ending in a foot within a shoe.

  Will had looked upon the river and its banks while I spoke to the brothers, and now walked ahead of me, but saw, or felt, that I was no longer close behind him. He turned, saw me staring downstream, and followed my gaze. He apparently noticed nothing to capture his attention, so asked what caused me to peer into the distant flow.

  “Come,” I said, hastening from the bridge to the bank, past the end of a low stone wall which, terminating at the river’s edge, ran thence through the tall grass of a meadow. From a different angle the object which had seized my attention assumed more the appearance of a branch swept down the river until it fetched up against some impediment to its farther progress.

  But when we came close I saw the thing had never been part of a tree. Will recognized this also, and I heard him catch his breath as he realized what lay in the Windrush.

  Neither of us spoke as we hurried along the riverbank. Neither of us wanted to acknowledge that some man lay hidden in the river but for a protruding ankle and foot. Sheep pastured in the meadow lifted their heads to watch as we stumbled through the grass. Lambs nursed enthusiastically, their tails thumping.

  Will hurried ahead of me, and when we reached the section of riverbank closest to the drowned man – for it was now clear this was what we had found – he crossed himself, then stepped into the knee-deep water to tug at the protruding foot.

  There seemed some impediment to Will’s effort to draw the corpse from the river. He pulled upon the foot with no immediate success. Then suddenly the hindrance gave way and Will staggered back, struggling to keep his footing, grabbing at a tuft of grass with one hand but stubbornly refusing to release the corpse from the other’s grasp.

  I leaned down to assist the lad and took hold of a hand now floating free of whatever restraint had held it fast in the current. Will regained his feet, and together we hauled the body from the river. I was closest to the dead man’s face, and so as the visage came from the water saw sooner than Will that we had found his father.

  All this time, hurrying from the bridge, to laying the corpse in the meadow grass, we had not spoken. Will broke the silence.

  “I’ve crossed this bridge, seekin’ ’im, three times, yet never thought to examine the river. Wonder why ’e fell in. Wasn’t tottering on ’is feet as aged men often are. Not that old.”

  Will’s first thoughts were of mischance, not felony, and I might have shared them but that I noticed two leather thongs wrapped at one end about Shillside’s belt but at the other terminating in freshly cut ends. The haberdasher’s purse was gone.

  I picked up the cut ends and Will seized upon my discovery.

  “Gone. You think ’e might’ve lost it struggling in the river? Mayhap it caught upon some sunken log.”

  “Nay. Look here. The straps have been cut cleanly. Had the purse been torn from him the ends would be tattered, frayed.”

  “Robbed and slain, then?”

  “Aye, so I believe. You must hurry back to Bampton and return with a horse and cart so we may take your father home. Go to the castle. Seek Arthur and tell him what we need. Hurry. We want to be home before nightfall. I will remain with your father.”

  I sent Will, rather than going myself, for several reasons. Will was younger, and fleet of foot. As I once had been, but Kate’s cookery had slowed me somewhat. The reverse was surely not true. The meals I had been preparing since John’s birth would not cause Kate to let out the seams of her cotehardie. Will would not have been well served had I left him beside the river to stare into the bloated face of his dead father whilst I sought help. And while Will was away I intended to examine the corpse to learn, if I could, what had caused this death. Did Hubert drown, or was he dead when he entered the river?

  My first thought was that men had accosted Shillside upon or near the bridge, stolen his purse, and then thrown him into the river so they might make good their escape whilst he struggled to save himself. The man could not swim, of this I was quite certain. I can, for I lived as a child near a river in Lancashire where my three older brothers thought it great sport to toss me in and watch me splash to the riverbank, but I know of few other men who can do so.

  The corpse lay as we had drawn it from the Windrush, face up, arms splayed out to each side. Shillside had been in the river for more than a week, I assumed. His features were swollen, the skin white and wrinkled. I examined the face, and then his clothing, seeking some sign of a stroke or thrust which might have slain the man or rendered him senseless.

  I found such a wound. A small tear in Shillside’s cotehardie caught my eye. No blood stained the perforation. If the man was stabbed the river had long since washed the blood from kirtle and cotehardie.

  And stabbed he was. I drew aside his clothing and saw a laceration upon Shillside’s breast. The blade which made it would have penetrated his heart, given the location of the wound.

  Against the pale skin I saw some dark object within the cut. I placed a finger against the wound and felt some unyielding thing where such should not have been. Immersion in the Windrush had puckered the cut. I spread the laceration and saw embedded in Shillside’s chest the broken blade of a dagger.

  I grasped the weapon and attempted to pull it free but it was stuck fast between two ribs. How to extract the dagger puzzled me, as I had with me no tools, nothing with which to grasp the broken blade.

  I did have my dagger. I pushed it into the wound and pried the blade free. Shillside would not mind.

  The broken dagger was of the meaner sort and poorly made. No wealthy man had owned such a weapon. The broken segment was the length of my first finger, long enough to pierce Shillside’s heart before it snapped as he struggled against it. I did not know if this fragment could lead me to a felon, but placed it in my pouch for safekeeping. Just in case.

  But the manner of Shillside’s death was of little consequence. He was dead, slain for his coins, and ’twas my duty to discover who had done the felony and see them sent to the scaffold for their crime. Or crimes. What of the unidentified corpse I had seen before the altar of Eynsham Abbey c
hurch? Or the missing man from Wytham? Did the same men slay these also?

  The grass near the river had grown vigorously with warming spring days and plentiful rain. So it was that, my examination of the corpse complete, I could sit and be nearly obscured from view. I waited for Will and Arthur to appear, idly watched birds flitting about, saw a fish leap in the river, and twice observed travelers cross the bridge, intent upon a destination. They crossed without glancing upstream or down. And had they glanced in my direction the grass would have hidden my presence to all but the most intent observer.

  The sun was low in the western sky before Arthur and Will appeared on the road from Hardwick. I stood, brushed last year’s leaves and blades of brown grass from my chauces, and waited for them to approach.

  The stone wall lining the road ended at the bridge timbers, so horse and cart could not be brought near to Shillside’s corpse. Arthur tied the runcie to a sapling growing by the juncture of wall and bridge, then he and Will edged past the end of the wall.

  We three carried the corpse back to the bridge, but as we reached the cart a movement caught my eye. Some distance to the east, across the bridge and three or four hundred paces beyond, four black-garbed figures stood in the road. I took them for brothers from the abbey, seeking yet for Hubert Shillside.

  The abbey should be told that he was found; Eynsham’s men would be better employed in the work of preparing abbey soil and planting than in seeking a corpse. Seeing opportunity to send word that we no longer needed the services of Abbot Gerleys’ community, I waved an arm above my head whilst Arthur and Will set the corpse into the cart, and trotted across the bridge toward the distant figures.

  What happened next surprised me. The black-clad men seemed to take counsel of one another, glanced in my direction, then hurried away toward Eynsham.

  Had the fellows seen me? Or had they not understood my gesture? They had seemingly been approaching the bridge from the east. They must have had some purpose in mind. What could it have been that they were dissuaded from it when they saw me motion to them?

  Whatever the reason, their hasty withdrawal meant I must travel this way again Monday. Perhaps by then Abbot Gerleys would have news of the crimes committed near to Eynsham.

  St. Paul told us, in his letter to the believers in Philippi, that the followers of the Lord Christ must not be anxious about anything. The apostle had no wife or babes to concern him. Perhaps he, like me, would have worried more if he had had souls in his charge, had lost one of them to the churchyard, and been responsible for another but a fortnight or so old.

  Such thoughts occupy me more often since returning from France and discovering Sybil dead. I cannot see Kate or Bessie or John without concern that they might also succumb to some illness.

  Sunday, after mass, we buried Hubert Shillside in the churchyard of St. Beornwald’s Church. Arthur attended, and I bade him have our palfreys ready for Eynsham next morn, to take word of our grisly discovery and call off their search. Had I taken the apostle’s advice I might have traveled alone, dismissing my apprehension at journeying unaccompanied, trusting the Lord Christ to deliver me from cut-purses and every kind of violence. But even holy writ must be applied with common sense. The injunction that Christian men should not worry does not mean they should foolishly invite the attention of murderous malefactors.

  This day was Hocktide, when ’twas my duty after dinner to collect rents and fines due Lord Gilbert. Men do not find much pleasure in the obligation though Hock Monday and Hock Tuesday bring some cheer, offering a scarce chance to play and make merry. Unless you are Hubert Shillside.

  Chapter 3

  Monday dawned cloudy, cheerless, and threatened rain. When skies over England threaten rain they generally make good the warning. Hocktide festivities would be dampened, I feared. A soft mist became a gentle rain before Arthur and I reached Yelford, and we were soaked, teeth chattering, when we arrived at Eynsham.

  The guest master again sent for lay brothers to care for our beasts, and another took us to the guest house, where we found a welcome blaze in the fireplace where we could warm ourselves and dry our sodden clothes.

  Arthur and I were warmed and dry, or nearly so, when Abbot Gerleys entered the guest house. The abbot was a young man for such a post, and ceremony seemed to mean little to him. Else he would have required of me that I attend him in his lodgings rather than sought me.

  “We have had no success in finding your haberdasher,” the abbot began.

  “He is found,” I replied. “You may end the search.”

  I then told him of discovering Hubert Shillside’s corpse, and seeing from a distance brothers of the abbey approach the bridge over the Windrush, then turn away.

  “I would have sent word with them that the man was found,” I said, “but they hastened away and, as ’twas become late in the day, I wished to make for Bampton.”

  “Lay brothers?” the abbot said.

  “Aye. Four. They took counsel of each other when they saw me, then hastened back toward Eynsham.”

  “I sent four lay brothers to search for your man on Saturday, but only two sought him toward Hardwick. The others I sent to Cassington and Yarnton.”

  “Only two toward Hardwick? Perhaps they found the others you sent to Cassington. I met the two you sent toward Hardwick upon the Windrush Bridge, just before I found Hubert Shillside. They left me there to return here.”

  Abbot Gerleys stood, went to the guest house door, and called to a monk who stood outside. “Find Gaston and Ralph, and fetch them here.”

  I heard the man accept this assignment, and the abbot returned to his bench. “What of the corpse your verderer found in Wytham Wood?” I asked. “Has the man been identified?”

  “Nay. The man we found we cannot name, and the man we know has gone missing is not to be found. But another evil has come upon a nearby village since we last spoke. A tenant of Church Hanborough sent his daughter to plant peas in a new plowed field last Wednesday. When she did not return for her dinner he sought her. She was not to be found. Only her dibble stick and bag of seed were in the field. Many footprints, he said, were there in the soft ground, and led to a road, much traveled, where they could no longer be followed.”

  “The lass was taken?” I said. “How old was she?”

  “Fifteen, I believe he said.”

  “And now she is missing?”

  “Nay. The father and others of the village sought her that day ’til dark, and intended to resume the hunt next morn, but as the dawn came the lass returned to her home.”

  “What? Had she run off… with a lad, mayhap?”

  “Nay. Nothing of the sort. Men plucked her from the field, she said, had their way with her, then set her free.”

  “And her father came to you seeking justice?”

  “Aye. The village bailiff has sent men to search for the felons, but he has had no success.” Abbot Gerleys shook his head as he considered the outrage. “She was a quiet lass, I’m told, and since that day has not been seen out of doors. Where will she now find a husband? One may hope that her father is prosperous enough that he can provide a substantial dowry. Or perhaps some widower with children to rear will have her.”

  A thought came to me. “How many men took the lass?” I asked.

  “Four, the father said.”

  “Were they clad as scholars or lay brothers or monks, in black gowns?”

  “Hmmm. Didn’t think to ask… but I will. You think they might be the four you saw upon the road when you found your haberdasher?”

  “It had occurred to me.”

  “Worth pursuing, if it turns out so to be.”

  “Perhaps worth pursuing even if the assailants wore green and brown and such. Men may change their clothing to suit their labor… or their felony.”

  “Just so. Ah, here are Gaston and Ralph.”

  I recognized as
the men I had last seen upon the Windrush Bridge the sturdy, well-fed lay brothers of thirty or so years who now entered the guest house and stood, awaiting instruction.

  “I sent you to search for a missing man Saturday,” Abbot Gerleys said. “Told you to explore the road to Hardwick. You did not report back to me. Did you complete the search?”

  “Aye, m’lord Abbot,” one said. “You was with Brother Prior when we returned, an’ we found nothing, so had no report.”

  “Did any others accompany you that I know not of?”

  “Nay. Just me an’ Gaston.”

  “When you found no man injured or ill or dead on the way I sent you, did you join with Calkin or Richard upon your return?”

  “Nay. No time for seekin’ the way to Cassington. ’Twas near to dark when we returned from Hardwick.”

  Abbot Gerleys looked to me, a silent offer to add questions of my own for Ralph and Gaston. I had none, and shook my head to indicate so. The abbot told the lay brothers that the man they had sought for many days was found, so they could resume work in the abbey fields on the morrow. The announcement seemed to bring the fellows little joy. They no doubt preferred a leisurely stroll along pleasant lanes to plowing and planting and mucking out.

  When Ralph and Gaston had gone, Abbot Gerleys turned to me and spoke. “The black-clad men you saw, who could they have been? Oxford scholars, mayhap?”

  “Perhaps, but why would they seek to avoid me?”

  “Could it be they thought you wanted to lure them into a trap? Word has likely reached Oxford of the felonies plaguing this place. Traveling scholars might be cautious of a man upon the road who seemed too eager to meet with them.”

  I agreed this might be so. “But I would like to know from the lass who was taken from her work in the pea field what clothing her abductors wore.”

  “I will send lay brothers to her house on the morrow, and next day send them to you with the answer.”