Bruce’s aid he had been driven off. I felt fortunate. The words hissed from the forest but a moment before came back to me. “He lives.” It was clear to me that I was not attacked for my purse. I was intended to die in the mud of the road.
I thought I knew who my assailant was, and why he wished me dead. But to kill a man because of a pair of shoes? Who would do such a thing? Perhaps, I reflected, there is more to this matter than shoes.
Such thoughts occupied my mind as I stretched my aching shoulders, climbed to Bruce’s broad back, and settled myself for the last half-mile to Bampton and the castle. Certainly Henry atte Bridge despised me for interfering in his life. I had demanded his presence and homage at his father’s funeral. I had helped his half-sister escape with what few possessions she could gather from her father’s hut. I had discovered his falsity about his shoes. He could not know this yet, but perhaps suspected it, for he saw me ride north earlier that day.
Wilfred had left the gate open and the portcullis drawn awaiting my return. I gave Bruce over to him with a charge that the horse was to receive an extra measure of oats this night. He assured me that the marshalsea would be so instructed and led the animal to the stables while his assistant swung the doors closed and cranked down the portcullis.
I did not wish to show myself to the castle residents in my soiled state. Dark as it was in the castle yard, Wilfred was unaware of the mud which covered me, but the light of a single candle would make my condition clear.
So I was relieved to gain entrance to the great hall, and my chamber, without being seen. There remained some water in a bucket from my morning ablution. I removed my soiled clothes and mopped my grimy face and arms before donning clean chauces, kirtle and cotehardie. When I felt presentable I made my way to the kitchen and procured for myself another cold supper. This was becoming a habit I had no wish to continue. I fell asleep that night pondering how I might confront Henry atte Bridge. I might have saved myself the worry. Someone else confronted him first.
Chapter 6
S unday dawned bright and clear. There was in the yellow tint of the sun’s slanting beams a promise of warmth before the day was old.
I admit that I find it disagreeable to rise for matins on the Lord’s Day. This is especially so when winter holds a dark curtain over all so early in the morning. But this day glistened with the promise of spring. And I was alive. It was clear to me that two men wished it otherwise. I had Bruce to thank for my life, but God also. If he could be diverted from more important matters to see my life prolonged, I would be ungrateful to ignore an opportunity to thank Him for His trouble.
I left the church after matins to await the mass in the churchyard. Many centuries of burials have left the grounds around the Church of St Beornwald lifted above the paths which lead from the church to the graves and the lych gate in the churchyard wall. In this way the church at Bampton is like that of my home in Little Singleton, and every other churchyard in the kingdom. Should Christ delay his return, these burial hummocks will someday, I think, rise to block the sun from the church windows.
I climbed one of these low mounds and sat, my back to the rising sun, to wait for the bells which would announce the next service. No sound but the soft piping of a bullfinch disturbed my reverie. The bird left his oaken perch at the edge of the churchyard and darted, a small orange and black comet, past the church tower and into the wood to the north of the churchyard. A bullfinch! I hoped this fellow had not many brothers hereabouts, for if so, they would soon be feasting on the buds of Lord Gilbert’s apple trees.
Beyond the wood where the bullfinch vanished I saw other birds. In the high, distant sky four buzzards circled in the calm morning air, black against the blue heavens.
St Beornwald’s
I thought I knew who my assailant was, and why he wished me dead. But to kill a man because of a pair of shoes? Who would do such a thing? Perhaps, I reflected, there is more to this matter than shoes.
Such thoughts occupied my mind as I stretched my aching shoulders, climbed to Bruce’s broad back, and settled myself for the last half-mile to Bampton and the castle. Certainly Henry atte Bridge despised me for interfering in his life. I had demanded his presence and homage at his father’s funeral. I had helped his half-sister escape with what few possessions she could gather from her father’s hut. I had discovered his falsity about his shoes. He could not know this yet, but perhaps suspected it, for he saw me ride north earlier that day.
Wilfred had left the gate open and the portcullis drawn awaiting my return. I gave Bruce over to him with a charge that the horse was to receive an extra measure of oats this night. He assured me that the marshalsea would be so instructed and led the animal to the stables while his assistant swung the doors closed and cranked down the portcullis.
I did not wish to show myself to the castle residents in my soiled state. Dark as it was in the castle yard, Wilfred was unaware of the mud which covered me, but the light of a single candle would make my condition clear.
So I was relieved to gain entrance to the great hall, and my chamber, without being seen. There remained some water in a bucket from my morning ablution. I removed my soiled clothes and mopped my grimy face and arms before donning clean chauces, kirtle and cotehardie. When I felt presentable I made my way to the kitchen and procured for myself another cold supper. This was becoming a habit I had no wish to continue. I fell asleep that night pondering how I might confront Henry atte Bridge. I might have saved myself the worry. Someone else confronted him first.
Chapter 6
S unday dawned bright and clear. There was in the yellow tint of the sun’s slanting beams a promise of warmth before the day was old.
I admit that I find it disagreeable to rise for matins on the Lord’s Day. This is especially so when winter holds a dark curtain over all so early in the morning. But this day glistened with the promise of spring. And I was alive. It was clear to me that two men wished it otherwise. I had Bruce to thank for my life, but God also. If he could be diverted from more important matters to see my life prolonged, I would be ungrateful to ignore an opportunity to thank Him for His trouble.
I left the church after matins to await the mass in the churchyard. Many centuries of burials have left the grounds around the Church of St Beornwald lifted above the paths which lead from the church to the graves and the lych gate in the churchyard wall. In this way the church at Bampton is like that of my home in Little Singleton, and every other churchyard in the kingdom. Should Christ delay his return, these burial hummocks will someday, I think, rise to block the sun from the church windows.
I climbed one of these low mounds and sat, my back to the rising sun, to wait for the bells which would announce the next service. No sound but the soft piping of a bullfinch disturbed my reverie. The bird left his oaken perch at the edge of the churchyard and darted, a small orange and black comet, past the church tower and into the wood to the north of the churchyard. A bullfinch! I hoped this fellow had not many brothers hereabouts, for if so, they would soon be feasting on the buds of Lord Gilbert’s apple trees.
Beyond the wood where the bullfinch vanished I saw other birds. In the high, distant sky four buzzards circled in the calm morning air, black against the blue heavens.
St Beornwald’s
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