A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel (17 page)

“I should like to examine the hinges Henry installed on this door.”

The woman stepped back grudgingly and allowed me to open the door enough that I could enter the dim, smoky room. With the door open to daylight I could see the hinges plainly. Only two nails held each hinge to the door-post. There was, in each hinge, a hole for a third nail which might at one time have been driven home like the others, but was now missing. Each hinge was held in place, to door and jamb, by five nails, not six.

I took the block from my pouch and held it close to the upper hinge. The heads of the nails fixing the hinge in place were the same as the nails piercing the block.

“The nails you sold came from these hinges,” I told Emma. “When did your husband remove them?”

“Don’t know,” the woman shrugged and chewed on her lower lip. “Din’t know as ’e did.”

“You did not see him draw them?”

“Nay.”

The woman said no more. I apologized for disturbing her dinner and made my way back to the castle in time for my own meal.

My thoughts were not on the castle cook’s culinary creations that day. I puzzled over the wood and nails as I ate. Perhaps, I thought, the tool served for dealing with animals in some new way. The blood – or what I took to be blood – seemed to point to such a use. But John Holcutt, whose duties with demesne livestock made him knowledgeable of all instruments needful for working with beasts, recognized no purpose for this thing.

I was near to giving up study of the strange tool, knocking the nails from it, and forgetting the puzzle. But in my chamber after dinner I examined the thing again.

My previous study had concentrated on the nails. It seemed to me that whatever this tool was designed to accomplish, it was the nails which were to do the work. The wooden block served but to hold them in place, and as a handle.

I have told of the size of the piece. As I examined it again I noticed that the block was not symmetrically shaped. The block was slightly narrower at one end than at the other, and the sides were beveled. I recognized then what it was and berated myself for my lack of imagination. I set off immediately for the town and the Broad Street where I might find Ralph the cooper.

He was at his vise, drawknife in hand, shaping a stave. He stood in a pile of sweet-smelling shavings which, as at the new tithe barn, helped obscure the fact that their maker was overdue for his spring bath.

The cooper looked up from his work, recognized me, and smiled. As well he might, for my previous business with him had always involved a purchase for the castle storeroom or buttery. He saw a lucrative sale in his future.

Then his eyes fell to the wooden block and its captive nails and the grin on his face melted like butter in July. Here, I thought, may be found another mystery.

“Good day, Ralph,” I smiled broadly. I wished the fellow at ease; I thought I might learn more from him than if he was anxious. And from his new-fallen countenance I felt certain he had some reason for worry. And it had to do with the block.

“I have a tool here which no man can explain.”

The cooper’s eyes darted from my face to my outstretched hand and back again.

“Henry atte Bridge, who was struck down in the forest, you may remember, made this. See how the wood is shaped like a length of barrel stave.” I handed the piece to Ralph, who took it gingerly, as if the nails were yet hot from Edmund’s forge.

“How long ago,” I asked, “did Henry come to you seeking wood?”

I might have asked if Henry had sought wood of him, but then the cooper might deny the source and I might never get the answer I needed. Better he thought I knew the origin of the block for a certainty.

“’Twas but a scrap,” Ralph offered. “A stave was split an’ discarded. Henry asked for a piece.”

“Beech, is it not?”

“Aye.”

“Did Henry say his purpose? Did he show you the nails as they are now?”

“Nay…’e had no nails. Just asked for the wood.”

“Did you ask a price?”

“Nay. ’Twas no good to me but for the fire. I cut off a hand’s length an’ Henry were satisfied.”

“When did he ask for this?”

The cooper made much of his struggle to remember. His brow looked like a new-plowed field and he scratched at his chin.

“Weeks ago now, ’twas.”

“How many weeks?”

“Before Easter. Aye…before Easter ’twas.”

“How long before?” I pressed.

“A week, p’rhaps more. Aye, ’bout a week.”

“And he carried the wood away without telling of his need, or driving nails through it in your sight?”

“Aye. That’s ’ow ’twas, Master Hugh.”

The cooper wished fervently for me to believe this. But did he desire this because the tale was true, or because it was false? A man might wish to be believed for either reason. And why should it matter to him whether I believed him or not? I was inclined to believe the man, and as it came to pass, the tale was true.

I studied the man and chewed my lip, trying to invent some other questions which might illuminate the purpose for the block and nails. Ralph saw this, and said, “’E come back day before Easter.”

“Saturday?

“Aye. Said I was to tell none of ’is need an’ the wood I gave ’im.”

“He did not say why?”

“No. With Henry like as ’e could be, I din’t ask. But ’e din’t want any to know of it, I think. Couldn’t figure why. Do you know why?”

“This is why you seemed distressed when I came to you today with the block?”

“Aye. Don’t know as what Henry wanted with it, but seems to me ’twas to no good…or why’d ’e care who knew of ’im ’avin’ it?”

I walked the castle parapet again that night, twirling the piece of stave and nails as I did. I felt certain now I knew its use. But I could not prove it. And I did not know why it was used as it was. I did know that I was deep into a mystery which included much I did not know. I resolved then to keep a record of these events, so as to order all things in my mind, and as a register should I in the future decide to write a chronicle of this affair.

There was an obstacle to this decision. I had in my chamber but six sheets of parchment and a pot of ink nearly dry. If I was to put my thoughts to parchment I must travel to Oxford to renew my supply. A journey to Oxford through the spring countryside seemed a pleasant distraction and, perhaps while swaying along on Bruce’s broad back at his stolid pace, some new notion explaining events since Easter might occur to me.

I
planted my feet on the cold flags of my chamber as soon as dawn lightened my window. The cook was surprised to see me, as I am not usually early from my bed. There was a warm wheaten loaf fresh from the oven, and cheese and ale, for my breakfast.

I searched out John Holcutt while the marshalsea prepared Bruce, and told him of my journey. He would serve as Lord Gilbert’s agent in my absence, which I planned to take but two days. A trip to Oxford and back might be completed in one day, on a younger horse, by a competent rider, who did not mind arriving home after dark. But Bruce was aged, and my skills at horsemanship are meager, and I remembered clearly the last time I rode at night alone. And there was more I wished to do in Oxford than purchase ink and parchment.

There is much profit in a springtime journey to Oxford. It was indeed a pleasant occupation to observe the countryside as Bruce ambled upon his way. Villagers were mostly at work in their tofts, as by this day in May the fields were all plowed and sown.

Birds darted from meadow to forest, completing nests. Even the oaks, last of the trees to achieve full foliage, seemed sure enough of the season to bring forth leaves.

The journey brought me nearer to Oxford, but no nearer to assembling the events of the past months into some coherent pattern. I gave up the attempt and turned myself to observing the approaching town as Bruce’s great hooves clattered across the Oxpen’s Road Bridge.

Some of my most agreeable memories involve Oxford. But some unpleasant memories of the place are yet green in my mind as well. The St Scholastica Day Riot, of which I took no part, but which drove me and many other students from the town, remains vivid in my mind’s eye. And as Bruce ambled past the castle and the old keep I thought back to the testimony I gave there before the king’s eyre which came near to sending an innocent man to the gallows. It is, perhaps, good to remember our errors. But perhaps not. Men seem to repeat their mistakes with some frequency. Is it forgetfulness or foolishness which is to blame?

I guided Bruce to the High Street, where I stabled the grateful beast at the Stag and Hounds. I relieved my hunger with a half capon. It is often comforting to note that the world continues day after day with little change. But the unimproved character of the food and ale at the Stag and Hounds did little to reassure me of the permanent nature of things. Capons are to be fat. Mine this day was stringy as an old rooster, which I suspect it was.

I was not much distressed to leave off gnawing at my meal and set my feet toward my first object in the town. I dodged illegal vendors and students on Cornmarket Street, turned east on Broad Street, and presented myself to the porter at Baliol College. He was new, and did not remember me. Not that this made any difference, for the scholar I sought, he informed me, was no longer there.

Master John Wyclif had another position, the porter told me, as Warden of New Canterbury Hall. So I retraced my steps down Cornmarket Street, past the High Street, to St Aldates and Master John’s new home.

The porter at New Canterbury Hall admitted me with little hesitation, this being a time of peace between the town and its university. I followed his pointed finger across a cloister and thumped on the door he indicated. I was unsure if Master John would be within, for the day begged to be enjoyed out of doors. Or the scholar might be about his duties, which are always heavy when dealing with young men full of sap and conceit.

But my old (well, not so old; he is only ten years older than me, but has grown a beard to distinguish himself from his pupils) teacher was in his chamber, and greeted me at his door.

“Master Hugh! Welcome. You have found me.” The warden of New Canterbury Hall swept his arm about the cloister. “What do you think of my new position?”

“Baliol College has the worst of the bargain, I think.”

“Hmmm. I would agree, but ’twould be unseemly. Come in…come in, and tell me how that business turned out which drew us together last.”

“’Tis a long story. Better told on such a day while we stroll the water meadow.”

Wyclif peered up at the sky from under his hood. “You speak truth, Master Hugh. I devote too much time to study. It is well you have come to draw me from my books for a time.”

We crossed the meadow toward the Cherwell, and I told Master John of Hamo Tanner, his daughter, and Sir Robert Mallory. I told only so much of Lady Joan as was necessary to the tale, but Master John is a quick man and saw there was a part of the story I had neglected.

“What of Lady Joan?” he asked.

“Married. To Sir Thomas de Burgh…and with child, I am told.”

Master John stopped and faced me there in the tall meadow grass. “I hear melancholy in your voice, Hugh. Did you wish to win the lady for yourself?”

“She was above my station. I gave the matter no thought.”

“If you would share conversation with me, Hugh, I wish you would be truthful.”

I protested, but Master John turned and resumed his path toward the Cherwell. The meadow grass was tall, ready to be cut, and brushed my knees as I strode after him.

“So, you find me out,” I laughed. “’Tis true, if the lady would have had me I would have been her slave for life.”

“But you never offered that service?”

“Nay. To do so would have placed a gulf between us, for she could not have accepted.”

“Aye. You are correct, I’m sure. Is there another lass to consider?”

I admit that a fleeting vision of Alice atte Bridge darted through my mind as I answered, “No.”

“You have given up the pursuit, then?”

“Not so. I pray daily that God may send me a good wife.”

“But thus far He has refused? What do you to aid His work?”

I did not reply, for in truth I did nothing to alter my estate. We walked on in companionable silence until we came to the river.

“You might consider yourself fortunate,” Wyclif said.

“How so?”

Master John picked up a fallen willow branch and cast it into Cherwell stream. “Consider…had you married the Lady Joan Talbot and brought her to your bed, could you have provided for her the wealth to which she was accustomed? Surely not. Might she not soon regret her poverty and rue her life with you? And even did she not, you would see in every frown, in every disapproving word, a hint that she resented her state.”

“So you advise me to seek a poor lass for a wife?”

“Perhaps. But not if such a woman thinks you, a prosperous man, be her path to a life of ease.”

“So I must not marry either rich or poor? What of beauty? Lady Joan was…is a great beauty.”

“Aye. I believe I saw her once in company with her brother. I’ll not debate the issue. She is indeed a great beauty. But consider, then, her husband,” Master John continued, seating himself on a log and gazing out at the willow-banked Cherwell. “Men gaze lustfully at his wife. Must he not consider that some of these be more handsome, or more wealthy, or better spoken than he? Perhaps there are men who are all three. Will he not fret that his lovely wife’s affection be stolen from him? Women are the ficklest of all God’s creation, so say the sages.”

“Lady Joan would not betray her pledge,” I remonstrated. “You do not know the lady.”

“Ah, but will not Sir Thomas worry anyway, each time his comely wife holds a gentleman’s eye? I do not know the lady, but I do know men.”

“So I should seek an ugly wife?”

“You put words in my mouth, Hugh. Can a man find happiness married to a woman no other man wants?”

“You vex me, sir. A wife must be neither rich nor poor, neither beautiful nor ugly.”

“Ah…there you have it, Hugh. ’Tis Aristotle’s Golden Mean. Moderation in all things. Find yourself a wife who is beautiful, but not extravagantly so. A lass who comes of a father with some money, but not so much that he has indulged her. A woman who is quick of tongue and mind for good conversation, but not so witty that she may become a shrew.”

“You have my future well in hand. Where do I find such a woman? And mind you, I still prefer beauty, regardless of your logic.”

“That,” he chuckled, “I leave to you. And to God. I am at an end to my advice.”

An end to his advice, perhaps, but he knew well where I might find such a lass as he described and was about to set me in her direction.

We sat upon the log in collegial silence, watching the flowing stream and listening to the hum of the town across the water meadow. I was loath to disturb the moment, but finally spoke.

“There is another matter I would seek your views upon.”

Master John raised his eyes from the river to meet my gaze. “I thought as much. Few men seek me for marital advice.”

I thought to remark that I was not surprised, but held my tongue.

The sun was low across the meadow, washing Oxford’s steeples and towers in golden hues, when I completed my account of Alan the beadle, Henry atte Bridge, the beast, the shoes, the blue yarn, a dead lamb, and the nail-studded block. When I finished I drew the block from my pouch and placed it before Master John.

The scholar held it aloft to catch a ray of the setting sun angling through the willows.

“’Tis indeed an unusual instrument. But you have divined its purpose, or I mistake the set to your jaw.”

“Aye, I have a theory.”

“As do I,” Wyclif replied. “I would hear yours.”

“Such a tool could tear a man’s throat and none the wiser. And should a wolf howl in the night, the injury would seem to be done by the beast, not a man.”

“Such are my thoughts,” Wyclif agreed. “But the man who did this is dead, you say?”

“Aye, and I know not why he would kill the beadle. Surely a man will not kill another for his shoes?”

“Some men might,” Master John scowled, “but I am of the same mind. There is more to this matter than shoes. So now you seek one who killed a murderer?”

“Aye. But did such a one kill for revenge? Or, perhaps ’twas in error. Or did Henry atte Bridge die so as to silence him? Mayhap Henry had a partner in this business of Alan the beadle.”

Master John plucked a blade of grass and twisted it round his finger. “All these are possible…but I lean to silence.”

“As do I,” I agreed. “If Henry atte Bridge was shot down in error, the mistake was grievous, for I must be the only other target, and I was standing in the road, opposite the flight of the arrow. If revenge, then three must have been in the wood that night – Henry, the one he called to, who could have been no enemy seeking vengeance, and one unknown who struck him down.”

Wyclif unwound the grass from his fingers. “Doubtful, for if so it would mean there is another who knew of his attack on your beadle. Unless this Henry was so unloved there were others who wished him ill.”

“He was not admired, but I think none sought his life.”

“Someone did, and when you learn why Henry atte Bridge slew the beadle you will, perchance, discover who had reason to shed his blood.

“’Tis near time for supper,” Master John stood and stretched. “Will you dine with me this evening? New Canterbury Hall is of the new scheme…students make their abode in the college, and take their meals there also. There are merchants and landlords who dislike this new way, but the method prevents much trouble in the town.”

“I would have taken my supper at the Stag and Hounds.”

“Hah. So you will accept my invitation. I know the place well. Do you sleep there this night?”

“Aye.”

“There are empty cells at the college. Sleep here. You will awaken lousy at the Stag and Hounds.”

Master John did not need to beg me. I changed my lodging willingly.

Supper was but barley pottage and maslin, but the students partook enthusiastically. The conversation fell to a debate concerning the late king of France, John II, who had died a hostage in English custody the year before. He had been captured at Poitiers, and held for a great ransom, but was released so as to return to France and raise the funds. His son was to remain hostage in his place, but fled.

When King John learned of this he considered it a breach of honor and so placed himself in English hands again. King Edward’s brother kept him at the Savoy Palace, in London, where he died some months after his return. No Englishman had a hand in this death. Only living kings are worth a ransom.

Some students argued that the French king was foolish to return, others held that chivalry demanded it. I took no part in the dispute, but watched as Master John goaded his charges with questions or demolished ill-considered remarks with a word. Such conversation would not be a part of the discourse at the Stag and Hounds. Conversation there generally centered on the appearance and habits of the newest wench.

The long glow of a near-summer evening illuminated and warmed the west-facing wall of the cloister at Master John’s door. We sat, after supper, on a bench with our backs to the warm stones and spoke of various things. Our conversation had no special theme. It ranged from the weather, which we agreed was agreeable, to the old king and his new keeper of the privy seal, William of Wykeham.

Said William is an able man. This is good, for Edward is not remarked for wisdom even among those who defend his many virtues. There are nobles who despise William. They detest a peasant’s son at the king’s right hand. As darkness fell and the stones at our backs cooled we agreed that William’s counsel could be no worse than that of the barons and bishops. This conclusion was probably subversive and heretical, but the wall had no ears so our judgment carried with it no penalty.

I bid Master John farewell next morning after we shared a loaf warm from the college bakehouse.

“I trust,” he remarked, “you have found what you sought at Oxford.”

“Nearly so. I need to seek but one more thing before I leave the town.”

“Indeed; what is that?”

“When ended the business of the bones in Lord Gilbert’s cesspit I set my hand to write down the tale. Some day long hence perhaps a man will read of the affair while I wait in the churchyard for the Lord’s return. Now I am persuaded that this new matter of Alan the beadle must be recorded as well.” Master John nodded. “So I am come to Oxford to seek parchment and ink of Aelfred.”