A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel (14 page)

It was the work of but a few moments to clear away enough earth that we could turn the body. What I sought was on the back of the corpse. And I did not relish gazing longer on Henry atte Bridge’s swollen face and dirt-encrusted eyes, even in the dim light of a single candle.

I had brought with me in my bag a blade and forceps. These I made ready while the beadle reached into the grave and pulled the tattered cotehardie up to the corpse’s shoulders. There was much dirt and discoloration across Henry’s back. I had to hold the candle close to see the wound, even though I knew very well where to find it. I pressed the scalpel into the wound and enlarged it. I did this hurriedly, without craft. Henry would not mind. Nor any other, I hoped.

I pushed a finger into the enlarged wound and found what I sought, what I should have found earlier had my work then been more thorough. The iron point of a broken arrow lay deep beneath the putrid flesh and clotted blood. I pushed the forceps into the wound, pressed firmly, and with a tug began to draw the point from Henry atte Bridge’s corpse. But before I could extract the arrowhead it caught, perhaps against a rib, and my forceps slipped from the point. I had to twist the arrowhead so that the point might pass between the bones.

The iron point, I believe, had passed through his heart and lungs and embedded itself in his sternum, or perhaps a rib. This caused it to so fix itself in the man that the arrow broke rather than came free when he fell, or perhaps when he staggered against a tree.

Perhaps. There would be time for reflection later. I extinguished the candle and motioned to the beadle to refill the hole. We left Henry atte Bridge face down in his grave. He will not mind, I think, and at the resurrection – from what I know of his life – he is unlikely to rise to see the return of our Lord in the eastern sky. Sweat again beaded my brow before the grave was refilled. We smoothed the soil so the place would look, as much as possible, undisturbed, and leaned heavily on our shovels when the work was done.

I bid John “Good night” at the lych gate and stole quietly down Church View to Bridge Street while the beadle made one more circuit of the town before seeking his bed.

The north wall of the castle was reassuringly dark in shadow when I arrived. I found the knotted rope where I left it, tied the shovel to the end, then clambered up the wall, my feet walking their way up the stones while with the knotted rope I pulled myself through the crenel. I pulled up the shovel, undid the knots, and coiled the rope while crouched along the parapet. It was becoming known in the castle that I might occasionally be seen prowling the parapet at night. Still, I preferred not to be seen. ’Twould be one thing to explain my own presence atop the wall, quite another to account for a rope and shovel. Only later did I consider that I am Lord Gilbert’s bailiff. In his absence I need explain my behavior to no one. Still, people will talk.

Next morning, after a loaf, some cheese, and a cup of ale, I inspected my discovery. The broken arrow found in the forest fit the point drawn from Henry atte Bridge’s back. I knew this would be so. The cotter was not stabbed as he fled through the wood. He was shot. In the dark. By someone with much skill, or excellent vision, or both.

A deer, struck by an arrow, will not fall where it stands, but will run in panic until it collapses in death. Will a man also run from the place he is struck, until vitality drains from him and he falls? I have never seen a man so smitten, so cannot answer of a surety, but I think it must be so. Somewhere between the road and the place we found him lying in the mould Henry atte Bridge was struck down.

I had new knowledge of this murder, but what to make of it? I could tell no one of the discovery, else I must relate how I came by the information. As it happened, this was for the best. I was to learn that knowledge is a strong weapon, especially so when an adversary knows not of its possession – like an unseen dagger hidden under a belt.

With awl and mallet I drove out the pin which held the point to the broken shaft, then pried the iron tip from the arrow remnant which had remained with the point. This arrowhead was not like most others seen at the butts of a Sunday afternoon. It was the length and thickness of my thumb, and had not the broad “Y” shape of the hunter’s arrow. It was a bodkin, made for penetrating a knight’s armor. I had seen others like it. It was useless now that the realm was at peace. The metalwork seemed so usual that I despaired of learning anything from it. Nevertheless I placed it in my pouch and set off to consult the castle blacksmith.

I did not assume the arrowhead to be his but wanted an untainted opinion. I thought he might recognize the workmanship. If Edmund, the town smith, made the point he might not wish to identify his craft. A bailiff asking questions of the maker of an arrowhead could mean no good thing for the creator.

Edwin, Bampton Castle’s farrier and blacksmith, pursed his lips as he turned the bodkin in his thick fingers. ’Tis Edmund’s, I think. ’Tis not so long as mine. Tries to save on iron, does Edmund. But a bodkin needs weight t’punch through armor.”

“Do other smiths make points in this manner?”

“Might be…I know only of Edmund.”

I left the castle and crossed the bridge to the town and Edmund’s forge. His shutter was up, smoke rose from his chimney, and charcoal glowed under the draft of his bellows. I heard his hammer ring rhythmically as I approached.

I don’t know what I expected to learn from the fellow. He readily owned the arrowhead as his work. Had made hundreds like it. But none recently, as such points as this were useful only at time of war. Sold such as this to any who had a farthing to buy it. Nay, could not tell from the point when he’d made it, or for whom.

’Twas a fool’s errand I had set myself to. I stuffed the point back in my pouch and set off in exasperation for the castle. On the way I met Thomas de Bowlegh puffing down Church View Street.

“Ah,” he gasped. “We are well met…I must speak privily to you.”

I led him aside and we walked from the road down to the verge of Shill Brook. No passerby on the bridge could hear us there, as the splash of water over the mill wheel obscured even the sound of our voices, moreso the words we spoke.

The vicar glanced up to the bridge to see if we were observed, then, satisfied of our privacy, reached into his pouch and drew forth a candle. My candle. I had forgotten it in haste to leave the churchyard.

“Father Simon found this,” the vicar whispered, “atop Henry atte Bridge’s grave.”

My heart pounded so vigorously I was sure Father Thomas would remark upon it. He did not, but continued. “As he entered the churchyard this morning for matins he noted a strange thing. Two recent graves, near to each other, but their color was different. The grave of Alan the beadle was light, the soil dry, but the grave of Henry atte Bridge was dark. He approached and found the earth atop the grave damp, as if there had been rain upon it in the night. Then he found this stub of a candle. As you are charged with finding Henry’s killer we thought to consult you on the matter. What think you, Master Hugh? Have grave robbers profaned St Beornwald’s churchyard?…or those who would worship the devil?”

During the vicar’s tale I found my wits and calmed myself so I was able to make answer.

“What would be buried with Henry atte Bridge to lure grave robbers? They did not molest Alan’s grave?”

“Nay. Just the one…it appears.”

“Let us go see,” I suggested. “Perhaps some explanation will present itself.”

I fervently hoped this would be so. At least the walk to the church would give me time to devise an explanation. I did not wish to speak the truth to the vicars of St Beornwald’s Church, at least, not yet, but neither would I lie. I resolved to tell the truth if I must, but misdirect Father Thomas to some other resolution if I could. As we entered the churchyard such an opportunity presented itself.

“There,” Father Thomas exclaimed as we passed through the lych gate. “You can see from here what Father Simon saw. Though the soil of the cotter’s grave is some drier now.”

The vicar was correct, and Simon Osbern was to be commended for his perception. The two graves, those of Alan and Henry, were some twenty paces apart. Alan’s lay just under the spreading canopy of an elm, a giant tree which grew up long centuries ago just outside the churchyard wall. Indeed, the wall was askew where the tree had grown up under it and lifted the stones. Henry atte Bridge’s grave lay well away from this or any other tree, in the open.

I stood quietly between the two graves and lifted my head to study the elm. New leaves were beginning to appear on its spreading branches. Thomas de Bowlegh studied me, the candle yet in his hand, as I considered the tree.

I walked first to Alan’s grave, knelt, and sifted the dry surface soil through my fingers, then did the same at Henry’s grave. The soil here was yet moist from being disturbed. There was no denying it, or suggesting the discovery but a product of an over active imagination. I felt the grass around the grave, inspected my fingers, then peered up at the elm again.

“You found the candle here?” I asked as I stood to my feet.

“Father Simon did.”

“Perhaps the damp earth and the candle may be unrelated.”

The vicar’s eyebrows lifted in question at this. I continued.

“There was a heavy dew last night…see how the turf is yet beaded with it here, about the cotter’s grave. But there,” I pointed toward the beadle’s grave and the old elm, “there is little wet, for the tree shielded the ground and dew collected on the new leaves rather than the grass.”

The vicar inspected the wet grass beneath his feet, then Alan’s grave, and then his eyes turned skyward to examine the elm.

“What of this candle?” he asked.

“’Tis but a stub,” I observed. “Most likely it came from castle or church.” This was no lie. “Perhaps it came from the church, in the cloak of some townsman who saw it was near gone and found opportunity to take it for use in his home.” This very nearly was a lie, for surely I wished Father Thomas to believe a thing I knew to be false. I apologized later and the vicar was quick to absolve me. My conscience rested the better for it.

“Surely it must be as you have said,” the vicar agreed. “There could be nothing buried with Henry atte Bridge worth the digging to retrieve.”

The priest was wrong, but did not know it. This seems usually the case with error. If a man knows he is wrong about a thing he will usually amend his thoughts so they may harmonize with truth. Usually. There are, I think, those who would rather hold to error, whatever the evidence, than be forced to change their thoughts of a matter.

I left Father Thomas satisfied that his churchyard had not been violated. I needed to see to Philip and had intended to do so for several days. As I was in the town and near the bakery, I walked to his home to perform my duty.

The baker’s shutters were open and the fragrance of new loaves poured from his shop. This odor was not the only thing the bakery produced. A woman’s shrill voice, shouting curses and imprecations, flowed also into the street. I was uneasy for eavesdropping, yet all who walked the street that day with me heard the same. The woman’s last words were plain: “And a plague on that meddling surgeon!” she screeched. “Better you should’ve died like a dog in the street!”

A door slammed, and all was silent. I made for the shop entrance, thought better of it, and hastened on down the High Street a hundred paces or so before I turned and reapproached the bakery. I hoped Philip would believe my appearance was tardy enough that I had not heard his wife’s fulminations.

Baking was near done for the day. Philip was drawing the last loaves from the oven as I entered. The bakery was pleasantly warm; even so, I thought Philip perspired more than would be produced by a warm oven on a mild spring day. Sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip. He wiped it away with a sleeve as he saw me enter, and bid me “G’day” in a voice both harsh and low. I returned the greeting, but reflected that, from the sounds I had heard earlier, this was not a good day for the baker, nor was it likely he enjoyed many good days at all. Solomon the wise wrote that a nagging wife was like water dripping endlessly. A shrieking wife must be a never-ending torrent. I had a brief thought that perhaps a wife was not an untarnished blessing after all, but the notion soon passed.

“I have come to inspect your wound,” I said lightly. The baker lifted his hand to the bandage on his neck.

“It causes me no pain,” Philip muttered. What pain he felt came from another source, I think.

“I will unwrap the dressing and see how it knits. Here…be seated on this bench.”

Philip obeyed and I went to my work. I was pleased to see a clean wound. The stitches held well. There had been some bleeding and pus issue onto the wrapping, but not for some days. The residue was dry and hard. The egg poultice had done its work. And perhaps the hot iron which caused the injury had cauterized it as it sliced through flesh.

A door opened as I inspected the wound. No doubt the man’s wife had re-entered the bakery. Shortly after I heard footfalls on the steps leading to the living quarters on the upper floor. Philip said nothing, but his eyes swung wildly, as if he expected to be impaled upon a bread knife at any moment.

“We may leave off the dressing now. The hurt heals well. Whatever,” I asked casually, “did Edmund do to cause you to swing a hammer at him? That’s a poor contest for any man to enter against a smith.”

I waited, but there was no answer. Philip moved a hand cautiously to his neck, and said finally, “No dressing? You will not dress my hurt?”

I explained, as I find myself obliged often to do, that I follow the practice of Henry de Mondeville. That learned surgeon taught that wounds heal best when left dry, open to the air. I had wrapped Philip’s wound only to retain the poultice, and to protect the cut from further injury. Healing had progressed so that there was no longer a need. But Philip’s injury was ugly and left a red streak down his neck, from jaw to kirtle. I think he wished it covered for appearance as much as healing. All who saw the wound would remember that Edmund had bested him.