bell jolted me from my wool-gathering and I joined the flow of worshippers making their way to the porch. The stone building was cold, so when Father Thomas concluded his sermon all present were pleased that they would soon be released to return to the sun, now well up above the town rooftops and making the church windows a blaze of color.
The vicars greeted parishioners at the porch as we filed eagerly from the building. Not that all were impatient to be released from their worship, although surely some were of such a mind. After a long winter a pleasant spring day is much welcome and not to be wasted.
As I walked the path from porch to churchyard I noticed Thomas de Bowlegh in conversation with a woman. Her back was to me, but Father Thomas’ features were visible, and creased with concern. His brow was furrowed, and his lips pursed. Then the woman, in great agitation, turned to point to the east and I saw it was Emma, the wife of Henry atte Bridge. Perhaps, I thought, he came home last night in ill humor and beat her to make up for his loss elsewhere. And now she complained to the Bishop of Exeter’s representative of her husband’s cruelty.
I walked on toward the castle and my dinner but had gone but a few paces down Church View Street when I heard my name called. Thomas de Bowlegh had ended his conversation in the churchyard and was now panting after me. “Master Hugh…a word,” the vicar puffed as he approached. “Henry atte Bridge…you know him?”
I nodded.
“Henry has disappeared. His wife came to me this morning after mass.”
“Is he a reliable man?” I asked. I thought I knew the answer to that question, but perhaps others saw the man differently than I.
The vicar hesitated. “No less than others. He’s not run off before, and does his week work for the bishop with no more prodding than most.”
“Ah, yes, the new tithe barn. I saw him at work on it yesterday as I passed.”
I saw a quizzical expression pass briefly across de Bowlegh’s face, so I explained my mission, the reason for it, and what I had learned. I also told him of the attack. I saw the vicar’s jaw grow tight and his lips draw into a thin line as I completed the tale.
“Think you he has fled…to escape judgment for his misdeeds?”
“What does his wife think?” I replied.
“Does she know of his transgression? She did not speak of such. But she wouldn’t, would she. No, she fears some harm has come to him.”
“Did she say why he was out past curfew?”
“He had returned from working on the new barn, then told his wife he was off to seek wood in the forest. ’Tis a right the common folk have on the bishop’s lands, as with Lord Gilbert’s estate, I think.”
I nodded, for I know well the ancient liberties. “And he did not return?” I asked, “even with the dawn?”
“Nay. The woman is anxious that he be found. She fears he has suffered some hurt and lays injured in the forest.”
“You wish me to search Lord Gilbert’s woodlands hereabouts?”
“Aye. He should not have been gathering wood on m’lord’s land, if gathering wood was his business, but such as he might seek where they will, rather than where they ought.”
“Did he tell his wife where he might seek wood?”
“Aye. Said as he’d seen many limbs down in the wood near where the tithe barn is new built.”
“And near where I was assailed last night,” I added.
“You think Henry atte Bridge the man who lay in wait for you?”
“What other man wishes me ill?”
“Perhaps ’twas a thief.”
“Perhaps. But as the miscreant plunged into the wood I heard him say to another, ‘He lives.’”
“Hmmm.” The priest pulled at his chin, an action which reminded me of Lord Gilbert Talbot, who does likewise when puzzled. “Perhaps we should begin our search at the place you were attacked. There may be a trail we might follow. Do you think your blow, or the horse’s kick, might have injured the fellow so he could not continue his
The vicars greeted parishioners at the porch as we filed eagerly from the building. Not that all were impatient to be released from their worship, although surely some were of such a mind. After a long winter a pleasant spring day is much welcome and not to be wasted.
As I walked the path from porch to churchyard I noticed Thomas de Bowlegh in conversation with a woman. Her back was to me, but Father Thomas’ features were visible, and creased with concern. His brow was furrowed, and his lips pursed. Then the woman, in great agitation, turned to point to the east and I saw it was Emma, the wife of Henry atte Bridge. Perhaps, I thought, he came home last night in ill humor and beat her to make up for his loss elsewhere. And now she complained to the Bishop of Exeter’s representative of her husband’s cruelty.
I walked on toward the castle and my dinner but had gone but a few paces down Church View Street when I heard my name called. Thomas de Bowlegh had ended his conversation in the churchyard and was now panting after me. “Master Hugh…a word,” the vicar puffed as he approached. “Henry atte Bridge…you know him?”
I nodded.
“Henry has disappeared. His wife came to me this morning after mass.”
“Is he a reliable man?” I asked. I thought I knew the answer to that question, but perhaps others saw the man differently than I.
The vicar hesitated. “No less than others. He’s not run off before, and does his week work for the bishop with no more prodding than most.”
“Ah, yes, the new tithe barn. I saw him at work on it yesterday as I passed.”
I saw a quizzical expression pass briefly across de Bowlegh’s face, so I explained my mission, the reason for it, and what I had learned. I also told him of the attack. I saw the vicar’s jaw grow tight and his lips draw into a thin line as I completed the tale.
“Think you he has fled…to escape judgment for his misdeeds?”
“What does his wife think?” I replied.
“Does she know of his transgression? She did not speak of such. But she wouldn’t, would she. No, she fears some harm has come to him.”
“Did she say why he was out past curfew?”
“He had returned from working on the new barn, then told his wife he was off to seek wood in the forest. ’Tis a right the common folk have on the bishop’s lands, as with Lord Gilbert’s estate, I think.”
I nodded, for I know well the ancient liberties. “And he did not return?” I asked, “even with the dawn?”
“Nay. The woman is anxious that he be found. She fears he has suffered some hurt and lays injured in the forest.”
“You wish me to search Lord Gilbert’s woodlands hereabouts?”
“Aye. He should not have been gathering wood on m’lord’s land, if gathering wood was his business, but such as he might seek where they will, rather than where they ought.”
“Did he tell his wife where he might seek wood?”
“Aye. Said as he’d seen many limbs down in the wood near where the tithe barn is new built.”
“And near where I was assailed last night,” I added.
“You think Henry atte Bridge the man who lay in wait for you?”
“What other man wishes me ill?”
“Perhaps ’twas a thief.”
“Perhaps. But as the miscreant plunged into the wood I heard him say to another, ‘He lives.’”
“Hmmm.” The priest pulled at his chin, an action which reminded me of Lord Gilbert Talbot, who does likewise when puzzled. “Perhaps we should begin our search at the place you were attacked. There may be a trail we might follow. Do you think your blow, or the horse’s kick, might have injured the fellow so he could not continue his
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