under my door. Satisfied that the fleabane was smoldering well, I was about to seek the kitchen for a loaf when Alice atte Bridge appeared at the buttery and saw my smoking door.
“Oh, sir!” she yelped, and turned to run for aid.
With some difficulty I arrested her flight. She returned to the hall, gazing suspiciously at the fumes now pouring copiously from under my door. I thought some explanation in order.
“’Tis fleabane. I was visited in the night, and am now driving off my callers.”
Alice peered at me, uncomprehending.
“Fleas,” I explained. “Some unwashed villein introduced them into the hall yesterday. They found a home in my chamber last night.”
“Oh, sir…may I have some?”
“Fleas?”
“Nay, sir. Of them I have plenty. I sleep in a closet off the scullery, and they vex me now an’ then.”
“I have more fleabane, but ’tis in the chamber and I must not disturb the fumes while they do their work. Return at the ninth hour and I will give you some.”
“Thank you, sir.” The girl curtsied and ran gracefully off down the passage past the buttery door. I watched her scurry away. It was a rewarding experience. But I immediately felt sheepish for permitting my thoughts to wander so, with Alice but a child of fifteen years or so. Well, some tenant or servant to Lord Gilbert would have a fine wife in a few more years.
I left my chamber to the smoke and set off to find breakfast. I warned the servants at the kitchen to take no notice of the vapors rising into the great hall from under my door, then went to my daily rounds.
John Holcutt was busy seeing to the marling of a field and needed no advice on the matter from me. I walked to the meadow where the lamb was slain, but found only a few wisps of wool where the animal had lain. It was Richard Hatcher’s lamb. Doubtless what remained of it had become his dinner.
I was returning to the castle for my own dinner when the sound of shouting and agitated voices reached me across the meadow. Above the distant cacophony I heard my name. What now, I wondered? Life in Bampton was returning to its settled, peaceful ways after Alan the beadle’s death. I wished for no interruption of that tranquility.
I trotted across the meadow and walked rapidly down Mill Street past the castle toward town and the din. As I crossed the bridge over Shill Brook I saw a crowd milling before the blacksmith’s shop, where Church View Street entered Bridge Street. Some in the throng saw me approach and I was immediately hailed and urged to make haste. I did.
The knot of onlookers parted as I approached and in their shadow I saw a man lying in the street in a great pool of blood. One hand twitched at his side, the other was clasped to his neck. Between the fingers clutching his throat blood flowed in a copious stream. I knelt in the dirt and saw the man’s eyes follow me as I examined the wound under his fingers. Something, or someone, had slashed through the great vein. He had only minutes to live unless I could staunch the flow of blood.
“A cloth,” I shouted. “A clean cloth – quickly!”
A housewife in the crowd presented her apron. It was flour-dusted but clean enough. I pried the fellow’s hand from his wound and pressed the folded cloth tight against the gash.
I required my instruments, but could not leave my patient to fetch them. From the corner of my eye I saw a youth who had won a footrace last autumn at Michaelmas. I called to him.
“Run to the castle and fetch my instruments.” The youth gazed at me blankly. “Find Alice, the scullery maid. She knows the box where they are kept. My chamber will be clouded with smoke…pay that no mind. Run! Be off!”
The mob parted and the youth sprinted away toward the castle. I returned my attention to the pale form at my knees. Blood seeped from under the folded apron, but not so profusely as before.
“Who is this?” I asked. “What befell him?”
A dozen voices related the news. I could make no
“Oh, sir!” she yelped, and turned to run for aid.
With some difficulty I arrested her flight. She returned to the hall, gazing suspiciously at the fumes now pouring copiously from under my door. I thought some explanation in order.
“’Tis fleabane. I was visited in the night, and am now driving off my callers.”
Alice peered at me, uncomprehending.
“Fleas,” I explained. “Some unwashed villein introduced them into the hall yesterday. They found a home in my chamber last night.”
“Oh, sir…may I have some?”
“Fleas?”
“Nay, sir. Of them I have plenty. I sleep in a closet off the scullery, and they vex me now an’ then.”
“I have more fleabane, but ’tis in the chamber and I must not disturb the fumes while they do their work. Return at the ninth hour and I will give you some.”
“Thank you, sir.” The girl curtsied and ran gracefully off down the passage past the buttery door. I watched her scurry away. It was a rewarding experience. But I immediately felt sheepish for permitting my thoughts to wander so, with Alice but a child of fifteen years or so. Well, some tenant or servant to Lord Gilbert would have a fine wife in a few more years.
I left my chamber to the smoke and set off to find breakfast. I warned the servants at the kitchen to take no notice of the vapors rising into the great hall from under my door, then went to my daily rounds.
John Holcutt was busy seeing to the marling of a field and needed no advice on the matter from me. I walked to the meadow where the lamb was slain, but found only a few wisps of wool where the animal had lain. It was Richard Hatcher’s lamb. Doubtless what remained of it had become his dinner.
I was returning to the castle for my own dinner when the sound of shouting and agitated voices reached me across the meadow. Above the distant cacophony I heard my name. What now, I wondered? Life in Bampton was returning to its settled, peaceful ways after Alan the beadle’s death. I wished for no interruption of that tranquility.
I trotted across the meadow and walked rapidly down Mill Street past the castle toward town and the din. As I crossed the bridge over Shill Brook I saw a crowd milling before the blacksmith’s shop, where Church View Street entered Bridge Street. Some in the throng saw me approach and I was immediately hailed and urged to make haste. I did.
The knot of onlookers parted as I approached and in their shadow I saw a man lying in the street in a great pool of blood. One hand twitched at his side, the other was clasped to his neck. Between the fingers clutching his throat blood flowed in a copious stream. I knelt in the dirt and saw the man’s eyes follow me as I examined the wound under his fingers. Something, or someone, had slashed through the great vein. He had only minutes to live unless I could staunch the flow of blood.
“A cloth,” I shouted. “A clean cloth – quickly!”
A housewife in the crowd presented her apron. It was flour-dusted but clean enough. I pried the fellow’s hand from his wound and pressed the folded cloth tight against the gash.
I required my instruments, but could not leave my patient to fetch them. From the corner of my eye I saw a youth who had won a footrace last autumn at Michaelmas. I called to him.
“Run to the castle and fetch my instruments.” The youth gazed at me blankly. “Find Alice, the scullery maid. She knows the box where they are kept. My chamber will be clouded with smoke…pay that no mind. Run! Be off!”
The mob parted and the youth sprinted away toward the castle. I returned my attention to the pale form at my knees. Blood seeped from under the folded apron, but not so profusely as before.
“Who is this?” I asked. “What befell him?”
A dozen voices related the news. I could make no
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