A Corpse at St Andrew's Chapel (22 page)

“My eyes and ears will be open to discover if you keep this bargain,” I said in my sternest voice, several paces now from Edmund and his hammer.

I suppose Edmund heard, but he gave no sign. He continued to stroke the hammer handle while he stared at the blank back wall of the smithy. I left him there.

If I could not learn the reason for John Kellet’s bellyache from Edmund, I thought I might do so from the priest, so I set off from the smithy toward St Andrew’s Chapel.

Trees along the way were in the full bloom of June. Brilliant shades of green filled the space between fields and sky. I wonder why God chose to color his leafy creation green when it is living, and red and gold when dying? Were I God I would have done it the other way round.

There is much about this world which would be different were it created by men. And most men think did they have the job, they could make a better world than the one we possess. But when I see the muddle men have made of the world they are given, it seems unlikely to me that, with the opportunity, they could create a better.

I resolved to be content with green summer foliage. Perhaps in heaven there will be time enough in eternity for God to take questions. There are many things I would ask of Him, not just His choice of color for a leaf.

These maunderings so occupied me that I was upon St Andrew’s Chapel before I had time to think of questions I might ask John Kellet. I need not have concerned myself with this, for the priest’s condition, when I found him, brought with it its own questions.

T
he chapel door was ajar. I pushed it open on squealing hinges and stepped into the structure, waiting there until my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. The chapel is ancient, and its windows few and small, from a time when glass was rare and more dear than even now it is. And those few, narrow panes were coated in dust and grime, so little light entered even where it might. ’Tis an insult to our Lord, I think, to allow his house to decay so.

My eyes adjusted to the shadows as these thoughts swept through my mind. The priest wore black, an excellent camouflage in such a place, so when I first scanned the room I did not see him. Not until I studied more closely the tower steps – an especially dark corner of the chapel – did I see the man sitting on the lower step, his arms across his belly, slowly rocking to and fro.

The priest was so lost in his own misery that he had not noticed my entry. The opening door had permitted a shaft of light to penetrate the chapel, but the priest’s eyes were closed. He muttered to himself as he swayed on the step.

It is, I know, improper to intrude on a man’s thoughts at such a time. But had I not done so I might have been much longer at unraveling the tangled deaths of Alan the beadle and Henry atte Bridge.

Kellet’s complaints covered the sound of my entry and approach, so that I stood quite close to the man and heard his words clearly. “Damn him…he’ll pay. An’ the others, too. Damn him. Henry got hinges…I’ll have more’n that. Damn him…he’ll pay…a penny…no, tuppence a month or I’ll see that all know.”

“All know what?” I asked.

The priest jerked as if Edmund had boxed his ears. His head snapped back, his eyes opened wide with fear, and he leaped to his feet – a move which surprised me, given the size and apparent affliction of his belly.

The beam of light from the open door was behind me. My face was in shadow, my form silhouetted against the light. I believe the priest thought for a moment that the blacksmith had followed him to the chapel and overheard his groaning threats. But my form is nothing like that of Edmund, which Kellet quickly noted. His hands had flown up to protect his paunch, but fell when he realized he was not in danger of another blow.

“Who…who is’t?” he stammered.

“’Tis Hugh. I congratulate you, for having the forethought to prepare sufficient padding against this day.”

“Padding?”

“I saw you suffer Edmund’s blow. Will you complain of him to the bishop? Or present a charge at hallmote? I am your witness, whichever you choose.”

“I, uh, am undecided,” the priest whispered.

“What was it caused Edmund to strike you? I saw from a distance your conversation with him, and then the blow.”

“Uh…’tis a private matter.”

“Hmmm. Edmund said much the same.”

“You spoke to him?” the priest asked quickly, with, I thought, some alarm in his voice.

“Aye. He said little. Said you and he had an ‘understanding.’ I fail to understand an understanding sealed with a blow.”

“A private matter,” the priest asserted again. “Uh…from the confessional.”

“Edmund confesses at the chapel?” I asked with, I suspect, some incredulity in my voice.

“He did…but no longer, I think,” Kellet spoke somewhat ruefully, and rubbed his bruised gut as he did so.

“So you will let this attack pass?”

“Aye. Scripture demands of us to turn the other cheek,” the priest said with a sigh. He sat, clumsily, again on the steps leading to the tower room. Indeed, we have two cheeks to offer for blows, but only one belly. What must a man offer next when struck there? I am no philosopher, nor theologian. I let the thought pass.

I was unwilling to leave the chapel with such incomplete knowledge of things happening in my bailiwick. “The confessional, you say? Why would words spoken in confidence lead to blows on the street?” I wondered aloud.

The priest did not answer.

“Did you demand of him a penance too harsh?” I thought, given what I had learned of Kellet and his practice, that this was unlikely. But I saw no other possibility, at the moment.

“Aye,” the priest muttered. “’Twas much as you say.”

Kellet stood to his feet and spoke. “I can say no more.” And with those words he turned and lumbered up the darkening stairway to his tower chamber. I watched him disappear into the gloom and heard the chamber door creak open, then close with the drop of a latch.

It was pleasant to re-enter the brightness and warmth of a sunny June afternoon after the shadows of the decaying chapel. But the brilliance of the day did nothing to enlighten me regarding what I had seen this day, or what John Kellet might have learned or assigned at the confessional.

I walked slowly toward Bampton, partly because my thoughts were occupied, partly because I had no other pressing business, and partly because I enjoyed the warmth of the lowering sun in my face. The day was of the type for which June is justly admired. If a man wished to be warm he had but to stand or work in the sun and his desire would be met. Did he wish to cool himself he might seek a tree or shady wall and the breeze would accomplish the task.

Lord Gilbert knew nothing of the deaths of Alan the beadle and Henry atte Bridge – unless some whispered gossip had traveled past the marcher country all the way to Pembroke. I had thought to await his return to Bampton to tell him of these events. It was my hope that I would then also be able to present him with the conclusion to the business. As I ate my supper that day I concluded that no such resolution was in view.

I entered my chamber, set a sheet of Robert Caxton’s parchment on my table, and with quill in hand composed a letter to Lord Gilbert in which I described events in Bampton since Holy Week.

Doing so was a rewarding experience. The effort to reduce the incidents so that the report could be written on but one sheet of parchment focused my mind wonderfully. It was necessary to dispense with all evidences not material to discovering the truth of things, else the tale would be too long.

The long summer twilight was near gone when I set down my quill, folded and addressed the message to Lord Gilbert Talbot at his castle at Pembroke, and sealed it with a drop of sealing wax and Lord Gilbert’s crested seal from my cupboard. I would dispatch two grooms to carry the missive to Pembroke tomorrow. Lord Gilbert might require more men to assist his move to Bampton after Lammas Day. The fellows could remain at Pembroke until then.

My bed beckoned, but so did the puzzle of Alan and Henry. I knew that should I attempt sleep, my mind would churn over the thoughts I had distilled in the letter to Lord Gilbert. Better I should reflect on these things while alert and vertical. I departed my chamber and crossed the castle yard to the steps beside the gatehouse which led to the parapet. Wilfred watched me approach and tugged a forelock.

The night was near full dark. Only a faint glow in the northwest sky silhouetted the forest beyond the Ladywell. This glow would soon reappear to the northeast, for we approached the shortest night of the year.

In my circumnavigation of the parapet I lingered above the addition to the marshalsea. The new stables were below me, the new-thatched roof glowing dimly in the starlight.

I wonder if God intervened to halt my steps above the marshalsea. Certainly, had I maintained a steady pace round the castle wall, I would have been walking north along the east wall, rather than south atop the west wall, when a dark figure strode purposefully to the west on Mill Street.

I saw the shadowed form hastening along the road but I would likely not have noticed even that, but the walker carried a pale sack over a shoulder. It was the bouncing movement of the sack in the starlight which caught my eye. Only after I focused on that did I see the obscure form of a walker disappearing against the black rim of Lord Gilbert’s forest to the west.

I was just past the gatehouse, beginning a second circuit of the castle wall, when I spied this hurrying shadow. I hurried to retrace my steps, ran down the stairs to the gatehouse, and awakened Wilfred, who was now snoring in his chamber behind the portcullis.

The porter reacted hesitantly to my command, for when the gate was closed and the portcullis down for the night they generally stayed that way until dawn. Some time passed before I was able to shout the cobwebs from Wilfred’s mind and convince him that he must draw the portcullis and open the gate for me.

By the time he accomplished these tasks and I stumbled through the night to Mill Street, the walker had disappeared into the shadows where the path to Alvescot bent into the forest. There was nothing to be seen beneath the oaks and beeches of the wood.

I assumed some man of the town was setting out to lay snares, or check those already placed, in hope of one of Lord Gilbert’s coneys for his dinner. The man had escaped John Prudhomme’s notice and it seemed had escaped me as well, for in the time it took me to get from the castle parapet to the street before the castle, the fellow had disappeared.

I set off in pursuit. Had I been older and wiser, I would have returned to my bed and told the beadle to watch for the man. Surely he would repeat the behavior. But I was intent on the chase. My purpose was to make haste so as to catch up to my quarry, but to do so quietly, so when I found him I might see what he was about without myself being observed. I was not successful.

The sleeping huts of Alvescot eventually materialized in the night, now dimly lit by the light of a waning moon. But there was no sign of him I pursued. I had missed him on the road. I assumed his goal was some place in field or forest between the village and Bampton, not Alvescot itself. But I decided to make one circuit of the village to learn if I might be mistaken and there be some hut where perhaps the glow of a cresset through the skin of a window or crack in closed shutters might indicate my quarry’s destination. There was no reason to fear discovery from beadle or hayward as Alvescot was too small, especially since the great dying, to employ either.

I felt no need for stealth, which was a mistake, but walked quietly through the village nevertheless. I had just passed the church and lych gate, opposite Gerard the verderer’s hut, when a scraping sound from the gate caught my attention. The gate lay ten paces or so behind me. I turned to investigate the source of the sound. The night was still, so what I heard could not have been the wind moving an unlatched gate on rusted hinges.

The lych gate was indeed securely latched. I leaned over the gate to peer into the churchyard. Another blunder. In so doing I presented my head as a target, much like a man who stretches his neck on the block to await the axe.

I detected movement from the corner of my eye but had no time to parry the blow which followed. I saw a tenebrous shape rise from a crouch behind the churchyard wall and with one motion bring a club down toward my head. All the stars and planets in their heavenly orbs flashed before my eyes. Then, inexplicably, they went dark.

When I awoke the sky to the east above the church tower was pale with approaching dawn. I was, I am sure, also pale, for a different reason. My head throbbed, my eyes refused to focus, and I felt a great lump on my skull just above my left ear. It is good that I follow the fashion much approved by young men of wrapping a long liripipe about my head. The layers of wool softened the blow somewhat, else I might have died there by the churchyard.

I managed to bring myself upright so much as to prop my back against the wall, at the base of which I had evidently spent the night. The cause of my headache lay beside me in the grass: a length of pollarded ash as long as a man is tall. Whoever laid this pole across my head had dropped it when it had served his purpose. I dragged the shaft across my knees and tried to inspect it but my eyes refused to converge. But ’twas light enough that I recognized where I had seen others like it. A stack of similar, longer poles lay across the street in Gerard’s toft, awaiting use as rafters for huts which might never be built for the decline in population after the plague, which has struck twice in thirteen years.

The pole had been cut several years earlier, I think, and was well dried and tough; much tougher than my skull, for the wood was unmarked whereas the same could not be said for my scalp.

I used the club for a crutch and, with both hands fixed to it, lifted myself to my feet. Doing so made the world sway before me, but with the stick I regained my balance and staggered off from Alvescot toward Bampton and the relief I might find in my store of soothing herbs.

Dawn was but a promise in the glow above the treetops, and the path was rutted. I stumbled and fell twice, and would have done so many more times had not the pole which was laid across my skull now served to keep me aright.

I met no man on the road to Bampton. The hour was early, and before the Angelus Bell few had yet crawled from their beds. But the sun was up beyond the spire of St Beornwald’s Church when the castle and town came into view. The walk in crisp morning air had restored my senses, so that I was able to approach the castle gatehouse with a surer step than when I began the journey at Alvescot.

The pole which laid me low having served its purpose, I was about to discard it against the castle wall when it occurred to my addled brain that a close inspection in good light might yield some clue as to who had attacked me and why. It might have, but did not.

Wilfred had the gate open and portcullis up. I stiffened my back and straightened my stride and passed through the gatehouse and castle yard with no man questioning a weaving path or halting gait.

I would be false, however, did I not admit to relief when I entered the hall and stood before my chamber door. I leaned the pole against the stones and was about to push open the door – a task which required two hands, for the hall was yet dim in the dawn light and my vision took that moment to again set all about me in a whirl – when I heard footsteps behind me in the hall.

I turned, too quickly. The movement, combined with lightheadedness, caused me to lose my balance. I staggered against the door, which provided no support but swung open. I ungracefully fell back into my chamber. For the next few days it was not only my head which was sore. My rump met the hard stone flags. I am of slender build. I had not John Kellet’s foresight to prepare an adequate cushion for such a tumble.