A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel (10 page)

I
awoke with grainy eyes as dawn lightened the window of my chamber. I could not sleep longer, but had no wish to leave my bed and plant my feet on the cold flags. I did so anyway. I decided as I lay abed that I would this day visit Emma atte Bridge. My questions might easily be resolved. Surely the woman knew something of her husband’s business. Her response to a few questions might permit me to sleep more soundly.

They had rather the opposite effect. I broke my fast with wheat bread and ale, then walked across Mill Street to the Weald. No morning sun warmed this day. Thick clouds had swept in from the north during the night. I wrapped my cloak tight about me and shivered as if December had returned, without the glow of Christmas to warm my soul. The blossoms newly forming on Lord Gilbert’s apple trees would think better of opening further this day.

No door in the Weald was open to spring air this day. I knocked vigorously a second time before Henry atte Bridge’s widow cracked her door to see who disturbed her morning. Her expression did not speak joy at the discovery.

I invited myself into the dim, smoky interior of the hut. The fire on the hearth was weak and produced little heat, so that there was no draft to draw the fumes up to the gable vents. Three children gazed unblinking at me from a bench, bowls of yesterday’s cold pottage balanced precariously on their laps, their fingers clotted with the coagulated meal.

I introduced myself, though I am sure the woman remembered who I was. It does no harm to remind people from time to time that I serve as bailiff to Lord Gilbert Talbot. Emma pushed the door shut behind me and waited, jaw set, to learn the reason for my visit.

I would gladly have given her a reason, had I known it myself. It would be foolish to say that I chose to visit her this morning because I could not sleep the night before, but that was the truth of it. I decided to ask first about the blue cotehardie in which she had buried her husband.

“’Twas old…an’ could be spared,” she answered. “Henry said as ’twas too worn to be of use any more. He’d not worn it for a time.”

“How long? Since Easter?”

Emma was startled at this question, for she looked up at me abruptly. I saw her brow furrow and guessed that she was uncertain whether or not she should tell the truth. She evidently could discover no reason to lie, so after a moment’s hesitation nodded, “Aye, ’bout then.”

As we spoke I watched over her shoulder while her children went back to their bowls. They paid me no more attention, but returned to their meal with enthusiasm, licking sticky fingers as they shoveled food into their mouths. The oldest finished his breakfast as I watched. He reached into his bowl and drew forth a chunk of meat which he proceeded to stuff into his mouth until his cheeks bulged. He chewed contentedly, and turned his gaze back to me and his mother.

In the spring of the year those tenants and villeins who had a pig to slaughter in the autumn have usually consumed the last morsel of the animal. I was surprised that this hut was yet able to flavor its pottage with meat. Perhaps this was the last of the fletch of bacon Henry atte Bridge had spoken of. Or perhaps it was from the haunch I’d seen roasting on a spit.

“The shoes your husband wore when last I called…he did not buy them in Witney.”

Emma gazed steadily at me, as if assuming she had heard but a portion of what I wished to say and that I would shortly continue. She was correct, but I hoped to build my inquiry on her responses. This was not to be. The woman knew when to be silent. Perhaps living with Henry atte Bridge taught her that skill.

“I traveled there and saw the cobbler. He sold no shoes to a man of Bampton.”

The woman remained silent for a time, but finally spoke. “May be there be two shoemakers in Witney. The town is grown larger now than Bampton…so I hear.”

“No. Larger it may be, but it supports but one cobbler. Shall I tell you where your husband found his shoes, or would you tell me?”

“They was gone when the coroner’s men brought ’im to me. Who so struck ’im down made off with ’em…one o’ Lord Gilbert’s men, an’ likely. It be your work to find ’em an’ return ’em t’me.”

Emma spoke this accusation with some heat. Either she knew not where her husband came by his shoes, or she was a skilled dissembler.

“The shoes have been returned to their rightful owner,” I replied.

“Nay! No man brought Henry’s shoes to me.”

“He was not the rightful owner, nor are you. Do you tell me how he came by them, or must I tell you?”

“Dunno what you be talkin’ of. My man is dead an’ murdered an’ had ’is shoes stole an’ you come to me talkin’ foolishness.”

The woman’s voice had increased in both pitch and volume, so that her children looked up from their bowls – which were now near empty anyway – with large and frightened eyes. I think they had heard such conversations before, and knew a fight might follow.

“Very well,” I shrugged. “The shoes your husband wore were first on the feet of Alan the beadle. Your husband took them from him.”

Emma knew well the truth of my assertion. Her mouth opened twice, as if she was about to speak denial, but closed again, like a fish gulping water in Shill Brook.

“I have returned them to the beadle’s wife.”

“’Tain’t right. They was Henry’s shoes,” Emma muttered. But the heat was gone from her voice. She was giving up the fight. I pressed for final victory and withdrew my purse from under my cloak. The woman watched with curiosity as I withdrew from it the blue thread found in Alan’s hair.

“Does the color strike you? Have you seen such before?” I asked.

“Nay…’tis blue…what of it?”

“This fragment was found in Alan’s scalp, when his body was found.”

Next I withdrew the threads I had pulled from the cotehardie now buried with her husband. “These came from the garment you buried Henry in yesterday.” I held the threads before her eyes. Even dark as it was in the hut, the similarities were clear.

“Henry wouldn’t kill nobody for ’is shoes,” she protested.

“Perhaps not. But he had no objection to taking them from the dead.”

The woman looked again at the threads, her brow furrowed, as if considering whether or not she was in a fight worth waging. Her eyes fell to the dirt at her feet. That was her answer.

“What was your husband doing on the road to St Andrew’s Chapel? His work on the bishop’s new barn would not take him that way.”

Emma curled bare toes into the packed earth of the floor of her hut, and finally replied.

“My Henry was a Christian man. Went to confession reg’lar…not like as them who confess but once a year for Lent.”

“He went to the priest at St Andrew’s Chapel to confess? Not to the vicars at St Beornwald’s Church?”

“Nay…would only seek absolution from Father John, none other.”

“Why so?”

The woman was silent again for a time, then replied, “Said as ’ow John Kellet was not so harsh in penance as was them of St Beornwald’s.”

I had heard Thomas de Bowlegh speak of penance and the judgment a priest must use in dispensing it. If the penance was too harsh, the sinner might forgo its completion and doom his soul to hell. But if the penance be too light, it may not absolve the sin, and so condemn the man to thousands more years in purgatory. Unless, of course, the sinner was a gentleman and could endow a chapel or chantry. Then a lighter penance might be called for. But for Henry atte Bridge such a consideration would not apply. He would earn his way out of purgatory by deeds, not money, for of that he had none.

“A question asked in confession,” I replied, “is, have you found anything and kept it? I wonder how your husband made answer?”

Emma considered my remark rhetorical. She made no reply. Her arguments were defeated, but there was yet some fire in her eye. I spoke next a concern which had troubled me since I rose that morning and set off to visit the Weald.

“You are not to vex the beadle’s widow. She is Lord Gilbert’s tenant and so comes under my bailiwick. She dwells on Catte Street, as you may know. I think you will have little business on that lane, so I would not like to discover that you have been seen there.”

I tried to impart my most stern expression, but the woman scoffed and turned to her children. A bailiff should be known for potential, if not real, severity (as well as avarice, which is their most widely remarked trait). I had not yet developed that reputation. I am uncertain whether this made my office more or less tedious. A bailiff may succeed in his work if he is feared, or perhaps if he be admired. I noticed neither dread nor veneration from those I governed for Lord Gilbert Talbot. I thought as I left Emma and her hut in the Weald that my tenancy in the office of bailiff might not be long, and that soon I would again be only Master Hugh, surgeon.

A cold, misty rain began to fall as I approached the castle. John Holcutt would see little work done this day. In the meadow west of the castle Lord Gilbert’s cattle bunched together as if the compact herd might drive off the chill and wet. As I passed under the portcullis Wilfred the porter saw me pass his post and called after me.

“Master Hugh! Father Thomas’ clerk was here but a short time ago. The vicar wishes for you to attend him…when you have leisure.”

I thanked the porter for this announcement and turned from the gatehouse to make my way to the town. The truth was, I had much leisure on such a day, although it was also true I would prefer to spend it in my chamber. I might call for a fire to be laid in my hearth. Perhaps, with good fortune, the comely Alice might be sent to perform the task.

I thought on that agreeable scene while I crossed the bridge over Shill Brook – I did not pause to examine the current this day – and into the town. The vicarage, that occupied by Thomas de Bowlegh, was north of St Beornwald’s Church on Laundell’s Lane, so I wrapped my cloak snug about me to ward off the wet and chill and hurried up Church View. I saw no other soul about. Such a day would be expected and considered mild in February. But April is not to deal so with men, and we take such weather as a kind of betrayal. Smoke drifted heavily in the cold mist from chimneys and gable vents. The burghers and townsmen of Bampton had no wish to leave their firesides this day. Nor did I.

After much thumping on the vicarage door that heavy oaken portal finally opened. The vicar’s hearing grew weaker each year. Soon, I think, he must give up hearing confession, or, in order to be heard the penitents will need to shout so that the whole town will know of their misdeeds.

“Ah…Master Hugh. I am sorry to bring you out on such a day, but we – Father Simon and Father Ralph and I – are in agreement that the business of Henry atte Bridge must be speedily resolved.”

I tried to make my face blank while the vicar spoke. I knew where this statement might lead and had no wish to go there. Father Thomas surely suspected this, and was prepared.

A great fire burned on the vicarage hearth. He drew me to it and bid me be seated on a bench placed close before the blaze.

“John!” the vicar thundered through an open doorway to a servant. “Bring wine.”

Wine, not ale. Surely the vicars of the Church of St Beornwald wished something important of me. Thomas spoke of the intemperate weather while the servant filled our cups with malmsey, but when the man departed – to listen behind the door, I’m sure – he came readily to the point.

“The bishop of Exeter has no bailiff for his lands in Bampton…as you know.”

I did.

“Edwin Crank serves as reeve, and serves well, but the bishop expects us, the vicars, to do the work of bailiff. As there be three attached to one church [An unusual practice. I was much surprised to learn of it when I first came to serve Lord Gilbert.], he assumes we will find time among us to deal with manor business.”

I made no reply. The vicar had asked no question of me yet, and I was not eager to discover what was desired of me. Rather, I knew what was wanted, but had no wish to hear my suspicion confirmed or ease the vicar’s task.

Father Thomas was silent, sipping his wine and watching me over the rim of his cup. He hoped, I think, for my sympathy for his overworked state. I savored the wine and held my tongue. I did not intend to make this easy for him. I regretted this attitude later. It is not seemly for a Christian man to interpose impediments to those who seek his aid.

“There is some business,” he continued, “for which we three are unsuited.” Bowlegh peered at me over his cup, searching for agreement. I sipped my wine and offered none.

“The murder of Henry atte Bridge…one or more of us must forsake his duties to God and the Church of St Beornwald to seek a killer. This will put great burdens on the other and the clerks to maintain church offices, do you not agree?”

“I think seeking a murderer might be considered by God as duty to him,” I replied.

“Ah…yes…surely. But all men have duties to God, and those obligations differ according to our station and competence.”

Father Thomas had laid his snare well. I could not disagree.

“You have displayed much competence,” he continued, “in discovering miscreants. The matter of the bones found in Lord Gilbert’s cesspit, and the disappearance of Sir Robert Mallory and his squire. You found the truth of that business.”

“After I nearly caused an innocent man to hang from the gibbet at Oxford Castle,” I reminded him.

“But you corrected the error and discovered the truth. We – Father Simon and Father Ralph and I – wish your aid in this matter of Henry atte Bridge.”

The vicar continued quickly, before I had time to object. “We thought to send a clerk to Lord Gilbert at Pembroke, seeking his permission for you to employ your time in this matter, but wished to sound you out first.”

So the vicars were prepared to go over my head, and Father Thomas was tactfully advising me so.

“It may be that the killer is one of Lord Gilbert’s men,” Father Thomas continued, “in which case the investigation would be your bailiwick. As Lord Gilbert’s lands hereabouts are more extensive than the bishop’s properties, and his villeins and tenants more numerous, it seems likely to us that this may be so. Do you not agree?”