A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel (13 page)

A close inspection showed several places where the stems of the stinging vegetation were broken, the new leaves on these stalks wilting toward the ground. I pushed my stick under some of these and lifted the broken canes to the late afternoon light. On one of these stalks I saw a wisp of black. I flailed away with the stick until the stem I sought broke free of the soil and I could pull it to me.

At first I could not determine what it was I saw fixed to the bramble thorn. But when I drew it close I found myself inspecting a tuft of black wool. Henry atte Bridge, when he was found, wore brown and grey. No black. I had found, I was sure, some remnant of his killer. But perhaps not. There was a man in the wood that evening when Henry attacked me. He called out to him. Did this bit of wool come from that man; a friend and cohort perhaps? Or did another run headlong through these nettles and brambles and leave this mark of his passing? Were there two men in the wood that night, or three?

Before I left the wood I set myself another task. The new leaves of the nettle are a pleasing addition to a soup or stew. I plucked from the fringe of the patch enough to fill my pouch. The castle cook, I knew, would appreciate the gift.

After supper I retired to my chamber to ponder three scraps of wool; two of blue and one of black. I knew the origin of the blue fragments. Black wool is most often found draping priests and clerks and those who take holy orders. Why would such a one leave part of his robe stuck to a thorn in the forest? The color of a man’s garb has little to do with where he may be found. A man may stumble into a patch of nettles no matter what he wears. So had I a clue to the death of Henry atte Bridge or not? I could not tell. All I knew of a certainty was that I had found three woolen fragments. If they spoke, they whispered so softly I could not hear their message.

W
alking the parapet of Bampton Castle became a common evening pastime. The exercise settled my mind for rest. And as I walked I might puzzle out a solution to the mystery of Henry atte Bridge’s death, although, truth be told, compassing a pile of stone brought me no nearer an explanation of that business. I was but going round in circles, mentally and physically. If walking was to direct me to a murderer, I would need to choose a path outside the castle walls.

I questioned Thomas atte Bridge. The man could offer no reason for his brother’s death. Or would offer no reason, if he could. The man seemed resentful of his dead brother. A glance about at Thomas’ hovel while we spoke explained that sentiment. Why two brothers of similar circumstance should live so differently did not then occur to me.

I attended mass on Sunday no closer to discovering a killer than when Thomas de Bowlegh assigned me the task. I did not wish to explain my failures to the vicar, so hastened from the church when Father Thomas had recited the final prayers and Simon Osbern pronounced the blessing.

I was too slow. Thomas de Bowlegh hailed me from the porch as I walked through the lych gate. I had hoped to leave the churchyard unseen in the press of the retiring congregation.

“What news, Master Hugh?” the vicar panted as he hastened across the churchyard. I told him of the wisp of black wool I’d found in the nettles and watched his lip curl as I did. I wondered at this.

As I completed the tale Simon Osbern appeared at the porch, watching his departing congregation and basking in the spring sun. Father Thomas saw him there and called him to us.

“Simon…your cook flavored his soup with nettle leaves Monday when we supped together, did he not?”

“Aye, he did so.”

“Whereaway did he find them?”

“Oh, I sent him to the wood where we found poor Henry atte Bridge. There is a patch there, growing up through blackberry brambles. I saw it when we searched last week and thought then ’twould be worth gathering a sack full of the leaves for the table.”

“What does your cook wear?” Father Thomas then asked – a question which was surely not expected and brought a look of surprise to Simon Osbern’s rotund face.

“Why…an old robe of mine, cut down as a surcoat.”

“Black, is it not?”

“Aye. Why do you ask this?”

Father Thomas turned to me. He expected me to provide the explanation to Father Simon, so I did.

“I found a tuft of black wool caught on thorns in the wood you spoke of. And the nettle stems were somewhat broken and disordered. I thought it was a thing which might lead to a killer, but I see now ’twas but preparation for your dinner.”

“There is no other progress to report?” Father Simon frowned.

“None, I fear. Wait…there is the arrow.”

“Arrow?” the vicars chorused.

“Nothing to do with the crime, I think. I found a new-broken arrow in the wood last week, near where Henry’s body lay. Some poacher escaped the verderer’s watch and took a deer, is my guess.”

“So near the town?” Father Simon asked skeptically.

“What better place?” Father Thomas replied. “The verderer would not expect a poacher in such a wood.”

“And I can find no better explanation,” I agreed. “An arrow plays no part in this business, and I can discover no other reason for one to be found lying broken on the forest floor.”

The discovery of that would come sooner than I might have guessed.

Father Ralph sauntered up as I took leave of the vicars. I saw them standing by the lych gate, deep in conversation, as I turned from the churchyard to make my way down Church View Street. Father Simon glanced up in my direction as I turned the corner, met my eyes, then turned again to his companions. I was too far from them to hear their conversation but I suspect my failure to find a killer was significant in their discussion.

The castle cook provided a dinner worth remembering that day. The parsley bread was filled with currants, there was duck with milk and honey, pork in spiced syrup, and a cherry pottage made from the last of the cherries dried after the harvest last year. I lingered over the meal and so was nearly late for archery practice.

There were fewer competitors this day than the week earlier. The novelty of renewed shooting wore off quickly, I think, and as the Treaty of Bretigny had brought war with France to an end – temporarily, I am sure – many saw no need to perfect a skill which might go unused.

The archers who needed practice least were most numerous this day. They enjoyed showing off their skill and besting others equally talented. Those who performed poorly the previous Sunday, and were most in need of drill, were less likely to appear this day. I understood. No one likes to be seen as incompetent before wives, children and neighbors.

A tenant of the Bishop of Exeter appeared this day, alert and eager for competition. He was a large, strong fellow, with forearms as large as my bicep. Strictly speaking he should not have been allowed to participate; the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church should have scheduled their own contest. But I saw Lord Gilbert’s men welcome the fellow warmly, so I ignored his imposition and allowed him to participate. And, indeed, he drank little of Lord Gilbert’s ale, contenting himself with the flight of his arrows.

This beefy tenant of the bishop’s was, I learned, named Andrew. The bow he strung was longer than any other at the mark by half a forearm, and thicker as well. Many men could not have drawn it, and few could hold it on target without quaking from the strain. I watched as several tried.

Practice began this day with the mark at 100 paces from the butts. Most arrows rose from the mark, then curved gently down to the targets, but not Andrew’s missiles. His arrows, loosed from that great bow, hardly lifted above the height of a man’s head before slamming into the butt with a resounding thwack.

Andrew’s arrows struck the target with such force that they were difficult to dislodge from the wooden butts. It was after the second volley that Andrew, attempting to draw an arrow, snapped the shaft while wrenching it from the target. He threw the broken arrow aside with a muttered curse, then returned to the business of withdrawing the point from the butt. The arrow was ruined, but the iron arrowhead could be reused, fitted to a new shaft.

I saw then how it might have been with Henry atte Bridge. An iron arrowhead might leave a wound similar to that of a slender dagger. And if the shaft broke off inside the wound the result might seem to be the work of a blade rather than an arrow. The iron arrowhead might remain, invisible, in Henry’s back, while the broken shaft lay on the forest floor to be discovered.

But how to determine if this befell Henry atte Bridge? His grave would need to be opened, the injury inspected. I berated myself and Hubert Shillside and the coroner’s jury for sloppy work. I have learned from this; what seems to be must be shown to be. A supposition, while usually accurate, is not always so, and must be proved before acceptance.

Uprooting a man from his rest in the churchyard is not a thing approved by most, for they expect to go there themselves eventually and prefer their slumber be undisturbed. I wished to exhume Henry quietly, inspect the wound in his back, and rebury him as quickly as might be. The fewer who knew of this, the better. If my intentions were known before I put spade to earth there might be those who would prevent me. Emma might see objection as a duty to her husband’s memory.

The more who knew of my plan, the more likely it was that some would object. At first I thought to approach the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church with my request.

The churchyard was their bailiwick, and Lord Gilbert’s lands were mine. But there would be three then who knew of my intention. None could be sure that the secret would be preserved. And what if one of the three forbid the excavation as sacrilege? Better to proceed without permission and on my own. If the exhumation provided no new information no one need know of it. If I discovered the point of an arrow embedded in Henry atte Bridge’s broad back, the find and my insight in seeking it would go far to forgive any insult to the dead, to the churchyard, to the vicars.

But could I dig up Henry atte Bridge without aid? The soil of his grave was yet soft and would be easy to remove. The grave itself would be easy to find, even in the dark, when I proposed to do the work. I resolved to invite the assistance of John Prudhomme, the new beadle. If I was discovered digging in the churchyard it would be John most likely to detect my midnight labor. Better he know of my intentions than stumble upon me, spade in hand, as he made his rounds after curfew. And another shovel at the work would speed the deed.

The new beadle was one of those who stood at the mark, bow in hand, as this scheme tumbled through my mind. Prudhomme was not a winner this day, nor had he ever taken a silver penny for his skill. Yet his arrows struck the target with regular accuracy, and he made the winners struggle for their prize. Perhaps one Sunday his skill might combine with luck and he would win. But not this day.

The ale was gone, the pennies awarded, and the sun resting on the upper branches of the west forest. I watched from the gatehouse as grooms carried the butts to the storehouse and participants and spectators drifted off to Mill Street and their homes. John Prudhomme and his wife and three children walked among them. I followed the throng, at a leisurely pace, then waited at the bridge until the streets were empty.

Shadows were long and only treetops glowed with a golden light when I approached the beadle’s house. I heard children’s voices within, and laughter. This family had enjoyed their day together and were now preparing with easy hearts for the night and slumber. I wonder if ever I might have such an experience? The thought so arrested my mind that I hesitated before the house, unwilling to intrude upon the scene.

Laughter ended abruptly with my first knock upon the beadle’s door. A late caller at any house is unlikely to bring good news. All the more so at the house of the beadle. John opened the door expecting, I think, some trouble, although certainly not the trouble he got.

I invited John to walk with me, an invitation he might have refused from another, but not Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. I wished to be out of earshot of all others, even his family, when I explained what I needed of him this night.

The beadle’s jaw fell when I explained that which I intended to do, and the part he was to play. But after I gave him the reason, and told him my suspicion, he agreed reluctantly to the role I asked of him. Most men like to see the resolution of a mystery, even if so doing seems to toy with peril.

So it was that in the middle of the night I procured a shovel and a length of rope from the marshalsea storeroom and took a stub of a candle from the hall. Bruce nickered softly as I passed his stall, expecting, perhaps, an outing. But he did not wake the marshalsea and I was able to climb to the parapet undisturbed.

I crept silently to the north wall, as far away as I could get from Mill Street and the castle gatehouse. I could see, in the glow of a waning moon just up over Bampton rooftops, the Ladywell. Hermits and pilgrims sometimes spend the night at the well, in prayer and meditation. I hoped, be there any such at the well this night, they were either asleep or entranced.

I leaned as far over through a crenel as I could and let the shovel fall. The earth below was soft from recent rain and shadowed from the sun. The shovel hit the sod softly and I was reassured.

I tied knots in the rope to aid my ascent, then tied the rope about a merlon before throwing the loose end to the ground. I slid down the line, retrieved the shovel, and walked quickly to Mill Street and the bridge. I was without concealment while on the bridge, so hastened to cross the brook. I would gaze into its dark waters another time.

John Prudhomme awaited me at the churchyard. He sat in shadow, his back against the wall, so I was startled when he spoke.

“Whereaway is this grave, then?” he whispered.

I motioned for him to follow through the lych gate and led him to the corner of the churchyard where soft dirt underfoot and a pale, sandy reflection of the rising moon indicated a new grave.

We set to our work, attempting to achieve two uncomplementary goals: speed and silence. John whispered as we began the work that he had been careful to see that the town streets were empty before he went to the church to await me. So we gave ourselves over to speed and were less stealthy in the work than we might otherwise have been.

Beads of sweat soon popped out on my forehead and dripped in my eyes. ’Twas not warm. Anxiety was the more likely cause, I think.

St Beornwald’s Churchyard is a place of many burials. It has been hallowed ground since before the Conqueror crossed from France to take the throne of England. Now, when a grave is dug, those who do the work are likely to come upon another before they have excavated any great depth. So it must have been for those who buried Henry atte Bridge. We were barely past waist deep when my shovel struck something soft yet unyielding. John detected the change in the pattern of my work, and soon he also motioned that his spade had met resistance.

At that moment a movement along the church wall caught the corner of my eye. My heart stopped, then tried to rise through my throat. We were discovered. I motioned John to silence and studied the place where I was sure I had seen some stirring along the wall. The beadle followed my gaze. I thought I could hear his heart beat, but perhaps ’twas only my own. We must have made an apparition to any who prowled the wall; two men standing waist-deep in an open grave. Then I saw the motion again. A cat! The animal crept along the top of the wall, seeking mice who made their home in the chinks. I was doubly relieved, for ’twas not a black cat, which would surely have meant trouble for my work. John saw also, and I heard him chuckle in relief. I joined him.

I drew the candle and tinder from my pouch and struck flint against steel until I managed to catch a spark on the tinder to light the wick. The candle sputtered to life and I bent to lower it into the grave. There, partly obscured by unexcavated dirt, I saw a pale blue tunic.