Death riddle, p.7
Death Riddle, page 7
An ox cart was standing near one of the two wooden towers that guarded the gate and its access to the bridge that spanned the Medway River. On the seat at the front of the cart were two men, one they recognized as Stephen, Bishop Gundulf’s steward, and the other a stocky individual of middling years, holding a goad in his hand to drive the two oxen that would pull the vehicle.
As Estrid and her companions approached, the smell of pig drifted towards them, emanating from the man seated alongside Stephen. She was acquainted with the steward, an experienced overseer who had come from Normandy to take up his post the year before following the unfortunate death of the previous incumbent, for he came to collect the fee, on the bishop’s behalf, on the property where she had her workshop. A man of middling height and about forty years of age, he was not ill-favoured, with a neatly trimmed head of black hair, clean-shaven at the nape as most Normans were, and a penetrating pair of dark brown eyes. From his upright stance, she thought it probable he had once been a soldier.
He greeted her in a taciturn manner, in fluent English with a heavy Norman French accent, and also Wulfstan, who he knew from rendering payment for repairs to the tools of the cathedral’s lay brothers. Judith and Cenred he ignored, but he gestured to the man beside him and said briefly that he was a swineherd brought from another of the church properties to take care of Tosti’s farm until a permanent replacement could be found.
As they all clambered into the back of the wagon, and the gateward, recognizing Stephen, allowed them to exit the town, Estrid took closer stock of the steward. He was a man of stern demeanour that did not invite familiarity but that could be due to the fact that his job carried great responsibility. The church properties in the area were extensive, and constituted at least a third of all the buildings and land in and around Rochester, the rest being held by Odo as the Earl of Kent. All of these Stephen had to oversee, checking the property was kept in good order by tenants and collecting fees that were due. She wondered if he had a wife and family left behind in Normandy, and whether, if he did, he would bring them to live in England. There were few Norman women in the land except for the wives and daughters of high-born lords who had been given English estates after the conquest, and the female attendants that waited upon them, and none at all in Rochester. She had heard that Norman women had far less rights than English females had once possessed in their own society, and were treated more as chattels than helpmates. She had no difficulty believing this gossip; arrogance was one of the traits possessed in abundance by Norman men.
Stephen said nothing on the journey across the bridge and out into the countryside. The village where Tosti had his farm was about a mile distant from the riverbank. It was of middling size, containing perhaps two score adults and their children. Despite having been under Norman rule for over twenty years, the village still had the English appearance so familiar to Estrid—a stockade of wooden palings around a moderately large hall for communal gatherings, a scattering of wooden framed cots with sloping thatched roofs, each with a fenced patch of ground in the front where chickens, geese and other small animals were kept and fed, a large barn for shared storage of grain, a byre for the oxen that ploughed the fields, and a small forge. In the middle was a stretch of common ground where sheep and cattle could be tethered to graze, and a watering trough. There was also a stone walled oven used by all of the villagers for baking bread, and a wooden church where the itinerant priest that travelled around the local villages came to hold mass. On the far side of the common ground was an alehaus with a bunch of greenery hung outside the door to indicate a new batch of ale had been brewed by the village alewife. Near the alehaus was a well.
To the north stretched arable fields planted with oat and barley, the seeding rotated so that each section lay fallow for a year, with strips of each field being apportioned out among the villagers. Beyond the grain fields lay a hayfield, abutted by dense woodland that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Men were out working in the fields, weeding crops which had been sown in the spring and now growing vigorously in the strong sunshine. The women of the village were tending to various tasks—a couple sitting outside with distaff and spindle spinning woollen yarn from the fleeces of sheep sheared earlier in the year; others were tending the vegetable gardens behind each cot and a few were washing clothes in wooden vats with soap made from a mixture of tallow and ashes, and hanging them on poles to dry. Children were everywhere, the toddlers playing at their mother’s feet while the women worked, the older ones helping with tasks such as weeding the vegetable gardens or chasing birds away from the fields by hurling stones at them with a sling. It seemed a scene of contentment and prosperity but Estrid, recalling the days of her youth, knew it was not.
Nowhere in evidence was the vitality she remembered as being prevalent in her father's burh, the laughter and merriment of good times, the companionship of shared grief in the bad. Her people’s subjugation by the Normans had taken that essence away from them, as it had the socials distinctions they had once shared. Some were more prosperous than others, but the former status of each had, for most of them, disappeared, and apart from their common heritage, they had nothing to define themselves except a common domination by the Normans. But they must live and so they must work, no longer a freeborn people, and little better than slaves.
This attitude became apparent as the oxcart approached. The villagers looked up and saw Stephen and bent back to their tasks. In him was embodied the symbol of Norman oppression; the hated iron heel that had ground their lives into meaningless dust.
The steward paid none of them any attention, just stared aloofly in front of him as they went up a dusty track to the far edge of the common ground where Tosti’s pig farm was located. As they neared the farm the odour of pig drifted to them on the breeze. The holding was a fair size and comprised a thatched cot of ample proportions, a large pen in which were about twenty pigs of varying sizes from recently born piglets up to adult sows, and a separate, smaller pen in which was a boar of huge proportions and endowed with a pair of magnificent tusks. There was also another well, alongside which was a barn where the mast collected in autumn to feed the pigs was stored. On one side of the barn a large beam embedded with hooks protruded for hanging up carcasses of newly slaughtered pigs so they could be gutted. Near to this was an open-fronted shed with a stone hearth. Overtop was a spit for roasting meat, alongside which were stacked two or three large cauldrons and some wooden barrels, so it would appear that Tosti not only sold fresh pig carcasses, but must also have cooked some of his pig meat for hams or to preserve in brine. It was probable that some of this equipment was also used by the villagers to preserve their own meat, perhaps in trade for a chicken, goose, or some vegetables, which would have earned Tosti extra income.
Beside the larger pig pen a small boy was dumping buckets of swill into a trough. When he saw the visitors approaching, he put down his pail and stood uncertainly, seemingly poised on the edge of flight. Stephen and the swineherd—who had not uttered one word during the whole journey—descended from the oxcart and went over to the pen, and the steward, after speaking a few words to the boy, gave him a coin from the scrip on his belt and waved his hand in dismissal. As the boy took to his heels, the swineherd poked a finger in the swill, scooping up a portion and tasting it, then climbed into the pen and examined the pigs, lifting up some of the smaller ones to examine their genitals and bellies, and prodding the sows into opening their mouths to examine their teeth. Finally he turned to Stephen and gave a nod, and the steward walked back to the oxcart.
“It would seem that the boy paid to care for Tosti’s pigs while he was absent has done so with competence. All of the beasts appear in good fettle, which Bishop Gundulf will be pleased to hear.”
Bidding Estrid alight so she could search Tosti’s home, he reached up his hand to give her assistance in clambering down. As he did so, she was conscious that all of the villagers, although surreptitiously, were watching this familiarity with disapproval. She hoped this would not be held against her when it came time to question the girl Tosti had bedded, and that she be thought one of those English women who were friendly with the Normans.
Tosti’s home was neat and tidy, as had been the yard outside, even the sties where the pigs were kept. There was not much furniture inside his cot—a narrow pallet with a straw filled mattress, a rough but sturdy table with two stools alongside, and a coffer made of oak in one corner, all ranged around a stone grate in the middle of the dirt floor. On the walls were shelves laid with a couple of pottery bowls and a pair of spoons made of bone, a wooden beaker, a few hooks, a small sharp knife, some tallow candles and a bundle of wooden tally sticks tied loosely together with twine. There was only one small casement, which was open, allowing a modicum of light to enter. A ladder in a corner led up to a loft above the one room that comprised the ground floor, and beside it were a pair of stout leather boots with mud clinging to them that Tosti must have worn while he tended his herd. Several recently cured hams hung from the ceiling, along with some pigs’ bladders full of lard.
Estrid, Wulfstan and Cenred followed the steward inside while Judith waited at the door. Cenred walked over to the shelves and, after glancing along them, picked up the beaker and ran his finger around the rim sadly. Tosti would never drink from it again. Then he took down the tally sticks, pieces of wood that had been notched by Tosti to record the disposal of his swine, and riffled through them. All had carved symbols—Tosti’s mark of Tiw alongside other ones he did not recognise—on the tops to identify himself and the other person involved in the transaction, and had been grooved down the middle so the stick could be easily split once delivery was completed, each party retaining one half. All had already been riven, the edges on one side rough and splintered.
Cenred laid them down and was reaching for the knife when Stephen came up behind him and pushed his hand away.
“There are too many of us in here for comfort,” he said shortly. “Go outside and wait with the girl.”
His face red with humiliation, Cenred did as he was bid, and Stephen walked over to the corner where the oak chest stood. Estrid felt a flash of resentment on behalf of the young healer. Even if the steward found the presence of herself and her companions irritating, he had no need to take his vexation out on Cenred.
After a few moments silence, he spoke to Estrid. “Gundulf has ordered me to collect anything of value and take it back to the cathedral for safekeeping.” His tone was now calm, and he seemed recovered from his annoyance. “He does not know of any remaining relatives that Tosti may have had, but will keep any such items for a time to see in anyone claims them. If not, he will forward them to Winchester for inclusion in the royal treasury.”
“Could Tosti’s family not be traced through the great survey that was made throughout the kingdom of all the people and the lands they hold?” Estrid asked. This compilation of information, which the old duke—none of the older generation of the English could ever bring themselves to refer to him as king—instigated before his death, had been a tremendous undertaking, listing every possession in his new realm, along with the names of those who held them, so he could keep track of taxes due to the royal treasury. Although the majority of English viewed this survey as yet another instance of Norman greed, Estrid thought it might be useful in this instance.
Stephen shook his head. “Tosti resided in London before he came here and the survey does not cover that city, so any kindred he or his uncle had living there would not be included.”
Bending to examine the chest, he found it was locked, and used one of the heavy hooks that lay on a shelf to pry it open. Estrid came to stand beside him as he inspected the contents. On top was clothing—a spare tunic, a loose smock, an extra pair of hose and some neatly rolled up garters. Removing these items, the steward then pulled out a carefully wrapped package of rough linen and a small leather sack. The sack clinked as he hefted it, and contained a good quantity of silver pennies.
“It would appear there are at least three pounds here,” he said, as he upended the sack and let a stream of coins flow into his hand. “He must have done well in selling his pig meat.”
The package, when the cover was removed, proved to contain two arm rings of silver, each one decorated with a pattern of whorls.
“Pretty pieces,” Stephen said, hefting them in his hand, “and quite valuable to be in the possession of a pig farmer. It would appear that Tosti was far more prosperous than anyone imagined.”
“Perhaps they were part of his inheritance from his uncle,” Estrid said stiffly, angry at the steward’s superciliousness and remembrance of her father's generosity to the men that served him. “It may be that the arm rings were passed down to him from the days when many an Englishman, even a swineherd, was amply rewarded for good service.”
Stephen went still and she felt Wulfstan, standing beside her, tense his muscles as they waited for the steward’s reply. But apart from flashing her a look of mocking amusement, he said nothing, merely tucked the arm rings in his scrip and rose from his kneeling position to go and inspect the items on the shelf.
Estrid, still fuming, walked over to the side of the room where the pallet lay, irritated with herself as well as the steward. She was here to try and find something that would help her son, not engage in argument with the bishop’s representative. Bending down she threw back the old cloak covering the bed, and felt around the mattress. She did not know what she was looking for, and felt Wulfstan come up beside her.
“Is there anything hidden there?” he asked gruffly and she knew that his own ire at Stephen had been aroused.
“Not that I can see. But I still have hopes we may find something to tell us more about Tosti and how he practiced the deception of which he boasted. Perhaps you could look along the walls to see if there is a niche that could be used as a hiding place, and along the floor to see if there is any sign something might be buried underground. ”
As the blacksmith moved off, Estrid felt downhearted, for she knew that her expectation of finding something in Tosti’s house to help prove Godric’s innocence was a very slim one. There would be no written record, for very few of the common people could read or write, except for the clergy, and so she feared the search would prove futile. She went over to the ladder that led to the loft and ascended it. The opening at the top revealed little; in the dim light she could see that the floor was laid with straw and there were a few jars that, by their weight and the sloshing sound they made when she picked one up, appeared to contain pickled confits of pig meat.
She turned to go and then saw a gleam of red among a pile of yokes, the Y-shaped sticks that were fastened to pigs’ necks to stop them going through fences. Bending, she picked the object up, and found it was a chess piece. Although she was not familiar with the rules of the game, she had once seen a set when, as a young girl, a visitor from Norway had brought one as a gift for her father. She had watched entranced as a chequered board had been laid with the pieces and her father and his guest had played. Early the next morning, while everyone was still sleeping, she had crept into the hall to have a closer look at the chessmen, which had been left standing on the board. She had marvelled at the wondrously carved pieces, not daring to touch them but looking only at the back row of figures—the two kings and their ladies, the bishops with their croziers, the knights mounted on horses and wielding lances, and the warders at the ends standing guard over the fortress where the monarchs lived. In front of these august figures had been a line of geometric figures in the shape of obelisks, called pawns, representing the foot soldiers that made up the bulk of an army. All of the pieces had been made from walrus tusks, one half of the counters painted a brilliant red.
The one she now held in her hand was a pawn, of a similar shape to the ones that had been included in the set given to her father, rounded on top and with a tiny face cleverly carved on one side. On the bottom was a base of silver, which moved slightly as she turned it in her hand. She recalled how Judith had told her of the two pawns her father had made for Tosti, and that he had taken them to a silversmith in the town to fashion bases of silver for them, so this piece might be one of that pair, or another pawn from the set. But what was it doing here, apart from the rest? The bases were costly; all of the pieces should have been kept with the money and the arm rings in the coffer downstairs. She made a hasty search along the floor, but there was no trace of the other chessmen or any semblance of a piece of wood that might have been used as a board on which to play. Earlier, before Stephen had made his callous remark, she would have handed the pawn over to him to be included with the items to be given into Gundulf’s safekeeping, but now, resentful and angry, she slipped it into the flap of material she had sewn inside her gown to form a pocket, deciding not to tell him of her find. Since the silver on the base of the piece was valuable, she would ensure it was eventually given to the bishop, but not yet, not until she had an opportunity to think upon the oddity of the pawn being in the loft.
Just then, she heard footsteps on the ladder and Stephen appeared.
“Did you find anything of interest?” he asked.
“Only those jars of confits,” she lied blandly, pointing to where they were lined up on the floor. “If the bishop chooses, they might be useful to give as alms, along with the hams and bladders of lard that are hanging from the rafters downstairs.”
He nodded. “A useful suggestion, maistresse. I shall have the swineherd load them onto the cart.”
She left him poking about among the yokes and went back down to the lower floor.
