The Unquiet Bones by Mel Starr Page A

better than me. I’ll have my father’s yardland, an’ the Earl’s reeve has promised another soon’s I can pay the fine an’ the lease.”
    “What did she reply to that?”
    “Laughed at me. Said as how some men had many yardlands.”
    “So you thought by that she meant a gentleman?”
    “Not just then. I said as how I knew no one who had more than three yardlands. A man can’t work more’n that. She said as how some men needn’t work their own lands; have others do it for ’em.”
    “That’s when you decided she spoke of a gentleman?”
    “Aye. I told her she was a fool.” He looked away, across the unplowed portion of the field, and watched a flight of geese as it appeared over the bare-limbed oaks of the forest beyond. “That were a mistake,” he sighed.
    “How so?”
    “Margaret didn’t like to be told there was aught she couldn’t do.”
    “Is that when the shouting began?”
    “Shouting?” he questioned, brows furrowed like the field behind him.
    “You were heard across the river.”
    He smiled to himself once again. “Margaret could make herself heard some distance when she wished it.”
    “When did you last see Margaret?”
    “That were t’last time. She yelled somethin’ ’bout a gentleman always keeps his promise, an’ went off up t’riverbank to the smithy.”
    “You didn’t follow?”
    “Nay. I knew Margaret well enough to know I’d best be on my way. She’d cool in a few days an’ see more clearly. So I did think.”
    “But she disappeared before you saw her again?”
    “Aye. Near two months.”
    “She was last seen the same day you took a cart of oats to Lord Gilbert Talbot, in Bampton.”
    “Aye. Returned next day. Found her father at t’door.”
    “’At’s right,” the father joined in. He had been standing silent beside the oxen during my conversation with his son. “Alard thought as how she’d run off w’Tom, ’specially as Tom wasn’t about. I tried to tell ’im where Tom’d gone.”
    “You heard nothing of her after?”
    “Not ’til Alard came through t’village on his way to Bampton t’bring her home. He told us you’d found her murdered.”
    “Yes. Her state allows no other conclusion.”
    “What state was that, then?” Tom asked through pursed lips.
    I told him only that her body had been found and gave evidence of murder. The youth looked down at his feet again – and large specimens they were, too.
    “Had Margaret spoken to you of any enemies? Did she fear anyone?”
    “Nay. She had disagreements from time to time. No enemies. None in Bampton, anyway.”
    “You had an argument with her and later you went to Bampton.”
    Tom’s jaw dropped. I could see that the thought that he might be suspected in Margaret’s death had never occurred to him. Either that, or he was shocked and frightened that his guilt had been found out. He protested innocence, and his father vouched for his truthfulness. The youth spoke of his reasons for desiring Margaret for a wife, among which were her health, her likely fecundity, her reputation for hard work won at her father’s forge, and even her appearance. He did not mention love, but such emotion is trivial compared to the important issues of survival, work, and heirs.
    I left the two men staring at my back as I climbed the hill back to town and Bruce. Thomas Shilton seemed to me the most likely suspect in this unhappy death, yet he seemed incapable of such a deed, and the fondness he felt for Margaret was revealed in his voice, his manner, and the empty expression in his eyes.
    I do not know how to read a face or posture. The things hidden behind a man’s eyes remain a mystery to me. I have been trained to deal with visible wounds, not the invisible.
    The wind had risen during the day, and now propelled thick gray clouds from the northern horizon. I wrapped my cloak about me as the wind blew Bruce and me toward home. Bare trees swayed in the gale, dancers rooted to one place, in graceful motion